It was the night before graduation and everyone was giddy. The streets were full of those people you haven't seen since freshman year—the girl who locked herself in her room playing songs from ""Rent"" on her trombone, the boy from class who always wore a fedora, or the girl from high school who you swore dropped out and started stripping. Everything was wrapping up perfectly.
""We need to do something tonight none of us has ever done before,"" my friend Jeff said. ""But it can't be bar-related or alcohol-related.""
""I've never been sledding down Bascom Hill,"" my friend Katie offered.
""I know some kids who went down Bascom in one of those dorm laundry carts, but one of them ended up in the hospital, and I think they all got ticketed,"" my roommate Jill said. She paused, thought and continued: ""I've never eaten off of a food cart on Library Mall.""
""I've never eaten a Plaza Burger,"" I said. ""Or been streaking.""
""Is streaking really part of the college experience?"" Katie asked.
We were at a standstill. We sipped our cheap beer and thought.
Five years ago, I took a campus tour. As the group moved through the cold, there were lots of awkward jokes about ice cream and some shivering kids from California who hadn't understood the concept of winter. My brother offered me five dollars if, when asked what my favorite band was, I would say, ""a toss-up between Barry Manilow and Burt Bacharach.""
No one talked to me the rest of the tour.
Back at the table of soon-to-be graduates, not much had changed.
""Let's go to Madison Avenue and try and pick up high schoolers,"" I said. I thought it was brilliant. There weren't any takers at the table.
""We could go jersey chasing,"" Jill said. ""But would we really want to tarnish our last night as students?""
Still nothing.
""I've never climbed up on Abraham Lincoln,"" Jeff squeaked. We all mumbled back something about how we were graduating and saving the climb for tomorrow.
Silence again.
Freshman year on campus was one big, happy blur. It started off with the disappointment of SOAR—I've never been so excited to find out there were spots available in a physics class and economics—but was filled with dorm escapades, late-night bonding and weight gain due to living a mere 15 feet from a never-ending source of ice cream. I ran through sophomore year, junior year, but absolutely nothing noteworthy was popping up.
""I got it,"" I said. ""Let's go buy some duct tape and cough medicine and go hide in the marsh by the Alliant Energy Center for a while and say we were kidnapped by a man who looks like our father all because our boyfriend was apparently not paying enough attention to us.""
""It's been done,"" Katie said. (Google ""Audrey Seiler."")
""No—I got it,"" Jeff announced proudly. We huddled in, whispered, finished our drinks and ran off toward the Union.
There were only seven hours left before diplomas would be handed out, speeches would be made and the real world would start. Seven hours left to be stupid, carefree students—and really, seven hours left to be kids.
""Katie, we need to link arms, you can't let go and we are going in there together,"" I said, grabbing my friend who, other than me, would be the most likely to chicken out. We kicked off our flip-flops. The dock's wood felt rough on our feet.
All we could see was Lake Mendota's vast blackness and a couple making out between the sailboats. The only noise was rustling clothes and squeals of ""I can't go in—the lake looks so cold!""
I stepped up to the edge of the dock, grabbed my friends' hands, closed my eyes and jumped.
