Orientation begins today and Dad graciously agreed to make the trek with me. He rolls the window down, and even though we are three hours away from Whitefish, I pray that no one from school will be hit by my Dad's terrible taste in music. You'd reasonably think Christian rock is rock bottom. And then you'd be hit by Christian rap with a wailing saxophone escaping through the speakers. The lyrics usually emphasize the hip-ness of Christ with various other phrases popular 20 years ago dispersed throughout.

 

We pass by fields down the highway. As a kid, I always imagined characters racing beside our car. Me and Dad always won, but I wouldn't tell him that. It'd go to his head. 

 

"You know, Pithole State prides itself on its ice cream. They claim their ice cream is like no other because they treat the cows real nice," Dad says.

 

"How do we qualify this ‘real nice'? Is it relative to, like, factory farms? Because if so, don't color me impressed."
 
 "It's just something they said online in the dining hall promo."
 
 "And we should treat that like divine scripture," I say, folding my arms. 

 

"All I'm saying is that when we get there, we're trying the ice cream."

 

I sigh. The last time we got ice cream was seven years ago. Rootbeer floats specifically. The bar was packed, filled to the brim with feisty sports guys that look like they all came out the same printer. They all shared an intuition to be as loud as possible. By the time the rootbeer floats arrived, Dad was nursing his third beer. I asked if we could go, he told me thirty minutes. Those thirty minutes turned into an hour, and then two. Dad asked why I wasn't eating. I told him I couldn't, not seeing him in such a state. He's been sober the last five years now.

 

"I'll give it a shot," I say. Dad smiles and pats me on the shoulder with his right hand.
 
Montana's biggest school and crowning glory is Pithole State. Its size is what attracted me-- not only are there so many people, but so many people who aren't from Whitefish. There are people who've never known the pain of being subject to Christian rap, let alone people who would never subject others to Christian rap.

 

We pull into the spacious parking lot. Eager-eyed students rush towards the campus, I look at my watch. 9:40. Try hards I think, even though we also made the effort to be twenty minutes early. 

 

"The big moment," Dad says with a smile. I awkwardly smile back. The corners of my mouth hurt.

 

We wait with a pack of other acne riddled teenagers, their balding Dads, and their worrying Moms. I wonder how many of these kids are from a small town, trying to escape its confines. I wonder how many of these kids are trying to escape, generally.

The decrepit pavement cooks under the overbearing sun. Sweat trickles down my forehead and I attempt to absorb it with my sweater sleeves. Dad scolded me on the way here for dressing so warmly in late July. I prefer him thinking that this is a fashion choice rather than out of necessity.

 

A woman storms towards us, wielding a clipboard and a lanyard that says "Carolina".

 

"Y'all here for the tour?" 

 

Yeses and nods from the crowd emerge. 

 

"Time to get started, then," she says. Immediately following, a cockroach skitters across the pavement and one of the Moms scream.

 

"Oh, those guys? They're not so bad. I gave them names when I first got here - Gregor Samsa, Christine de Pizza, Timmy..." she says, sighing wistfully, "But there's so many, I lost track and gave up. It's not like they need these human concepts like names, anyway, they act independently of us."

 

A couple of parents exchange glances with each other.
 
"Plenty of kids are scared of the cockroaches too, when they get here," Carolina reassures, "But they learn to embrace it, or at the very least, accept the vermin-filled reality of Pithole State."

 

Most parents do not look reassured by Carolina's statement. 

 

She leads us down the pavement, mysterious stains coating it; I do not wish to know where any of them came from. The overcast haunting the sky completes the depressive atmosphere. Carolina repeatedly glances at her clipboard and then drones on about entrepreneurial opportunities and everything else that makes the parents nod approvingly.  We stop in front of a gray building.
 
"This building here houses our mental health services," she says, "I'd love to answer any questions about it."

 

 Out of the corner of my eye, Dad folds his arms. I look down at my shoes.

 

"Well, if no one has any questions, I'll share my personal experiences with this place, then," She says, resting the clipboard against her hip, "Senior year... challenged me. College applications, my parents' divorce, and fibromyalgia flare ups -- stress plagued my life. I couldn't pay attention in class, didn't enjoy the things I used to. In the middle of nowhere Pennsylvania, no one talked about these things. I felt alienated, like I was an alien, the exception."
 
Have her and I lived the same life?

 

"That was until I got here. Upon the recommendation of some friends I made here, I skeptically gave these services a chance. I learned from Nowhere, Pennsylvania that if you went to therapy, something was wrong with you. I stuck to this belief, until my first appointment.

 

"Through this facility, I got diagnosed with depression, and they gave me medication for it too. Thanks to the help of professionals, professionals who care about students, treatment, and finding people like me here, I'm the happiest I've ever been. Despite the cockroaches."
 
I like this Carolina figure. Parents ask questions about the school, disregarding her story, and the crowd fizzles out.

Dad and I begin walking back to the car.

 

"I like her," I say, "that tour guide."
 

"Really?"

 

"Yeah. She felt honest, like she was speaking with us and not to us. I didn't hear too much of that corporate speak I usually do with those types of students."

 

"Honest is one word for it," Dad grumbles. I raise an eyebrow.

 

"Compassionate and funny would be two others."

 

"I just don't get why kids nowadays feel the need to share everything."
 
"I mean, she did overshare," I agree, "But I think her story is important to a lot of kids out there who feel suffocated by their hometown, like they're a grotesquerie amongst a bunch of perfect beings. She shares hope, or at least, I felt hope in her story."
 
The parking lot cleared out. Dad jams his hand in his pocket, fumbling around until he pulls out his keys. He unlocks the car and swings open the door.

He glares at me accusatively and says, "What are you trying to say?"

 

"I have depression. And I deserve treatment for it."

 

Dad slams the driver side door.

 

"What do you have to be depressed about? You got me, you're a good student who's got a future, we've made do without Mom and we'll continue doing such!"

 

"It's not about a particular thing. I just feel this way and have for a while."
 
Dad throws his hands up in the air, saying, "Well what am I supposed to do about that?"
 
"I... I don't know. But you're my Dad, and I wanted you to know."
 
He sighs.

"Thank you, Amelia."
 
"You don't have to know what it's like, to ‘not have a reason' and feel this way. I didn't know why you drank, but I still wish to support your sobriety any way I can. I hope you can stand by me during this too."
 
"You're right," he says, "I don't get it. But that doesn't mean I won't try."
 
We both get in the car. 

"And I don't get the whole ‘Christian rap' thing, and I'm sorry I haven't been. I'll try too." 

He smiles and I do too.
 
"Let's see if Pithole State's ice cream is all they say."