Lessons in Love (14 page)

“I’m not being secretive.” I brush my bare neck, glad now for not having extra weight on it, but still missing that summer part of me. “I’m just not ready to delve into it, okay? And no, it couldn’t be hotter because if it were I’d actually dissolve. My dad’s been fielding calls all day from irate parents.”

Charlie uses his chin to point to the dorms. “Still no a/c? I remember Parker once tried to convince his dorm to sleep on the roof. Smart.”

“Probably not a solution.” I shake my head. “Obviously the buildings at main campus do. And the newer dorms up there do, but not our sweet historic houses here.” I pat my thigh as I speak, as though comforting the out-of-date dorms. “And all I was really trying to say is — with the heat, and seeing you…” My voice trails off.

Charlie holds my shoulder and locks his eyes to mine. “I know. It’s like we should be back there, on the Vineyard, but…”

We’re not. We both know this so we don’t say it, as though uttering those two words (well, one word and one contraction — does that count as one or two?) will only prove what we feel.

“Looks like the masses are returning,” Charlie looks over at Bishop, the middle house, where guys are filtering back from campus. Near Deals, a couple of day student cars are parked with their headlights on, their doors open. Everywhere, people are complaining about the overwhelming heat.

“Ah, curfew,” I say. I check my watch. “Lucky me! Back to the dorms.”

“See?” Charlie shrugs. “Now if I say oh, you’ll have fun, I sound totally condescending. But if I agree with you about how lame dormlife is, I sound like a dick. Or worse, I’ll give you a complex and you’ll think that I think it’s lame that you live here and…”

“This is way too complicated a scenario for my brain to process with these temps,” I say and point to the oversized thermometer that’s rooted in the ground near the flagpole. Rumors abound about this flagpole, about how it’s a legendary meeting point for post-curfew activities and graveyard excursions. But you never know with prep school lore, what’s real and what’s the product of many a night spent fantasizing about life beyond the dorm walls. “Suffice to say I will miss you. And thanks for coming.”

“I know you’re working the rest of this weekend, but what the next couple?”

I scratch my head, feeling sweat on my scalp. I want to shower before bed, even though it won’t have a lasting effect. “Yeah, sometime soon, right? I have my first…” I stop myself from telling him that I will be visiting his esteemed place of learning, that Harvard is first up in the interview process.

“Your first what?”

With both hands, I secure the longer pieces of hair at the front behind my ears. “It’s nothing — it’s just, like, the first few weekends here are so busy and I should…”

“Right. No problem.” Charlie scratches his stomach, lifting his shirt just enough so I can see his tan line and the soft, lighter skin that hides underneath his shorts. Will we? Will he be that one?

“Well, if you decide to change your mind…and get out of here for the day, you could meet me in the Square two weeks from tomorrow.” He holds his palms up like he’s expecting payment, so I slap him ten.

It’s not that I’m embarrassed about still being ensconced in the college process, but more a fear that if I involve Charlie in it too much, I won’t be able to keep my vision straight. That is, I’ll like Harvard too much because Harvard=Charlie. Or, if we’re fighting, I won’t give it a fair shot.

“I wish I could.” I touch my stomach, feeling the slick of my shirt on it where my sweat acts like glue. “But with papers and those pesky things known as college applications…sorry to even bore you with all that. Can we just play it by ear?” What I don’t add is my hope: that I get accepted into Chaucer’s class and have another writing assignment, more than one. That if I get accepted I’ll write something I can use for the Beverly William Award. Even though Chaucer’s class would ultimately add to the boggage of work, I’d welcome it. If I get in it will mean I am one of those five people who trek to Chaucer’s place, who even though they seem to have little else in common, always note one another’s presence in the dining hall or assemblies. A sort of elite writer’s group. “I don’t mean to plague you with my senior suckage.”

“You’re not.” Charlie squeezes my hand, his palms still the slightest bit rough from the earlier part of summer when he still fished and sailed. Soon he’ll have those hands of winter, pale and soft from only working at a desk. He kicks at the ground. “But what you’re confirming is that you’ll be absent from the first annual Read-a-Thon.”

“Two weeks from tomorrow, right?” I give him a partial smile but don’t tell him I’ll be on his campus, nervous as anything in my interview clothing. Let’s just hope the heat’s broken by then. “Sadly, I will have to miss that scintillating event. I do so hope you make lots of money for the charity, though.”

“Just picture me — sitting in the yard in the heat along with squirrels and anyone else that signed up for it.” The Read-a-Thon is an admirable, if slightly passive, event Charlie got involved with to raise money for inner city schools that need books. Like the Cancer Walk I did, he’s gotten donations and for every page he read aloud (to squirrels, presumably) he raises funds.

“It’s kind of a funny image — you, with some leatherbound tome in your lap, fending off the heat wave…” I fight laughter.

“Hey — it’s not that pathetic. First of all, I’ll be reading Lady Chatterly’s Lover…”

“Ohh, steamy!” I say, half in mock shock.

“Yeah, I had to pick something with sex in the title to inspire people to come.” He grins. “Um, word choice?”

“Nice.” I put my hand on his chest to feel the thump of his heart and the heat rising from his skin. My sweet, community-minded Harvard boyfriend and his innuendos. His commitment to reading and to me. Sigh.

“And at least I won’t be alone, mumbling to myself.” He coughs and wipes the sweat away again. “I mean, at least I’ll have Miranda for company.”

I take my hand back from his chest upon hearing her name. Right then, my staid vision of my boyfriend doing boring reading for a good cause, looking perspiration-damp and slightly kooky reading aloud in the yard while students tour the campus, gets washed away. In its place — a lurid, steamy, sweat-hazy reading in which the characters leap from the page and inspire Charlie and Miranda to do some, um, pruning and weeding of their own.

“Miranda’s doing it?” I ask and wish for the backspace button on
doing it.

“It was her idea.” Charlie takes his keys out of his pocket, signaling it’s time to go. “She’s so charitable. I admire that about her.”

Do you admire her honking breasts? I want to ask, even though I have no idea what the woman’s chest looks like, nor should I care. But I do. Just like I wish it were still summer, I wish I’d never heard about Charlie’s old friend, never let his past interrupt our present.

“Well, good luck with it.” I manage to keep calm while sweat drips in thins rivulets down my spine.

“Thanks.” He kisses my forehead, no doubt tasting the salt, and remaining oblivious to my paranoia. “If you feel like dropping by, do. Otherwise…”

I nod. “Soon?” Charlie nods. Then I remember something. “Hey, just out of curiosity…did you have dinner with the chancellor the other night?”

“Sure, yeah.” He sounds nonchalant, his lips pulled into a straight line. “Why?”

I cross my arms over my chest and lower my voice. “Was there someone there…Do you know Lindsay Parrish?” Just saying her name to him makes me queasy.

“Chapel Parrish’s little sister?” Charlie’s hair is damp, darker at the edges from sweat. I fight the images of him sweating further with Miranda, or worse, checking out Lindsay in her dressed-to-thrill ensemble from this week. “Vaguely.”

“Oh.” It’s the best I can do without sounding catty. “She’s in my dorm.”

Charlie sighs and pulls at his collar like he’s got a tie on, perhaps remembering all the times recently that he has. “From what I can tell, she seems gracious.”

Is she a house? A still image form one of those architectural mags that describe entryways as “gracious”. “So you spoke with her then?” I think back to Lindsay’s sneer after she paraded by my room with Chili.

“I hardly noticed her, to tell you the truth. But then — your friend — Chili? — she was there, and that sort of got us to talking.”

Now I get it. Clever Lindsay with her gracious manner brought Chili along not only to steal her away from me, but to get a better intro to Charlie, since she knew Chili’d met him on the Vineyard. “Chili’s great!” I say, just to sound enthusiastic and avoid clawing at Lindsay. If I’m going to be jealous of Miranda, and allow myself that indulgence, I can’t overdo it with Lindsay or to Charlie — and even to myself — I’ll be way too possessive.

“Chili’s a nice girl. And Lindsay — well, she spoke very highly of you.” Charlie’s teeth are bright in the darkness. “And I couldn’t agree more.”

I smile back, but inside, I feel a certain clenching, knowing Lindsay is up to something, further ingratiating herself into my life when she knows she’s not wanted. Could she just be looking at the Ivies and making small talk with him? Yep. But is it more likely that she’s elbowing her way past me and setting me up to fall? I have to think it’s a strong yes. I loop my arms around him and turn my face up so he’ll kiss me. “So, when is our next…”

“Meeting? Face-to-face? Get together?” Charlie snorts. “Aren’t you the one who said play it by ear? Imagine if we had real travel involved. A guy in my house is seeing this woman who lives in Tokyo. Now that’s long-distance.”

“I know. I know we’re only a few miles apart.” But I like knowing. Having that date fixed in my mind gives shape to the next weeks. A bright side after slogging through so much work.

“What about a week from Wednesday?”

I make a face. “Am I supposed to know about that date without consulting my book?” I grin but then pout. “I’m only slightly joking. There’s so much to do —”

“You’re the one pressing for a time and place.”

I poke him in the stomach and he instinctually bends at the waist. “I only said when. Not where.”

“Well, I’ll tell you both.” He puts both hands on my shoulders, pressing down on them as though he’s trying to plant me into the ground. “Relationships work on realities, not theories, right? So how about the reality that you meet me the Wednesday after the Read-a-Thon in the Square and I give you a little tour.”

I wriggle free from his grip. “Of campus?” I bite my lip, thinking that now I’m entering the lying zone, whereas before I was only not telling him about my upcoming Harvard visit and interview.

“That,” Charlie grins. “And more.”

More. Oh. My tongue traces the outline of my mouth. “It’s a date. I get out at one-thirty on Wednesdays, so I’ll just…sign out and…”

A kiss ends our night, and Charlie walks to his car, leaving me with a host of thoughts running sprints in my head.

In the grassy oval, clumps of boarders head toward Deals, Bishop, and my own little abode, Fruckner. You can tell from the swaying of bodies who’s been drinking, mini toothpastes in their pockets to hide the smell, who’s been studying, the weight of their bags hunching them over, and who’s been hooking up, their bodies cozy together. In the halo of light by the flagpole I see my roommate Mary with Carlton Ackers, a few other campus couples, and then, far back in the haze of bugs and heat, Jacob’s easy stride next to Chloe Swain.

The heat of shame and embarrassment doesn’t really hit me until Charlie’s car is out of the driveway. While he’s there, on the grassy oval, kissing me goodbye and promising to call/write/think of me (the long-distance triad), I’m fine. Protected by some relationship bubble. But as soon as he leaves, beeping once, in the latest eco car (having eschewed the gas-guzzling red pick-up for something city-and enviro-friendly), I’m a mess.

The intense humidity creeps onto my skin, mixing with bubbles of fear. Jacob knows I’m a virgin. Or could. And does it matter? Did he really hear? I imagine him and Chloe conferencing about my lack of sexual experience and then decide I’m giving myself way too much credit — like I’m what they’re going to talk about while on a hook-up mission to the science building? So I have the virgin eavesdropping thing bothering me, and also the reality of it — Charlie and I never completed that conversation. So now, kicking through the dewy grass oval on my way to Fruckner, I’m left to wonder by myself until —

“Hey, Bukowski!”

I turn around, sure that my shame is visible from the outside. “Oh, hi, Mary.” She’s in a sporty tank top and mesh shorts that only accentuate her height. Next to Carlton they seem fit for some teen athlete magazine, all heat-sweaty and smiling, chastely holding hands with a basketball caught between them. “Hello, Carlton.”

He’s not someone I’ve ever really spoken to, but now that I’m rooming with Mary, we’re suddenly buddies. Dorm life is like that, I guess, instant overlaps lead to hallway communications that never would have occurred, broadening or shrinking your social life all of a sudden. Carlton gives me a jocular wave, squeezes Mary’s hand, and then says, “Sweet potato.”

“Corn on the cob,” I say, just because it seems equally irrelevant.

Mary chuckles and Carlton gives a knowing grin and walks off toward Bishop. “Oh, those Bishop boys,” she says in a voice-over advertising way.

“They’re something else all right!” I add, finishing the fake promo.

She casts a final look over her shoulder and elbows me toward Fruckner. “So, you ready to go home?”

Home. Four letters. A mile away. Literally. “I am. But not to there.” I point to our darkened window. I picture my room at home, and this time I don’t miss the physical comforts — my own bed and knowing I can eat and sleep when I please. This time, I’m sure it’s comfort of knowing my dad is nearby that I long for. Not being with him necessarily. Just having him downstairs or on the porch.

And he’s still nearby, only it doesn’t feel that way. He’s made it clear by sticking me in the dorms that there’s a division now, one that started when Aunt Mable got sick, and kept going while I was in London, and then grew. I know this happens when you get older, but I can’t help but feel like my dad’s insisting on it for other reasons. That he harbors a desperate need for me to be able to cope on my own like he had to after my mom left. Now that she — and Sadie — are back in the picture, I wonder if he’ll change his mind. “I could really use a night’s sleep in my own bed.”