I remember my first year of college, my first month, and we were in the woods or “The Canyon,” what the on-campus trees and the paths and the streams were called. We passed a boy that Bella knew. We were all smoking of course and feeling extra hazy, unworried about pretense, or, at least, I was less worried Bella always smiles at strangers, she met an Older Boy during orientation just by exclaiming about the moon loudly enough at a party. I don’t think she was being dramatic. It was a good moon that night.
I remember the boy she knew from before, Jesse, half-streaked by shadows so the bits of him we did see come back in my memory as glowing. He was roommates with the guy Bella and our other companion, Stephen, known not-so-simply by has surname, “Chiboucas,” had bought their weed from. I don’t recall if this supplier was with Jesse or what the walk across campus was like but we all ended up back in Bella’s.
Even now I marvel at her ability to make a room feel contoured to human living in a way that felt intuitive, or, at the very least, not known to me. When I don’t think too hard, I tend to drift to a more no-frills approach to interior design; a paper garland covering half the length of a wall; a single Ikea pillow on my bay window. I seem to remember Bella’s room, on the other hand, as being covered with posters, photos, any bit of paper she with which she could attach meaning. Her linoleum floor was covered with a rug made of large, slightly rough loops of yarn. Even her clothing and jewelry, spilling out of her closet, and her skis propped in the corner served as decoration, indications of a person fully living within a space
This went further. Whereas I thought our student meal plan would satisfy our hungers, Bella brought with her a mini fridge and, no, she did not fill it with beer. She would make runs to Trader Joe’s or bike to the near-ish farmer’s market for fresh-made tortillas, fruits, and weird snacks.
So, on that night, once back in her room, Bella made us sundaes. She used the cherry-chocolate soy ice cream that she, as a new vegan, had been raving about. I, having been recently converted to a plant-based diet, was game for her dairy-free concoction. But when placed the finished plates on our laps, I was confused at first, or at least taken off guard. Lacking classic ice cream toppings, she had strewn almond butter, jelly and Puffins, the proto-health food cereal of my youth, across the melty, pinkish mounds. Skeptical but not one to turn down a well-made dessert, I took a bite. What did I have to worry about, really? It was delicious, of course, the sweet-tart shock of the jam mingling with the creamy curves of the melting ice cream. The crunch of the cereal hitting against the fat of the peanut butter. I love that I’ve never had a sundae like that since, that it’s so tied to a certain time and supply and circumstance. I love that it was made by Bella, that the food can exist safely within my mind, untasted all these years, and still bring an intensity forward, sweet, startling, true.
