The summer I went to Boston was that sweet spot of teenage independence and youthful bliss. I met the East Coast summer like it was a new car — foreign, temporary, fast. Campus smelled of oak trees and old buildings. Warm winds meandered mischievously through the leaves like they could feel us getting too serious. Oak bending and brick buildings watching like windows were eyes. Like they’d seen this a million times before. Like West Coast bones were fruits un-ripened on the vine. And if we did this summer correctly, we might return home juicy and ready to be plucked.