Dear John by Nicholas Sparks Page B

her—feed her and brush her and keep her stall clean. Between her, school, gymnastics, and taking care of the rest of the animals, that was pretty much all I had time for.”
    “The rest of the animals?”
    “When I was growing up, our house was kind of like a farm. Dogs, cats, even a llama for a while. I was a sucker when it came to strays. My parents got to the point where they wouldn’t even argue with me about it. There were usually four or five at any one time. Sometimes an owner would come, hoping to find a lost pet, and he’d leave with one of our recent additions if he couldn’t find it. We were like the pound.”
    “Your parents were patient.”
    “Yes,” she said, “they were. But they were suckers for strays, too. Even though she’d deny it, my mom was worse than me.”
    I studied her. “I’ll bet you were a good student.”
    “Straight A’s. I was valedictorian of my class.”
    “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”
    “I don’t know,” she said. “Why?”
    I didn’t answer. “Did you ever have a serious boyfriend?”
    “Oh, now we’re getting down to the nitty-gritty, huh?”
    “I was just asking.”
    “What do you think?”
    “I think,” I said, dragging out the words, “I have no idea.”
    She laughed. “Then . . . let’s let that question go for now. A little mystery is good for the soul. Besides, I’d be willing to bet you can figure it out on your own.”
    The waitress arrived with the bucket of shrimp and a couple of plastic containers of cocktail sauce, set them on the table, and refilled our tea with the efficiency of someone who’d been doing it for way too long. She turned on her heels without asking whether we needed anything else.
    “This place is legendary for its hospitality.”
    “She’s just busy,” Savannah said, reaching for a shrimp. “And besides, I think she knows you’re grilling me and wanted to leave me to my inquisitor.”
    She cracked the shrimp and peeled it, then dipped it in the sauce before taking a bite. I reached in the pail and set a couple on my plate.
    “What else do you want to know?”
    “I don’t know. Anything. What’s the best thing about being in college?”
    She thought about it as she filled her plate. “Good teachers,” she finally said. “In college, you can sometimes pick your professors, as long as you’re flexible with your schedule. That’s what I like. Before I started, that was the advice my dad gave me. He said to pick classes based on the teacher whenever you can, not the subject. I mean, he knew that you had to take certain subjects to get a degree, but his point was that good teachers are priceless. They inspire you, they entertain you, and you end up learning a ton even when you don’t know it.”
    “Because they’re passionate about their subjects,” I said.
    She winked. “Exactly. And he was right. I’ve taken classes in subjects I never thought I’d be interested in and as far away from my major as you can imagine. But you know what? I still remember those classes as if I were still taking them.”
    “I’m impressed. I thought you’d say something like going to the basketball games was the best part about being in college. It’s like a religion at Chapel Hill.”
    “I enjoy those, too. Just like I enjoy the friends I’m making and living away from Mom and Dad and all that. I’ve learned a lot since I left Lenoir. I mean, I had a wonderful life there, and my parents are great, but I was . . . sheltered. I’ve had a few eye-opening experiences.”
    “Like what?”
    “Lots of things. Like feeling the pressure to drink or hook up with a guy every time I went out. My first year, I hated UNC. I didn’t feel like I fit in, and I didn’t. I begged my parents to let me come home or transfer, but they wouldn’t agree. I think they knew that in the long run I’d regret it, and they were probably right. It wasn’t until some time during my sophomore year that I met some girls who felt the same way I