Spring Break, 1992
Age 13
Spring Break thins a campus in a way no exam week ever can. Doors stay open, lights stay off, and sound travels farther than it should. By Sunday evening half the dorm was gone. The hall smelled faintly of cleaning solution and dust that had waited all semester for attention.
Paige left the morning before. She'd packed fast, said "See you after," and was gone before the buses filled. The silence she left behind wasn't heavy, just wide.
I didn't go home. Home was four hours of driving for a week of pretending I could rest. Here I could actually rest.
Monday
I woke later than usual, sunlight already pushing through the blinds. The first thought was that no one expected anything of me today. That's a strange kind of freedom for someone who measures time in tasks.
Breakfast in the cafeteria was self-serve and nearly empty. The staff moved slower, grateful for the break. I ate at the edge of the room, the same seat we'd mapped during the project. The pattern of movement hadn't changed; there were just fewer people to trace.
Afterward I ran the perimeter route, the long one, past the rec fields and back. My body fell into the old rhythm before my mind caught up. The curve of the path and the rise of breath became their own equation: distance as function of calm.
When I looped past the rec annex, the flyer for the Longhorn Boxing Club still hung by one strip of tape. Tuesday & Thursday 6 PM. I decided that was close enough to an appointment.
Tuesday
Six o'clock came with the sound of gloves warming up and a timer buzzing. The coach, same man as before, gave me a nod that meant get in or get out.
I stepped in. The air smelled like canvas and sweat. Two students worked the heavy bags; one jumped rope near the corner, the rhythm sharp enough to cut air.
"Wraps?" the coach asked.
I held up the pair he'd given me.
He checked the tension. "Better. Same bag. Three-minute rounds. You breathe on the out, not the in."
The timer buzzed. I jabbed once, twice, then found a rhythm. The sound wasn't violent, it was metronomic, almost polite. Each hit a note in a steady song about effort and return. After two rounds my arms burned. After three, they stopped arguing and just obeyed.
When the buzzer sounded, the coach called, "Done for today."
I nodded. Words didn't fit the kind of silence that follows measured work.
Wednesday
Rain. Light, constant. The campus looked clean for once. I spent the morning in the library, second floor by the tall window. The sound of rain against the glass matched the slow tick of the wall clock.
I read through Dr. Li's advanced materials, proofs nested like clockwork. They demanded patience more than brilliance. I wrote notes in margins small enough to feel invisible.
Around noon, I called home from the landline in my room, one of the things Meemaw had gotten me. Dad answered.
"Keeping busy?" he asked.
"Always."
"Your mom says don't skip meals."
"I won't."
"Paige go home?"
"Yeah."
He paused long enough for the line to hum. "Good. See you when you come back this summer."
"Okay."
That was enough conversation.
Thursday
Second session at the boxing room. The coach greeted me with a short "gloves" and pointed to a bag farther down. The room was fuller, a mix of students and one grad who hit like he was paying off a debt.
We drilled footwork, then combinations. My shoulders ached halfway through. The ache was honest. Between rounds, the coach said, "You think too much. Bag's not a theorem. Hit it, don't solve it."
I laughed once. He didn't.
But the next round landed better.
When we finished, he tapped the timer with his knuckle. "You got rhythm. Keep the hands where they belong. Don't chase power."
"I won't."
"Good. Most people forget that part."
I walked back to the dorm with the smell of leather still on my hands. The soreness would arrive tomorrow, same as every good result.
Friday
The rain cleared. The library reopened normal hours, though "normal" meant little this week. I finished two proofs, rewrote one section of my CS notes, and watched the light change across the desk.
A postcard arrived from Missy, mailed two days earlier: a beach, bright umbrellas, her handwriting looping across the back. Don't forget sunscreen, even if you never go outside. M.
I pinned it above my desk beside the schedule for next week's labs.
In the evening I jogged instead of boxing. My calf twinged once, then settled. The air smelled of cedar and asphalt after rain, my favorite version of quiet.
Saturday
Campus began to refill. Suitcases rolled down hallways; laughter echoed between buildings. I bought coffee from a vending machine that hissed like it disapproved of me.
Back in my room, I cleaned. Organized notes, rotated pens, replaced dull pencils. I took the used wraps from my bag, washed them in the sink, hung them to dry by the window. They looked like narrow bandages for an invisible wound.
That night I read one of Dr. Li's papers she'd referenced in class, on error propagation in iterative systems. Her conclusion line stuck: A model's strength is measured by how much noise it can forgive.
I wrote that in my notebook and underlined it twice.
Sunday
Paige returned mid-afternoon. I saw her across the courtyard, backpack over one shoulder, hair wind-tangled from the bus. She waved once. I nodded.
The campus was loud again, engines, voices, doors, life coming back online.
That evening, I walked to the rec annex one last time before classes resumed. The coach was closing up.
"Are you coming next week?" he asked.
"Yeah," I said.
"Good. You're better when you're busy."
He wasn't wrong.
Back in my room, I sat at the desk, the air faintly warm from the heater, and wrote one last note before lights-out:
Equilibrium isn't rest. It's motion without collapse.
Tomorrow the system will start again.
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