Nine Inches Read Free Page B

their skills and ideals to the test in challenging third-world environments. She was especially impressed by an organization called Big Hearts International, whose mission was to connect college-age Americans with “the struggling but resilient children of sub-Saharan Africa.”
    “Just think about it,” she told me. “ Th is could be a real game-changer.”
    “Africa’s pretty far away,” I reminded her. “And kinda dangerous.”
    “It’s just for a few months, Donald. I really think you should consider it.”
    I’d fi lled out the application in mid-May, when it became clear that I wasn’t going to be saved by the wait list at Duke or Grinnell. Th e way I fi gured it, my options were either Africa or community college, and I really couldn’t see myself at community college. By the time graduation rolled around, Big Hearts had already assigned me to an orphanage in Mityana, Uganda, not too far from the capital city, whose name I kept forgetting. Heather was almost as excited as my mom, clutching my arm, beaming at me like I was some kind of saint.
    “ Th is is my boyfriend, Donald,” she kept telling her relatives. “He’s going to Africa in September.”
    Th at’s who I was for the rest of the summer, the Great Humanitarian and Intrepid World Explorer, Friend to the Struggling but Resilient Orphans. If nothing else, this identity got me through a lot of awkward situations, gave me something to contribute to what would otherwise have been extremely painful conversations about distribution requirements, course schedules, Greek Life, and Facebook groups for admitted students. Jake bought me a pith helmet at a secondhand store, and I used to wear it when we went to the beach or the movies, sort of as a joke, but also as a badge of honor, a token of my good intentions.
    I swear, I was all set to go. I updated my passport, got my shots, read a whole bunch of books about AIDS and genocide and colonialism, even drove to Connecticut to meet with a volunteer who’d just fi nished the program, this skinny, haunted-looking dude whose arms and legs were mottled with bug bites.
    “It’s pretty freaky,” he said, scratching himself like a monkey. “You wouldn’t believe the poverty over there. But it’s like the most rewarding thing I’ve done in my entire life.”
    Th e last two weeks of August were like one big going-away party, the population of well-wishers dwindling nightly until I was the only one le ft . I had a few days to fi nalize my packing and spend some quality time with my parents and little sister, who was starting her freshman year in high school. My mom baked a cake on my last night, and we sat around talking about what a great adventure I was embarking on, how I was going to learn some real-life lessons that couldn’t be taught in any ivory tower. Th en I skyped with a bunch of my friends and had a long goodbye talk with Heather, during which we both promised to be faithful during our separation. We’d had sex for the fi rst time the night before she le ft , and we reminded each other how amazing it had been, and how we couldn’t wait to do it again over Christmas vacation.
    “I love you,” she sni ffl ed. “You take care of yourself, okay?”
    “I’ll be fi ne,” I told her. “I’ll see you soon.”
    Th at was it. I went to bed feeling brave and melancholy, ready for my big journey into the unknown. But when I woke up the next morning, I couldn’t move. I wasn’t sick; it just felt like my body had been sliced open and pumped full of wet cement.
    “Come on, sweetheart,” my mother said from the doorway. “You don’t want to miss your plane.”
    “I’m not going,” I said. “It’s not fair.”
    She withdrew and my father appeared a few minutes later. He told me that I needed to get my ass moving, that I’d made a commitment and damn well better stick to it. He said there were orphans in Uganda who were counting on me.
    “Fuck the orphans,” I said.
    “What?” I could