Who am I without Hillside? This question has been plaguing my friend Eva for the last few weeks, as it became ever clearer that she was going to complete her senior thesis and graduate.
Walking out of Gleason on our way home from work over the last few weeks, I have caught her looking over yonder with a tear in her eye. As I followed her gaze past the glorious, gated Library Lot and the majestic silhouette of UHS, I realized that she was looking to the place where our dreams and hopes reside: Hillside.
While making our customary Friday stop, scrambling to buy as much elusive mango mochi as we could, I came to a jarring realization: What was Eva going to do once she lost access to Hillside? Eva is graduating, and I’m not — a world in which Eva and I don’t go to the Hillside after our shift or after a hangout is not one I could bear to imagine.
For the past few years, the pattern has been the same:
Need a meal? Hillside.
Need a snack? Hillside.
Want a sweet treat? Hillside.
Need a sweet treat? Hillside.
Sad? Happy? Angry? Frustrated? Tired? Hopeful? Excited? Bored? Busy? Hillside. Hillside. Hillside. Hillside. Hillside. Hillside. Hillside. Hillside. Hillside.
I mean, Wednesday and Friday have always been Hillside days. But the occasional (I mean, recurring — who are we kidding here) Monday, Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday, and Sunday trips sparked joy and light into the dull Rochester winter like a beacon of hope (anyone else see that hail May 5?).
Come next week, Eva will lose access to the source of our fix for good. Graduation means no more declining, which means the doors of Hillside will be closed to her forevermore (as she, like everyone, would rather trek out to Wegmans than spend real money at Hillside). I knew she was scared to have to be a slightly more fully functioning adult, and to not be able to use fake-ish money to buy groceries at a price so inflated it’s guaranteed to send any visiting parent into a coma.
I’ve noticed Eva has been sad and stressed out about the loss for weeks, so I wanted to fix the problem for her. I thought about how to do it for a long time before it became clear that there was really only one solution — she had to fail a class. “But wait,” you might say. “That’s going too far. Shouldn’t you ask her first?” It’s a good question, but no, obviously not. This was my gift to her, my burden to bear. I knew what I had to do.
And so I did. On Wednesday, after her art thesis exhibition had officially opened, I went up to her professor. I had tears in my eyes, my hands were shaking, I had to make this look real. I told him who I was, and that, although I believed in my friendship with Eva, I believed in truth and justice more. He seemed concerned, so I quickly got to the point, telling him of my suspicion, nay, certainty that Eva had used ChatGPT to finish her art.
He didn’t believe me at first (damn your goodness Eva!) but I had planted evidence — sneakily replacing periods with em dashes, inserting Oxford commas, and as a finishing touch, adding miscellaneous fingers into every third drawing — and soon he had no choice but to take my word for it.
Eva, if you’re reading this, welcome to the Class of 2027. I did it for you; I did it for us. I would never allow you to lose Hillside, not when there was something I could do about it.
