If we listened hard enough, we would hear what wasn't actually there. Every day, all summer long, we listened for the jingle of the ice cream truck, even though it only came once that entire year. In that warm summer's air at 8:30, light still in the sky, it was alright to do this. We would never give up hope.

My dad would read the three of us siblings chapters of Harry Potter, Nancy Drew, or Anne of Green Gables out loud on the front porch, and every once in a while, my brother would lift his head.

"Did you hear that?" he'd ask, and my dad would set the book down on his worn blue jeans he always wore when weeding clovers. I would look up, as if I could see over the tall pines--a type of X-Ray vision specifically for ice cream trucks.

"I don't think it's coming," my dad would finally say, after we were silent, listening hard, for a good ten minutes. Sometimes, my mom would make us a snack--a mix of berries she called Special Treat. We would sprinkle sugar on top and eat them on the uncomfortable, prickly wicker furniture outside.

After my dad read, we would play skip-it or hopscotch in the hilly driveway. I would ride my bike and maybe skin my knee. We refueled our bikes in chalk gas stations. Sometimes, Jonny or the Smart boys would ride their bikes with us, around and around the circle of the cul de sac.  When darkness fell, we would retreat and park our bikes in the garage, propped up against foul smelling trashcans, figuring maybe the ice cream truck would come tomorrow.

Now, I am old and do not live at home. The green Honda Civic I share with my sister rests rusting in the driveway. Last summer, the ice cream truck came, just a few years too late. I couldn't run outside, tearing the thin fabric of my socks, chasing wildly after it, without feeling like a fool. I would listen to its jingle play, until it got fainter and fainter, finally fading into nothing. I could hear it in my head, even after the truck drove away, the sun setting in the distance.

In a mere eight days now I'll be packing my bags and heading off to college for the first time. Let me elaborate on how this experience has been.

1. Buying Everything (Mini-Sized)

There's a lot to buy when you're about to go live in a 12x15 cubicle. My particular 12x15 cubicle will house not the two people it's supposed to, but three. So, everything must be mini-sized. I got mini toothpaste and a mini alarm clock and a shirt hanging tree (because normal hangers take up too much space, and my school website said the key to dorm living was VERTICAL ORGANIZATION!) It's a good thing my feet are size 5 or I'd probably have to chop them off to fit in my dorm room, too. Everything is a question of fitting. Can we afford the trash can? The laundry basket? (The answer to this question was no: I got a laundry bag instead, to save space). The microwave and mini fridge?



2. Scoping Out The Roomates

The minute everyone got their housing assignment, they rushed online to Facebook friend them and creep on them extensively. What does her About Me say? What music does she like? How many photos is she tagged in? What is her status-update-to-wall-post ratio? (Okay, so maybe only I got that intense). My roomates both look normal, so that's nice. They may not think the same of me since my About Me says: My feet are really small. I strongly dislike the number 47. Oh, and my only favorite TV show is World News Tonight With Charles Gibson.

3. Locating And Purchasing Rain Boots

Everyone must wear rain boots at my college. It is standard, like sweatpants. Sweatpants, rain boots, and a North Face is the way to be where I'm headed (except I don't have that North Face part covered). It was tough to find rain boots, but once I finally found them, I hit the jackpot: My rain boots are hot pink with green whales on them!

4. Fretting Over Once Simple Tasks

All shitting must be done in public. It is typically illegal for a female to shit in public, and so obviously, this is a great concern. I suppose this is alright, because, as stated by a iconic book, EVERYBODY POOPS, and I will get used to it.

Also, there is probably no room in my dorm for a mini-iron or a drying rack. My friend and I discussed, therefore, the possibility of steaming our clothes in the shower, or just wearing wrinkly clothes all of freshman year. (She, too, is in a forced triple). The wrinkly clothes route seems the best to go.

5. Remembering Things Fondly You Hated In High School

Today, my brother was at band camp...and I picked him up from the high school. And I started to get so upset. I looked at the parking lot and thought, "I'll never be stuck in that rear-ending traffic again." And I looked at the bus port and thought, "I'll never have to take the slippery winter's walk from the main building to the portables ever again." And my friends text me about dying during 7 mile runs in sweltering 90 degree heat, and I wish I was there. Strange how leaving a place will do that to you.


(Example of a typical day in my high school's parking lot. All squares and ovals are vehicles.)

Also, I was invited to some sorority and fraternity recruitment party. I guess it's called Rush week or whatever. I was talking to my friend and the conversation went something like this:

"This creepy guy on Facebook invited me to this 'First Week Bash."
"Are you gonna go?"
"I doubt it. I don't really want to get alcohol poisoning, or  hazed, or..."
"Date raped?"
"Well, yes, that too."