Free The Other Way Around by Sashi Kaufman

no,” Jesse says. “He had all these ideas about what I should be studying at college. He was supposed to go. He was going to be the first one in his family. He was all set up at this little community college in Portland, Maine. And then his first week there, the apartment building where he was renting a room burnt down. He didn’t have anything saved. So he came back home and started working in the mill.”
    â€œWhoa,” I say. It comes out before I can help it. I’ve never really known anyone who didn’t go to college or even worked in a mill. I kind of thought that was just something people did before there were colleges. But thankfully Jesse doesn’t hear it that way.
    â€œYeah,” Jesse says, “the fire completely wiped him out.”
    â€œWhat was he going to study?” I ask.
    Jesse looks thoughtfully ahead at the road. The white andyellow lines whizz by us on either side. “I don’t know,” he says. “Business, I guess. That’s what he was always on my case about.”
    â€œHe wanted you to major in business?” I try to sound polite.
    â€œYup,” Jesse says. “You’ve known me for half an hour, and you can already see that wouldn’t work. I don’t know why
he
couldn’t figure it out.”
    I shake my head with disgust. “It seems like parents should know their own kids a little better.”
    Jesse nods. “Yeah, you would think so. But I don’t hold it against him.” He pauses thoughtfully. “Well, maybe I did for a while. But it’s kind of different now. I guess he was just doing the best he could, you know, the way he’d been brought up.”
    â€œAfter he died, I found out he was way in debt trying to pay for school. He never told me. He got hurt a few years ago at the mill, and he always made it sound like they gave him some big settlement. I probably shouldn’t have believed him. My grandmother sold his place, but the bank owned most of it anyway. All that was left was Shirley.” He pats the steering wheel affectionately. “That was last spring. I finished the term, but there was no way I could go back to school on my own dime.” He shrugs his shoulders. “So here I am.”
    â€œWhere’s your mom?” I ask, hoping the answer wouldn’t be dead.
    Jesse shrugged. “She’s around,” he says noncommittally.
    â€œMy dad’s like that,” I say softly.
    Jesse nods, but he doesn’t pry. I shift in my seat so my head falls back into the bucket headrest. I know I can still go back. I know we aren’t that far from Glens Falls and that Jesse would pull over in a heartbeat if I asked him to. I also know that my cell phone has a full charge on it, and that it will last atleast another day. A slightly queasiness comes over me when I realize that I didn’t stuff the charger into my backpack. I look at my watch; it’s a little before eight. I could probably call Mom right now and be back in my living room by ten thirty. But I don’t. My skin is prickling, and I’m suddenly conscious of my breathing in a different way. I’ve crossed a line into a genuinely new experience—something I don’t do very often.
    I close my eyes, but the bumping and shifting of the van, not to mention my unease in this new situation, make sleep just a bit out of reach. Mom hates heights—she even had to take a Xanax to go skiing. One time when Mima was visiting, we drove up 87 because Mima wanted to go leaf-peeping. She convinced Mom to go on this gondola ride up the side of some family-run ski resort. Every time we hit a little bump passing one of the poles, Mom gripped the side railing with white knuckles. Mima just laughed and told her to lighten up. She stood as close to the windows as possible and said she could think of worse ways to die. She just loved to go for a ride. I squeeze my eyes tighter, holding back memories and