pat that I decide I can’t possibly drive. It wouldn’t be safe. For a split second I consider calling Beck, who definitely owes me a ride anyway, but I can’t make my fingers press the buttons, and I call Lisha instead. “Please tell me you are inviting me over to drink a bottle of wine in your walk-in closet, because I am having the shittiest day,” she says instead of hello. It is so rare that Lisha is upset and needs me to comfort her that I forget what to say for a few beats. “Hello?” she practically screams into the phone. “Hi! We can drink in the closet! Or even in the TV room; my mom and dad are doing a date night tonight,” I say. Sometimes we celebrate our boring lives with a red wine from a good year and act out the idea of being stately and mature. Lisha knows about “good years” because her parents have made a point to teach her about things like that. So she’ll feel comfortable at Harvard. I don’t think they know much about what Harvard’s going to be like.
