by Christine Stoddard

Created on: March 01, 2009

"Worms As Mentors"

6:45 in the morning with overcast skies and a balmy breeze in Grinnell, Iowa-a fly-over town in a fly-over state with a world-renowned college of the same name. Mom and Pop stores lined the streets with a popular franchise here and there, staring across from mobile homes and Victorianbeauties alike. It was a town of pick-up trucks and churches with a liberal arts school and a Wal-Mart Supercenter as its two hubs.

I left my dorm with wet curls streaming down my back, an aqua-colored skirt that ill matched my blouse, and a wallet lamenting its poverty. I was a 19-year-old with only one thought on my mind: somehow I had to rush to the bakery before I lost my job. It was my day to roll cinnamon buns and my shift started in five minutes. I had to run.

The hush of a Saturday campus welcomed me as I stepped out with two tote bags loaded with love poems and frivolous sketches. There were also a couple of novels wedged in there that I always intended to read, but somehow never managed to open. Sometimes I mused that their only purpose was to worsen my scoliosis. Maybe my mother was right-maybe I should eat more cheese to strengthen my bones, even if I was vegan. Of course, I was more concerned about strengthening my mind than my body, hence the pile of books that always accompanied me. If it weren't for the heavy bags, though, I might be able to walk to work in five minutes as advertised on all the tourist pamphlets. It wasn't supposed to take ten or fifteen minutes to get downtown.

I still couldn't believe how quiet the campus was. Everyone was exhausted after their night of mixing "oregano" brownies, stargazing, or party hopping-except for me. I had stayed up until midnight reading Borges for the fortieth time and then gradually surrendered to sleep. Friday wasno different from any other day for me. The only drunkenness I ever enjoyed was the intoxication of a good story. Some of my classmates argued that I just couldn't handle the drunkenness of a good life. But I always thought that beer tasted nasty, like some of the weird French cheeses my mother mailed for Christmas. Besides, if I were any less diligent of a student, Harvard grad school would never accept me. And if Harvard rejected me, I hoped my scoliosis would kill me, otherwise my father would.

There was a pool of beer or urine (or maybe a combination of both) lingering on the sidewalk not far from my dorm. I hopped over it like the wild rabbits running around campus do and continued walking,

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