Bring Down the Stars

“Social anthropology and political science.”

“Social anthropology,” I said. “The major of choice among all humanists.”

She rolled her eyes, the sadness replaced by a confident spark that made the gold stand out. “Going for a master’s in smartass, are we?”

“I’ve heard that once or twice.”

“I’ll bet.” Autumn tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “Social anthropology is the study of modern human societies and their development. I want to have a master’s degree that focuses on a humanitarian aspect.”

“Sounds ambitious,” I said. And good, I thought. Noble. Sincere. Nothing I’d ever be accused of.

“Maybe it’s idealistic,” Autumn said, her finger trailing over the edge of her book. “Technically, the master’s degree doesn’t actually exist with that kind of narrow angle, so I’m going to create a project to submit to Harvard Grad School. Build my own degree.”

“What area of emphasis?”

“I don’t know yet. So many causes need attention. Like how population impacts global health and the environment. Or maybe disability rights. Or how racism affects people on socio-economic levels. Something like that.” She shrugged and reached for her book. “I only know I want to help.”

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; I only knew I didn’t want to be done talking to her.

“You were in my class this morning,” I said.

She looked up, her hazel eyes luminous. “Econ with Environmental Applications?”

I nodded.

“I didn’t see you.”

“I was in the back. You sat up front.”

“Did you like the class?”

I shrugged. “It’s required for my major.”

“You don’t sound enthusiastic about it.”

“Do I need to be?”

“If it’s going to be your life’s work, one would think you’d be at least mildly interested. Passionate, even.”

“I don’t know if it’s my life’s work. And passionate, no. Letting feelings get involved in important life decisions is a surefire way to make a mess of everything.”

My tone was turning sour. Writing should’ve been my life’s work, but I had to relegate it to a back burner. It didn’t matter how I felt about writing when I needed to help support my family. Besides, after the Sock Boy fiasco, I wasn’t in a big hurry to share anything again. Aside from classwork, I kept my personal musings in a journal and I kept that journal in a locked drawer.

Autumn crossed her arms over her chest. “You don’t think feelings are important?”

“Feelings,” I said, “are like tonsils. Mostly useless, and occasionally a source of pain and discomfort.”

She laughed. “So, what’s the alternative? Have them removed?”

“If only.”

Which, from the stunned look on her face, was exactly the wrong thing to say to a girl like Autumn Caldwell.

She sat back in her seat, arms still crossed. “Well, I think being passionate about life is exactly why we’re here. To experience life in all its facets, including the painful. Isn’t that where great art comes from? Beauty and pain?”

I nodded slowly. “I guess that’s true.”