Gypsies. There have to be some somewhere in my ancestry. I just know it. I gazed longingly out the window and felt my mind wander. I wish I didn’t have roots. I wish I could travel anywhere with a band of others, or journey alone with my tambourine. I can see myself watching the sky for hours a day - sunrises, clouds, sunsets, stars. I would wear what I liked, which would be flowing and colorful. I’d dance by the fire at night and in the rain, and laugh out loud whenever I wanted. I’d get my face and hands dirty. My life would be never safe. Always mysterious.

Then I felt that familiar twitch of panic, then slowly relaxed, relieved that my name had not been called. My mind refocused on the task at hand: passing Chemistry. I realized I have roots, not to mention a few thousand dollars of debt, and my life is the antithesis of danger and mystery. My Chemistry professor lectured on, and the struggle to pay attention felt like trying to recite the ten commandments in King James with peanut butter stuck to the roof of my mouth. Ten more minutes of this, I thought. Ten more minutes, then a few more weeks, then one more semester, then two more years - if I’m lucky! When the heck am I going to need to know the molar volume of an unknown gas while making a living cleaning teeth?? I sighed and frantically finished making a few more notes, then put my books in my bag and headed for the door.

The soft rain fell melodically against the sidewalk, on leaves and into puddles. I closed my eyes for a moment and felt a few drops on my face. I wish I was alone. I wish I could take off this raincoat and feel the rain all over my arms and catch the water in my mouth. I’d love to twirl around and just let it drench me. As much as I wished I could hold on to the moment, I knew I had no choice but to reopen my eyes and finish the walk to the science building and meet my friends for chapel. I don’t dislike chapel at all, it’s simply the fact that I go the same place three times a week that gets to me sometimes. Then again, so does going to the same classes, the same church, the same dorm, seeing the same people, the same scenery, the same food, the same cars. You name it. Something deep inside me is incredibly opposed to anything average, routine, or overly organized. It’s the same part of me that hates the word “committee” and James Bond movies (they're way too predictable). I pondered as I walked. It seems like all these things should make me anti-authority, too… am I? No, not really. Except those few times at camp when people in authority have just ticked me off. I thought back. I remember the third year I was in the kitchen at camp… I would have had to have been fifteen, because it was the year before I got to start working directly with the kids. Our new assistant cook was awful. I had two years of real experience, plus countless times I’d gone with my mom just to help out. I didn’t have to be told what to do, and I certainly didn’t need this new lady breathing down my neck. I remembered the way she didn’t like it when I sat down while waiting for the dish sanitizer to cycle. Every time I sat down, she’d glare at me. At one point, she actually hid the stool I used. I found it, and we never spoke about the incident. I hated it when she yelled at me when I dropped a cup. Everyone drops those things, that’s why they’re made out of plastic. She told me that it would have to go through the dishwasher again like it was something I didn’t know. I can’t stand it when people do that. All the time she spent yelling about the dropped cup and the dishwasher I was thinking, “It‘s a sanitizer, you idiot,” but I held my tongue. My mom raised me right.

I arrived at chapel and scanned the octorium for my roommate, Charlene, and our friend Dan. Char and I actually met at camp when we were five years old. That was the year my parents told me over and over, don’t sleep on the top bunk. They told me while we were packing, they reminded me during the drive there, and it was the last thing they said to me before the left. Naturally, being the angelic daughter I was, I had no choice but to sleep on the top bunk. It was in the middle of that first night I got my first real-world lesson about how gravity works, and split my chin open on a chair in the process. I hoped my parents wouldn’t notice. They did. Dan waved at me and I sat down next to him.

“How was chemistry?” he asked.

“Ugh,” was the only response I could think of.

“That good, huh?” he grinned at me and I rolled my eyes.

Char came in and sat next to Dan. She looked tired. She wouldn’t make a good gypsy. Her hair is too short… not like that’s really important. I can’t put my finger on it. I think she likes it when things are consistent. I mean, how many people really like the unexpected? To most people, it’s frustrating or even scary when things change. To me, it’s exciting. I thrive on the last-minute, the spontaneous, the unpredictable. My thoughts were interrupted for a brief moment as Dennis made us stand for prayer. Oh, come on. God is so much bigger than me, I seriously doubt it makes any difference whatsoever whether I’m sitting or standing . That’s like an ant thinking it makes a difference to me whether it’s got its antennas up or down. Then again, I bet most of the things we do are ridiculous to God, being all-knowing and all. That’s a hard one to wrap my mind around. My thoughts were interrupted for only a moment as we were told to sit down again. I mean, isn’t there a verse somewhere that says that when God forgives, He forgets? Someone started praying again. I lowered my head and closed my eyes. How can all-knowing and forgetful go together? Pretty sure if I forget something, I’m not all knowing… and if I’m forgetful, I’m not all knowing. Good thing I’m not God. My roommate jabbed me in the ribs and I took that to mean we were done praying. I shot her an innocent look and tried to pay attention to the speaker. The strange man at the podium was a little monotone, but his message was good. After a while, though, all chapel speakers sound alike. We got out a little early, so I went with Char and Dan to feed strawberry pop-tarts to squirrels. We’ve named two of them. There’s one especially round little guy we call Nuzzlefluff. He’s eaten out of Char’s hand twice. Another, who is notably shy, we call Skittish. Dan commented that they sound Jewish, which brought on mental images of squirrels in Yamachas, and I must have laughed for a good five minutes. Maybe it’s not always so much new places I’m attracted to. Maybe there’s more to it. In my perfect world, perhaps I would stay in one place all the time, surrounded by just the right people, with just the right flow of ideas. Who says I can’t dance in the rain right here? Next time, I just might. Too bad there are health codes, or else I’d always go barefoot. I suppose, although I’m wearing shoes, I’m barefoot at heart. Time having gone on without me, I heard the bells chime. My friends and I separated, and I went to my next class, slightly more aware of my own inner gypsy than I had been before.