The Marriage Pact (1) (14 page)

Marci
heard him pick up his keys off the floor behind her. A few seconds later, the
front door creaked open and closed, and she was alone again in the empty
apartment.

Suzanne
had been the one originally to meet Jake, and for that matter, tried desperately
for a couple of weeks to add him to her growing list of conquests. The three of
them had all been in an enormous section of English 101 together freshman year,
taught by Cyrus Somebody, a moody TA who dressed in head-to-toe black every day
and offered them extra credit if they attended his readings at local poetry
slams. He seemed to resent very much the fact that teaching basic composition
to the great unwashed student population was among his duties, and demonstrated
this by being generally surly and condescending, not to mention an extremely
tough grader.

He
seemed to have a vendetta against athletes and members of fraternities and
sororities, who often found their weekly papers were returned to them not only
with grammatical corrections but also with bright red insults that bordered on
personal attacks. Although Jake was not in a fraternity and only played
Ultimate Frisbee, he seemed to have been lumped into this category, too,
because Cyrus frequently peppered his papers with comments like “awkward,”
“choppy,” and “trite.” 

One
day a few weeks into the semester, after Jake had been shot down for an
in-class comment that was “obvious and pedestrian,” Suzanne, who had been
ogling Jake for the last couple of classes, dashed out of the classroom behind
him, leaving Marci to continue packing her backpack alone. By the front steps
of the building, she managed to catch up to him and pull on the zipper to his
bag flirtatiously.

“I
didn’t think there was anything obvious about what you said at all. I think
that TA has a total chip on his shoulder, don’t you?” When Jake stopped and
turned to face her, she put on her most charming smile, generally known
throughout the Southeast as irresistible.

“Yeah.
Thanks,” Jake responded. “I just wish I didn’t have to worry that chip on the
shoulder was going to cost me an ‘F’ in his class.”

“Oh,
me, too,” Suzanne commiserated. In truth, she had an 89 in the class because
she and Marci been religiously attending the awful poetry slams since the first
week. Not only did the extra credit help, but Cyrus had begun to go easier on
them as soon as they’d appeared at the coffee house for Open Mike Night. It
usually cost them two cappuccinos apiece just to stay awake for the whole
thing, but it seemed to be worth it, at least for Suzanne.

Marci,
who had a 97 and did not even need the extra credit, caught up to Suzanne while
she talked with Jake on the stairs. He was leaning against the brick and
concrete half-wall next to the stairway, looking handsome and windswept as he
listened to Suzanne politely. Marci noticed that he was still tanned from a
summer outdoors and the mild fall they were having so far. The morning was cool
and cloudless, and shade from the mature trees that surrounded the English
building kept the sun from being too glaring. Set against the backdrop of a
perfect fall day, Jake seemed to fit in completely with the surroundings. Marci
was suddenly very glad she had come to Georgia rather than accepting a
scholarship out of state.

As
she approached, she could hear Suzanne’s lilting Southern accent, perhaps a
little denser and sweeter than usual. “I do, too,” she was saying. “I worry
about it every single night...I can’t sleep a wink.” Suzanne had placed her
hand congenially on Jake’s chest, a signature move of hers—
make body contact
as soon as possible; it makes them feel close to you
—and Jake did not seem
uncomfortable.

“Hey,”
Marci said, and for a split second she thought Suzanne was annoyed at being
interrupted. If this was true, she didn’t show it for long, and she embraced
Marci in a sudden hug. “Oh, Marci! You’re exactly the person we need. You
should tutor us! You have amazing grades in this class and Cyrus likes you,
while Jake here and I are both struggling.”

“That
would be awesome. Oh, and, nice to meet you,” Jake said, with his hand out to
Marci.

“You,
too,” she said. “I’m Marci. Well, I guess Suzanne already said that,” she
trailed off awkwardly. He smiled.

“Oh,
my gosh, Marci, please tell me you’ll tutor us in this horrible class. I can’t
fail; I just can’t!” Suzanne was gushing with Scarlett O’Hara drama. Marci
fought the urge to laugh at this ridiculous display.
Oh, well,
she
thought,
I guess this one is off the table for me
.
What else is
new? 
Going to college with your best friend in the world had its
drawbacks, especially when that friend was a perky blonde size six who could
out-charm any debutante in the state.

As
it turned out, however, Jake was off the table for Suzanne, too. In the
frequent joint study sessions at the library that followed, she had tried every
trick in her considerable repertoire. Everything from lip gloss and tight
sweaters to a dramatic breakup with a fake boyfriend. None of it worked on
Jake. He was kind, funny, and clearly enjoyed being around them, but he gave
zero indication that he was interested in either of them. Politely ignoring
Suzanne’s embarrassing efforts to fall on top of him, he somehow managed to
simultaneously knit himself into their social circle, as they met nearly every
day to discuss literature and often went out afterward for dinner or drinks.

In
a couple of weeks, Suzanne had given up on Jake and moved on to the far more
lucrative conquest of her art history teacher, who incidentally
was
a
fan of lip gloss, tight sweaters, and college freshman melodrama. Thanks to
Marci’s keen eye for editing and symbolism, all three had improved English
grades. And thanks to a couple of late nights on campus and some thinly veiled
suggestions about going to the administration and/or Dr. Kimball’s wife,
Suzanne more or less ensured she would never have lower than a B in art
history.

Marci
enjoyed the friendship with Jake. None of the guy friends she’d hung around in
high school had come to UGA, and it was nice to have some testosterone around
to balance things. Jake had a way of getting straight to the point about things
that Marci really liked. He seemed to say exactly what he was thinking without
preface or apology.

Jake
was also obsessed with movies and he constantly dragged anyone who would go to
the student center to watch artsy pictures and foreign films. Suzanne
complained about this and often found reasons to opt out, but Marci usually
liked whatever he chose. She had never been much of a movie person growing up,
and had more or less failed to see anything beyond the big box office hits and
whatever came on Channel 17 on weekends. Learning about the whole world of
independent films made her feel very grown-up and collegiate.

When
sophomore year came, Rebecca decided to move into her sorority house. Jake
announced his plan to move to a cheap but questionable neighborhood on the west
side of town with some guys from his Intro to Film class. This had landed
Suzanne and Marci in half of a four-bedroom plan on the cleaner, safer,
student-centered east side of town. They lived with Noelle and Cindy, the two
least annoying girls from their dorm hall.

That
fall, Rebecca talked frequently about how busy she was with sorority life—rush,
parties, meetings, and lots of gossip about the goings-on in the Delta house.
At least four Jennifers were mentioned frequently, and Marci eventually stopped
trying to keep them straight. After attending one of the Deltas’ enormous
parties that Rebecca helped organize, Marci and Suzanne began giving the
sisters catty nicknames to keep them straight: “Slutty Jennifer,” “Anorexic
Jennifer,” “Blue Blood Jennifer,” and worse.

This
would have mortified Rebecca, who idolized her sorority sisters without
reservation. The Deltas, and the social connections that came with them, were
Rebecca’s ticket to everything she wanted. She downplayed her origins as
daughter of a mail carrier and a housewife in Birmingham. She had met Marci and
Suzanne their senior year in high school, when Rebecca moved in with an
affluent Georgia aunt, a past sorority president at UGA, to establish residency
and improve her chances of being accepted into one of the better houses.

This
left her with little in common with Marci, who had no interest in climbing
through the social strata and only minimal understanding of the world Rebecca inhabited.
Suzanne, however, had all the apparent qualities every sorority would want. She
was beautiful, charming, decidedly Southern, and a legacy Alpha Chi. That she
had decided not to rush, despite handwritten invitations from the chapter
president and even a few alums, surprised even Marci.

The
fact that Suzanne could have had the Hellenic world at her feet and chose not
to participate seemed to leave Rebecca befuddled, resentful, and relieved all
at once. On one hand, how could she give up something so easily that Rebecca
had worked so hard for? On the other, who would want to compete with Suzanne
for attention and acceptance? This latter part of Rebecca’s struggle, at least,
Marci understood. She had spent many years in Suzanne’s shadow.

Although
Suzanne pooh-poohed Rebecca’s obvious social climbing and devotion to Greek
life, Marci felt a touch more sympathy as she listened to the Delta house
gossip and Rebecca’s worries about getting things right in the eyes of her new
sisters. Marci never said so to Suzanne, but she knew firsthand it was easier
not to care about being accepted when you had never been the outsider.

While
Rebecca seemed caught in a social whirl, Jake’s routine calls to Marci and
Suzanne for dinners, drinks, and movies continued unchanged. In fact, he seemed
to appreciate them more with his overly intellectual roommates as foils. “If I
have to hear one more time that Spike Lee is a genius or that George Lucas was
a special effects pioneer,” he would say,  “I’m going to jump off my balcony.
Seriously.”

Jake
remained a fixture in their lives and on their couch, all the way through their
sophomore year. Their easy friendship had continued, through midterms and
finals, and through Suzanne and Rebecca leaving town that summer. Right up until
the night of too much beer, lemon shots, and a racy cab ride back to Marci’s
apartment.

The
night after Marci’s drunken liaison with Jake, Suzanne and Rebecca returned to
Athens. Jake called and invited them all out for tacos, as though nothing had
happened the night before.

At
the restaurant, he hugged Marci tightly and kissed her on the forehead, smiling
in a way that was completely disarming against her plan to hate him forever.
While they waited for a table, he said quite normally how much the guys liked
hanging out with Marci and that he hoped she would come to some of his summer
games. He added to Suzanne and Rebecca, “Of course, you girls are welcome, too.
The guys always love a female audience. It makes us act like idiots.” He winked
at Marci on this last comment and she looked away quickly.

A
couple of hours later, as the apartment door closed behind a departing Rebecca,
Suzanne rounded on Marci, still holding a leftover enchilada in a Styrofoam
box. “Oh my God! You had sex with Jake!”

Marci
felt the blood rush to her face. “No, I didn’t!”

Then
under Suzanne’s pointed stare, she let out a distressed moan. “Oh, God. You can
tell. How stupid am I? It’s totally going to ruin our friendship. I was so
drunk.”

“Never
mind that. How was it?”

Marci’s
blush deepened.

“Oh
my,” Suzanne said. “That good?”

Marci
nodded reluctantly. “Such a bad idea.”

“
Totally
bad idea,” Suzanne agreed, though her voice was still exuberant. Marci couldn’t
tell whether she was impressed that Marci had managed to snag a guy who had
rejected Suzanne, or whether she was just pleased with herself for figuring out
a juicy piece of gossip. “I’ll get the ice cream, huh?”

“Please.”

#

Saturdays
in Athens were always more colorful and laid-back in the summer. The townies,
who typically stuck to the more outlying bars and restaurants to escape the
crowds of the school year, ventured downtown to help fill up the patios and
slurp frozen cocktails. Besides the college student uniform of frayed khakis
and tattered baseball caps were the black fingernails and nose rings of the
local Goths, and Hawaiian shirts and sandals sported by middle-aged residents,
some of whom had started as students a decade or two earlier and never left.
During the summer quarter, even the most swamped and ambitious students seemed
to feel they were due a few hours to relax on Saturday night.

Suzanne,
Rebecca, and Marci had spent the afternoon watching the Frisbee team scrimmage
against a club from Valdosta, who were smaller in number and less organized than
the UGA group. After an easy couple of victories, Jake’s team invited their
opponents, and the girls, out for a night on the town. They crowded a pizza
place for dinner, and then made their collective way to an equally cheap and
dirty bar known for its pool tables, nickel drinks, and loose interpretation of
underage drinking laws.

Drinks
were definitely in order tonight. So far, Marci’s semester had been more or
less disastrous. On top of the awkwardness with Jake, she had managed to get
the one Spanish 201 teacher on campus who actually expected students to do
voluminous amounts of work in order to complete his class. Spanish homework. In
the summer. While most of her peers were meeting with their TAs at the local
Mexican restaurant to do “informal conversational practice” over margaritas
once a week, Señor Vasquez was about a hundred years old and expected
translated portions of great literary works every class. Meanwhile,
Introduction to World History was going to require more reading than any English
class she’d had so far, and the professor of her Southern Writers class—whom
she worshipped and desperately wanted to impress—had been calling her Melanie
for the last two weeks.

The
girls crowded around a tiny high table in a corner while the guys took over two
of the pool tables and strutted for one another like peacocks with pool cues.
They did shots between turns and sang along to the house band playing all the
college bar standards: “Sweet Home Alabama,” “American Pie,” “Piano Man,” and
so on. Several guys on both teams made frequent trips to the girls’ table,
making awkward and drunken attempts to flirt, mostly with Suzanne, who seemed
pleased with the attention but was apparently keeping her options open.

One
or two of the guys allowed themselves to be redirected to Rebecca when Suzanne
went abruptly to the bar, excused herself to the restroom, or pretended to be
deep in a previous conversation with Marci. Rebecca showed a similar lack of
interest, however, having set her sights on a Valdosta player in a Sigma Nu hat
across the room. Marci, positioned at the least-accessible back of the table,
figured that by the time they would consider talking to her, they weren’t ready
for strike three. This explanation was at least somewhat plausible, and definitely
kinder to her ego than the nagging suspicion that she just wasn’t the kind of
girl men came to talk to in bars.

The
only exception, apparently, was Travis, “Truck.” He had stopped by their end of
the table at dinner and put his hands on Marci’s shoulders while he introduced
himself to Suzanne and Rebecca. Even though his hair was wet from a post-game
shower, Marci noticed the smell of summer grass still mingled with the cologne
scent of his shampoo. At the bar, he had glanced at her periodically, smiling
or winking as he leaned in to make a shot. He was quite good at pool,
apparently, because he and his partner had been holding the same table against
several challengers.

After
several, more subtle attempts to do so, Rebecca finally managed to draw the attention
of the Sigma Nu by accidentally walking behind his outstretched cue with her
drink, which conveniently poured all over her in the ensuing accident. He
apologized profusely for what was clearly her mistake, and pawed at her chest
with bar napkins for longer than was strictly useful. When he finished his
game, he returned to their table and bought the three of them an apology round.
For the rest of the evening, he did not venture far from Rebecca’s side and by
midnight they had found a cozy spot in an empty booth to exchange pleasantries.

Jake
spent a good bit of time at their table too, and when Rebecca relocated with
the Sigma Nu, he took over her seat for a while. Marci tried not to let her
bitterness show, but the wounds of the previous weekend were still fresh and
she found herself ranging from frosty to downright hostile whenever he was
nearby. This left him oscillating between normal, avoidant, and awkwardly
solicitous.

“I’m
getting another beer,” he ventured at one point. “Do you guys want one?”

“Whatever,”
Marci said coldly.

“Well,
I don’t mind. I’m going to the bar. It’s my treat.”

“Fine.”

“Bud
or Miller?”

“Whatever.”
With a nice eye roll for effect.

“Um,
okay. Suzanne? Anything?”

“No,
thanks, Jake. Thanks for offering.” Suzanne’s voice was sympathetic, which
Marci considered disloyal under the circumstances.

He
walked away looking dazed and took his time getting back. Marci noticed that he
stopped to talk with teammates, and once to chat with a couple of girls who
were too dressed up for such a crappy bar, obviously drawn in by the
concentration of guys. She watched as the brunette in a low-cut tank top
twirled her hair and laughed at something he said. She couldn’t help but notice
that Jake’s return smile seemed genuine. “Dear God,” she muttered, staring at
them.

“Sort
of makes you wish you hadn’t been such an ice queen, doesn’t it?” Suzanne piped
up helpfully.

“Thanks
a lot, Suze.”

Suzanne
looked as if she wanted to say something, but Truck appeared at their table
just then and sat down unbidden. “Hey,” he said cheerfully. “Finally lost.
Well, to be honest, I threw that last one. I like pool, but I have other
interests, too.” He leered at Marci as he said this, and Suzanne coughed almost
inaudibly as she excused herself again. With all her feigned trips to the
bathroom that evening, Marci thought most observers would be concerned that
Suzanne had a bladder infection.

“So,
Marci, are you seeing anyone?” Truck asked before Suzanne was even two feet
away. Marci was flattered by the attention and thought he was attractive, but
wished he weren’t making his intentions quite so obvious.

“No,
I’m not. Are you?”  It sounded stupid when she heard it, but Travis
appeared unfazed. He started talking about how he had dated several girls
recently but had not met anyone cool, not like Marci. She wondered what was
cool about her and how Travis had managed to unearth it in the ten minutes of
time they’d actually spent together.

Under
normal circumstances, she would have called this kind of bullshit for what it
was, and suggested that he go find someone less intelligent or more gullible.
She was considering saying something exactly to that effect when she glanced
over and saw Jake staring at them. Knowing it was wrong on every level, she put
her hand on Truck’s arm the way she had seen other girls do, and laughed
uproariously at nothing. He looked confused for only a second before he began
to laugh, too, perhaps concerned that he had said something unintentionally
funny.

Across
the room, Jake freed himself from the brunette and returned to the table.
“Here’s your beer, Marce,” he said, taking Suzanne’s empty chair and sliding it
closer to her protectively. “Hey, Truck.”

“Stillwell,”
Truck said, neither friendly nor unfriendly, keeping his eyes on Marci.
Applause broke out at the pool table closest to them, as a guy she’d never seen
in a tattered flannel shirt sank the second-to-last ball of what had obviously
been a perfect game. Travis stood and stepped closer to register his opinion on
which pocket the flannelled guy should choose for the final shot.

“I
need to talk to you,” Jake murmured, while Travis was momentarily distracted.

“About
what, Jake?” Marci’s voice was as bright and innocent as could be.

“Don’t
do this. Don’t...” He paused. “
whatever
, with Truck.”

“Why
not? Am I in danger?”

“Of
course not,” he said. “But you’ve been drinking and you’re pissed at me, and I
get that. I just don’t want you to do something you’ll regret later.”

“Something
I’ll regret or something
you’ll
regret?” she challenged. Her boldness
pleased her. The concern on his face made her feel powerful.

“Both,”
he said flatly. Her heart jumped. The flannelled guy banked the eight ball off
the side and into a corner pocket. The bar erupted in cheers.

“Well,
Jake,” she said in a teacher’s voice above the din. “Unless there’s someone
else here who can make me a better offer, I guess I’ll just have to make my own
decisions.”

Jake
looked wounded, but before he could respond, Travis returned and put his arm
around her affectionately. “That was awesome. Guy could be on the semi-pro
circuit.”

“I’m
exhausted,” Marci said. “I think I’m going to go outside and wait for a cab.
Anyone want to keep me company?”

Travis
looked pleased at this sudden window of opportunity. “Sure,” he said. Then,
turning to Jake, he added, “If that’s okay with you, dude.”

“Is
that okay with you, Jake?” Marci feigned sugary innocence.

He
gave her an icy stare for a moment, finally shrugging in resignation.

“See
you later, then,” Marci said and turned on her heel. She waved at a perplexed
Suzanne, who was standing at the bar nursing something pink, and followed
Travis the Truck into the night air.

#

When
she woke with her head throbbing the next day, she realized with a groan that
Jake had been right. She
did
regret bringing Travis back to her
apartment, for a number of reasons.

First,
the slamming front door at 3 a.m. as Suzanne came home reminded her that she
had the keys to Suzanne’s car in her purse, which meant Suzanne had not only
stayed sober for no good reason, she’d had to take a separate cab home. Plus,
she’d be charged double by the parking people for leaving the car overnight. In
both the money she’d have to fork over and the time it would take to soothe
Suze’s irritation with her, it was going to be an expensive mistake.

From
the moment she’d begun descending the stairs from the bar toward the downtown
sidewalk, she began to hate herself for what she’d just done to Jake. Of
course, she was hurt and angry, but now she’d added petty and malicious to the
list. While they waited for a cab and Travis pushed his beery tongue into her
mouth, she had looked around to see whether Jake had followed them down the
stairs. He hadn’t; so she wondered if she should just go back up herself. Pride
held her, however. She already felt childish and ridiculous. Going back on her
huffy exit from the bar was too embarrassing to consider.

Travis
was another issue. From everything Marci had heard about him, primarily from
Jake, he was a player, and reveled in one-night stands with pretty but
superficial women. He was handsome and confident, and Marci had seen him
brushing off attractive girls all evening. In all her hesitations about her own
behavior and assumptions that Truck was a temporary solution at best, she had
never questioned whether she would
enjoy
her time with him.