Pacific Avenue by Anne L. Watson

campus, I asked
Richard if he’d seen the man.
    “Oh, yes,” said Richard, buttering a piece of bread.
    “You don’t sound too worried.”
    “I’m not—not a lot. Has he ever done anything but
look?”
    “No, but it’s weird. I’m starting to imagine he’s there
even when I can’t see him. He gives me chills.”
    “I don’t see what we could do about it.”
    “Maybe we should complain to campus security,” I said.
    “About what? All he’s doing is walking around the campus
at the same time we are.”
    “He’s doing a lot more than walking around the campus.
He’s harassing us. We could complain about that.”
    “You think campus security would listen to us ?”
    “Maybe we should quit hanging around so much. We could
study at my parents’ house, or else at your place.”
    “I don’t think either one is going to work. Even if it
weren’t a problem for me to get to your house, I don’t think your mom wants to
see that much of me. And we already tried my place, remember?”
    “We could try again.”
    He shook his head. “It wouldn’t work. Besides, he probably
knows where I live. He could watch the door from that fig tree behind the
building.”
    “So, what do we do?” The idea of Green Coat lurking behind
the apartment gave me chills.
    “Ignore him. He’ll get bored.”
    “Why don’t we transfer to LSUNO next year? People in New
Orleans aren’t like this.”
    “It would be more expensive for you if you weren’t
living at home,” Richard said.
    “About the same for you, though. I’ll get a job or a
loan or something. We can’t stay here—even if that guy does get bored, there’s
more just like him.”
    “Not many.”
    I knew he was wrong about that. There was an area to
one side of the Union where students were allowed to make speeches to anyone
who’d listen. The ones who preached racism from their soap boxes were a
minority, but there were more than a few. “There are dozens of them. I’ve quit
walking past the Free Speech Alley because they make me mad. Any one of them
could be the next one to follow us around. Or worse.”
    “Well, I guess I would rather live in New Orleans anyway. Maybe next year.”
    That was all he would say about it. Maybe someday,
maybe some—other—day. But I was worried about Green Coat, and about Richard—and
I was starting to worry about next year. I’d been using birth control foam from
the drugstore, a brand that claimed to be “98% effective.” Who expects to be
part of a minority of 2 percent?
    One day in January, after the start of the new
semester, we went to lunch at a pizza place downtown. The restaurant was dark
and salty smelling, cheese and pepperoni. While we waited for our pizza, we ate
peanuts and drank Cokes. I did a quick mood check on Richard—he looked relaxed
enough for me to bring up something serious, so I took a deep breath, my heart
pounding. I have no idea how to say this, but I’d better tell him something.
    But I missed my moment—he spoke first. “I think I’m
going to change my major.”
    Can’t tell him now. I felt almost as relieved as if I’d just gotten my period. “Why? You never said
you didn’t like engineering.”
    “I guess I started in engineering because that’s what my
father always wanted. But I don’t fit in over there. It’s not grades. I’m just
not the type.”
    “I thought you liked it.”
    “I do, but I’m not crazy about engineers. They’re
mostly people who’d rather deal with things than people.”
    “So, what do you want to major in?”
    “I don’t know. Maybe government or law, somewhere I
might make a difference. . . . I don’t
know. . . . I’m probably talking crazy.”
    “Maybe psych?”
    “If I went into psych, maybe I could do something to
help other veterans. God knows, I have enough problems—moods, nightmares—but
I’m pretty mild, considering. Or even in law, maybe I could do something. Lots
of those guys get into all kinds of trouble.”
    “I