dreams of tomorrow
I flew across the country on an unexpected trip, gasping to escape the orange haze of smog and poverty that suffocated my Inland Empire home just east of Los Angeles.
After landing in Albany, New York, the volunteer student chaperone took me further east on a long winding drive through remnants of Industry toward distant rolling hills, over a mountain rooted dense and green, until we finally arrived at an otherworldly place in a land they called The Purple Valley, home to Williams College.
The College is sheltered in the northwest corner of Massachusetts, protected by the majestic Berkshires to the Southeast, the Taconic Mountains to the West, and the great Green Mountains to the North. The acquiescent peaks and the annual melody of changing seasons breathe life into the area.
Chasing the heavy green of summer, the colors of fall—of beech trees, sugar maples, and birch—paint the landscape with shades of oranges, yellows, and purples. These eventually yield to the white snow and chill of winter until spring beckons back the song of the ospreys, warblers, and sparrows.
It’s an enchanting place. The harmony of gentle hills and thick foliage offers a seductive escape. The soft sound of water trickling down creeks and subtle gusts of wind strumming leaves is like a lullaby for old souls. Ghosts of Melville, Thoreau, and Hawthorne haunt the hills and trails.
I was one of many to receive the invitation for that spring weekend. More than a dozen other high school seniors had traveled to Williams to judge whether the Purple Valley was right for them—all drunk with dreams of tomorrow.
In its eagerness to satiate our hunger, the College presented us with a bounty for the occasion. We toured the school, met with current students, slept in dorms, enjoyed the dining halls, and attended parties.
One of the activities included a reception with professors hosted at a dignified building called the Faculty House. We all attended, dressed in our best formal clothes. Drinks, hors d’oeuvres, and conversation filled the room as the sun sparkled and glimmered through the floor-to-ceiling glass windows.
As I casually turned to soak in the warmth of sunshine, there she stood—the girl from New Mexico.
She’d arrived late, wearing a tank top, shorts, and backpack, a defiant look for the occasion. Her beautiful, sensual skin glowed the color of honey. Her sultry almond eyes betrayed her playful short hair. And her unforgettable smile. Her alluring, gorgeous smile beamed in the intimate company of her sweet, lovely dimples.
By the end of our third and last night together, the small group of high school seniors visiting that weekend clung to each other like grade school friends, drowning in a cacophony of secret crushes and knowing giggles.
Later, in the twilight of that evening, a group of us, including the girl from New Mexico, headed down to a common room in the basement of one of the freshmen dorms for a game of ‘Truth or Dare.’
As we played, I was surprised by many things. I was surprised by how rapidly a group of strangers can grow familiar with each other. I was surprised by how many chose to be dared rather than the safer alternative. I was surprised by how many followed through on the salacious challenges, which are best left censored to the privacy of that windowless room.
But most of all, I was surprised by her.
It was after she concluded her deed, which gave her power, that she turned to me. I lounged eagerly in a chair about ten paces away, diametrically positioned across from where she lay on the floor.
“Truth or Dare,” she asked, resting comfortably on her back. She delivered her challenge with a sly smile that tugged at her dimples.
“Dare,” I replied with proud shoulders and chaste arrogance.
And, to my surprise, she gave the tamest command of the evening, “Go to the girl you like the most and kiss her.”
I lingered on the instruction, confused by its simplicity, but only for a brief second. With a magnificent grin, I stood up from where I sat and sauntered to where she lay.
She remained still, her head nestled on her backpack and her focus fixed on my face. She gave me a mischievous look with shadows of calculated confidence.
Brimming with ego, I approached her playfully and got on my knees, gently nestling her hips between my legs and bracing my arms on the floor. I hovered over her for a brief moment as she looked up at me with an embarrassed smile and a soft chuckle.
As I leaned forward and lowered my face close to hers, everything around us dissolved. I slowly closed my eyes as my lips melted into hers, the supple silk of her mouth embracing me with intimate familiarity, the soft touch of heaven slowly caressing my soul.
It was in that moment, in the warmth of her lips touching mine, that I fell in love, that for the first time in my life, I felt loved.