The Misfit Pioneers

Ming hauled the door open, her lips pressed together against the chill. Rubbing her hands, she dusted the white flakes off her coat and hurried inside.

She rarely came to this side of campus. Though it was a small university, the engineering students kept to their quarters and the art students to theirs. A quiet thrill shot through her at this minor act of defiance.

The art studio exhibited a curious architecture. Filmy drapes hung on black bars, almost like shower curtains. Bulging pipes peered from the ceiling. A string of lights crisscrossed overhead with no real symmetry. Concrete walls splattered with ash and paint. At least the low-rise tables and chairs appeared orderly and clean, gathered in blocks across the tiled, gray hardwood.

It was a very American studio, at least in Ming’s mind. Back home they would not tolerate such a design, even for a creative workshop. Ventilation pipes belonged behind walls and makeshift lights would be tossed in favor of unobtrusive ceiling fixtures.

Naked. That is how she would describe the room.

“Escaping the cold?”

She jumped at the voice. Turning, she found a lanky, raven-haired boy watching her with an amused expression. His hands were dark with charcoal dust.

“I wanted to wait for the snow to stop. I parked in the main lot.”

“You’ll be waiting awhile, then.”

Ming shrugged. She did not want to dwell on what prevented her from going home earlier, much less explain it to a stranger.

“Are you a student?” she asked instead.

He nodded. “Just transferred from art history to art. Drop a word from my major’s name and gain another year’s worth of work.” He grinned. “I’m Jonah.”

“I’m Ming, electrical engineering,” she said, knowing that was sufficient explanation for why they were not acquainted.

“Ming,” he repeated. “Cool name.” Jonah glanced at the dirty window, the edges frosted over with snow and ice. “It doesn’t look like the storm is letting up. I make a mean hot chocolate, if you want me to fix some up.”

She hesitated for a moment but agreed. The roads were dangerous, and the hot and humid weather of her hometown had not prepared her for the bitter winters here. Besides, Jesse would not call anymore and Ming did not want to be home alone with her thoughts.

Jonah had an easy, unaffected manner. He filled the silence with small talk about his life as he bustled around the kitchen area. Ming sat at a table nearby and listened. She learned that he switched majors late, so he spent frequent nights in the studio playing catch-up. Unlike most college students, he disliked coffee, but had an unhealthy addiction to hot chocolate.

“It’s my grandma’s recipe. No sugar,” he boasted, as he set two steaming mugs before her.

The warm, rich scent filled her nostrils. “Thank you,” she said.

He pulled out the chair opposite to her. “So, Ming. Does your name mean anything?”

“It’s the same word for ‘bright’ in Chinese. It’s quite common.” She paused. “What about Jonah?”

“The prophet, in the Bible.” He grinned at Ming’s blank look. “God sent him to preach to a wicked city, he disobeyed, and was swallowed by a fish for three days.”

She considered it for a moment. “It seems like bad luck,” she said finally.

Jonah laughed. “He made it out alive. It’s a great story, actually.”

Ming flushed and fell silent. Her family burned incense, prayed for health and prosperity, and tried to live good lives for karma’s sake. In her last two years in America, her circle of engineering friends rarely discussed religion, philosophy or literature. If Jesse worshiped anything, it was Bruce Willis movies, which he insisted were a sufficient lens into western culture and ideals.

“Do you plan to go back to China after school?”

“I wasn’t, but—” Ming stopped abruptly, a painful twinge in her chest. She met Jonah’s eyes, steady and kind. “My boyfriend is from here. He broke up with me today.” The words fell out in a rush.

Jonah’s eyes crinkled. “I’m sorry.” Then he added, “He’s a jerk.”

Surprised, Ming glanced at him. “You don’t know him.”

“Of course not. But he probably is.” He held up a hand to stop her interruption. “Here’s a rule for breakups. Get rid of that urge to defend him.” A crooked smile slid up his face. “I don’t know him. I know you. I’m on your side, alright?”

Ming suppressed the urge to tell him that his logic was convoluted and nonsensical. She had to admit it felt good to have someone on her side.

She and Jesse shared the same circle of friends. Or, more accurately, Jesse formed their circle of friends and drew her in when they began dating. Ming knew this was nonsensical too, that the loss of one relationship could make her feel so unanchored and lonely on a campus teeming with students.

“Thanks,” she said. “My friends were all Jesse’s friends, so…” she trailed off.

Jonah nodded in understanding. “Jesse is from the Bible too. Father of a king,” he murmured. “I’m guessing your ex isn’t that great.”

Ming couldn’t help but laugh. “I don’t think so. And how are you living up to your name?”

“I’m all for seeing the inside of a fish.” Jonah grinned. “I like a good adventure. I’m forming a campus club for explorers, actually. The Misfit Pioneers. Have you heard the rumors about this place?”

She had. The administration tried to check wild gossip, but students still whispered about secret passageways and treasure troves buried beneath the grounds. Ming could never decide if it was the typical American obsession with conspiracy, or if there was some truth wrapped in the stories.

Jonah was on the ground, wrestling with something in the tiles. “This is what happens when you spend too much time here,” he called up to her. She heard a crack and an entire tile came loose. A plume of dust rose as he heaved it aside.

Ming yelped and joined him, peering into the darkness.

“What’s—in there?” she asked.

“Not sure. I was going to check it out sometime, hopefully with a buddy.” He met her gaze. “So, interested in joining my club?”

“How many people are in it?” she asked, still distracted by the gaping hole in the floor.

“Well, now there are two of us.”

Written by: Dana Li
Photograph by: Anthony Delanoix

Yellow Door

When people ask Marcus where they met, he lies.

“There’s no shame in it,” Lily will tell him.

“The other story is so much better,” Marcus will say.

The real story is they found each other on an online dating site. Marcus was ready to delete his account when he saw Lily. He would tell her much later that she was the only real woman he encountered in a picture; they had all been too staged, and his dates had come across more like auditions than authentic human interaction.

He’d taken the last woman, Marissa, to a football game because she wore a jersey in her picture. She broke down in tears at halftime and admitted she hated crowds, but she thought men found a “guys’ girl” more interesting. She also said her ex-boyfriend was “like, super jealous of black guys.” Marcus gave her money for a cab and left without saying goodbye.

In her profile photo, Lily’s dark hair gathered in a messy side braid that cascaded past her collarbone. Her head tilted back, her mouth open in a loud laugh Marcus heard inside his head. Her hazel eyes gleamed with mischief, like she had pranked someone nearby. Her short fingers curled around a delicate champagne flute.

The story Marcus tells is that he saw her at the yellow door on a hazy Saturday morning, and they abandoned errands for coffee, too rich in taste and cost, but not time. It is an appropriation of their first date, in which Lily suggested the familiar landmark and Marcus suggested the activity. Lily had worn her hair down, and it hung in a glossy sheaf against a Harvard sweatshirt, the hood hanging over the collar of her black peacoat.

The first words that came out of Lily’s chapped lips were “I’m sorry.”

Marcus, on autopilot, responded with “Don’t be.”

Lily explained she spilled foundation on the blouse she had been wearing, and she was behind on laundry, and so she didn’t have anything else to wear but her favorite sweatshirt.

Marcus unzipped his winter coat, the white “Yale” letters blazing like heresy.

“I have no idea what I’m doing,” Marcus said, “but I think we have a lot of trash talk to cover over coffee.”

During the following year, they will show up at each other’s alumni events in rival colors, first eliciting cringes but later familiar smiles. They will encourage each other to try new things, leading to misguided forays into yoga and indoor rock climbing and a surprising addiction to spam musubi.

They will meet at the yellow door every Saturday and walk to the closest coffee shop nearby.

At Thanksgiving, Marcus meets Lily’s fathers for the first time. He presents both men with their own bottle of bourbon and, upon prompting, begrudgingly admits he doesn’t know what Modern Family is and doesn’t understand what lame joke he should be making.

“I told you you’d like him!” Lily gushes, her lips stained after two glasses of red wine.

“Bless you, son,” Robert chuckles.

When Lily excuses herself, Marcus doesn’t waste any time.

“I love your daughter,” Marcus says, “and I know I want to spend the rest of my life with her. Before I ask her, I want two things: to move in with her, and to have your blessing.”

“How will you ask her?” Frank asks.

“I don’t know yet. I have some ideas.”

“When?” Robert adds.

“When it’s right,” Marcus shrugs. “Not a holiday or our anniversary, though.”

“We’ve had three hours and four courses to get to know you,” Robert says. “You think you’ll get our blessing right now?”

“I didn’t expect to, to be honest,” Marcus smirks. “I thought you would want to know my intentions. I thought you should know about Lily’s Christmas present.”

Marcus shows them the pictures from his phone: a bright, modern loft with smooth white walls and light hardwood floors. Metal and glass accents glint.

“She’ll love it,” Frank says.

                                                                                           ***

Lily wakes up to a cold bed. She shivers and reaches for Marcus, but he’s gone. She rolls out of bed, stumbling into the nightstand. A tiny wrapped package drops to the floor, the silver bow crushed on impact.

Lily tears the paper off and pulls at the lid. A piece of yellow paper lies alone in the box. Printed in careful handwriting is “Kitchen counter.”

On her counter is a bigger present topped with a festive red bow. Inside another note reads “Get dressed. Check weather first. Meet me at the Starbucks by the yellow door.”

Pulling on her Harvard sweatshirt, yoga pants, and brown leather Frye boots, Lily exits the apartment. She returns three minutes later to collect additional winter accoutrements - coat, scarf, ear warmers, mittens. As an afterthought, she drops two empty thermoses into her bag.

The smell of chemical gingerbread and eggnog and booming Bing Crosby greets her. An over-caffeinated woman in a green apron and felt elf hat (complete with pointy ears) beams at her when she walks in.

“Are you Lily?” The woman asks.

Lily nods.

“Yay! I was worried you might stand that nice man up. He thought you might be here an hour ago.”

“I guess I slept in on Secret Christmas Scavenger Hunt Day,” Lily says.

“I’m supposed to give you this.” The woman sets a present next to the register.

“I’ll trade you,” Lily says, handing her the thermoses. “Two of those holiday teas. Extra hot.”

The next note is an address near Lily’s office. She hands the woman a crisp twenty and leaves with two thermoses, steam wafting in thin spirals as she makes her way to the address.

A doorman greets her with a “Merry Christmas, Lily!” and hands her another present. It’s a new key, silver and unused. The doorman tells her a floor and a unit number.

In the elevator, the tears come as her lips tug into a wide, full smile.

She knows which apartment it is when she exits the elevator. In a row of black rectangles, it’s a freshly painted bright yellow door, the happy sheen welcoming her home.


Written by: Erin Justice
Photograph by: Shelly Love