The Girl on the Train

A nostalgic personal essay

I get on the train in Toledo, Ohio. I have a footlocker, a suitcase, and a duffel. It is August, and I’m going to college in Texas.

I stow my big bags and find a seat, hauling my duffel after me. I’ve traveled before, with my family and school groups, but this is my first solo trip. I nod to my seat mate and wrap myself in a tight little ball, excited and afraid. I can’t wait for the next things to happen, but they are so new…I shake my head.

I look up. She’s walking down the aisle, and, except for her age, which is roughly the same as mine, she’s everything I’m not.

She is female. I’m male. Her hair is blond, long, and straight. My hair is dark, short, and wavy. She’s traveling with people. I’m alone. She’s ridden the rails before, often enough that she has favorite spots on the train and knows how everything works. She and her pack (friends? cousins?) seize the seats at the front of the train car, tucking magazines and water bottles and brushes and flip-flops in every pocket, nook, and cranny, settling in like they own the place.

She draws every eye, some glaring resentment, some envious. I watch every flip of her hair, and I sigh. I could never speak to a girl like that. I finally get the nerve to go explore the train. I lurch past her as I head toward the engine. The smell of her hair trails after me, even between train cars. I stand between for a moment, rocking back and forth with the train, every part of me vibrating with my journey. Then I walk on to the snack bar where I buy a bag of chips and a coke.

On my way back past, she’s got her feet up against the front wall of the train car, so her legs are completely straight. With the train surging, it takes four small steps to make my way down her legs. One. Two. Three. Four. Sigh — but it isn’t me. It’s her. “Sure wish I had some chips.”

Even a social moron like can read an invite this broad. I brace myself in the aisle and pop the bag. Her hand is in as soon as I open, and then she’s crunching. She pulls her legs back, pats the seat beside her, and says, “Thanks! Sit! I’m Shelley.”

I sit. She leans in until all I can see is her eyes and hair. She takes another chip. “You don’t mind?”

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