Izzy’s First Train Ride to DePaul

            The first day I had class at Northeastern, I knew it wasn’t the school for me.  The people were snotty, the library was too small, and the computers were outdated.  My second day of class, I slipped on a patch of spilled Coca-Cola and got the soft drink all over my new outfit that my mom and I had picked out at Kohl’s.

            “This shirt is pretty,” she had told me, “I have always loved florals.”

            After my first semester I wanted out of there.  I hated being alone, I hated the lecture halls, and I hated the cafeteria food.  Slimy potato salad is not my idea of a sufficient dinner on the Friday night before finals week. 

            So the week before Thanksgiving I called my Dad and told him that I wanted to transfer to DePaul.  It was one of the places where I was accepted, and it was close enough from home so that I could commute.  My best friend Seth said his cousin went there and she loved it. 

            January second was my first day.  My mom woke me up at six in the morning and gave me money for the train and food. 

            “Have a good day, honey,” she said.  I gave her a quick hug and pushed open the screen door.  The walk to the red line station was ten minutes away.  The sun had just come out and I was happy and nervous. 

            When I got on the train there was the smell of alcohol in the air.  Almost all of the seats were stained.  I remembered the first time I took a train with my mom when I was seven. 

            “The rule is it is okay if it is dry,” she told me as we sat down in the only two unoccupied seats that day. 

            So I found a seat with an orange ball of fuzz in the upper hand corner of the felt cushion.  The sun had been up for a good twenty minutes by now.  I wanted to get to school early to read the reading for my humanities class that the teacher had emailed my fellow students and me about.  I skimmed the papers and it was something about Van Gogh and his work.  I had briefly studied that in high school, and since I wanted to major in art history (not journalism, like my Dad had wanted), I was interested.

            What I really wanted, though, was to meet people.  To have friends, like I did in high school.  Seth and I went to Jackson High, but he decided to go to a community college to study photography.  It was scary not seeing him every day in fourth period in the cafeteria for lunch. 

            I was about to nod off when a male who looked to be in his twenties sat down next to me.  The whole car was empty, so I was wondering why he chose to sit there, until he spoke. 

“Do you go to DePaul?” he asked, pointing to the school planner in my lap.  It had the Blue Demons symbol on it.  I blinked twice and then forced myself to respond.

            “Yup, it’s my first day,” I said.

            “Well for me…it’s the first day… of my second quarter.”

            He wore a green polo shirt, tan khakis and Adidas gym shoes.  He sat so that his elbows were dug into his thighs, leaning forward but to his right so that he was positioned towards me.

            “What classes do you have?”  I asked him.  An elderly woman had just stepped on the bus from the platform.  We were four stops away from the Fullerton station. 

            “Today, English 101, Spanish 102, and Humanities 201.  What about you?”

            “I have English 101 and Humanities 101 too!”  I yelled out the words even though we were the only people on the train.  I felt my face flush.  He bounced in his seat as he laughed.  It seemed like he had to remember to respond.

            “Do you want to walk to the library together?  I have some work to do before class,” he said.

            “Sure,” I said, “But what’s your name?”

            “James,” he said, sticking his hand out.  I took his left with my right.

            “Izzy,” I said.  “Nice to meet you.”