Lessons in Love (15 page)

Mary twists her mouth, fighting a big grin. “I hear you. I could also use a giant fan or a block of ice.” She stops, listens for noises, checks over her shoulder and then bends down so she’s closer to my height. “We have to lie low, okay? Tonight you’ll tell me about the sordid adventures of College Boy and Writer Girl…”

I laugh. “Okay, but only if you’ll indulge me with the epic poem known as the four-year relationship you have with Mister Sweet Potato…”

Mary puts her finger to her lips, shushing me. “This weekend, as I said, we chill. Like before a big game — rest our muscles so to speak. Then soon, after a couple week’s worth of hard work…” She tucks her chin to her chest and eyes me furtively. “Then next Saturday, you’ll come to understand the full meaning of Sweet Potato.”

By Sunday, chapel dinner looms not only because it signals the end of the weekend, but because my story is officially due to be placed in Mr. Chaucer’s hands. The heat hasn’t broken, and all of us — the boarders from the west side of campus — making the haul up to main campus, soggy in our formal gear. The guys have their required blazers draped over an arm or held by a finger over their shoulders, the arms of their shirts rolled up. Like most of the girls, I’m in a sundress just so I can keep cool. I borrowed the dress from Harriet Walters down the hall after she came and asked for “that flowery shirt you wore that time” and I actually knew what she meant. Before the walk up here, Fruckner was ablaze with more heat from hair dryers, girls running around half-dressed I search of a suitably alluring outfit, and lots of clothes-swapping.

“It felt like — I don’t know — some scene from a boarding school movie,” I say while Mary swats at a bug and Chili fans herself with an actual paper fan.

“How do you think movie people come up with ideas?” Harriet asks. “From life. Art, life, the clichéd conundrum. Fuck it’s hot.”

The steady stream of Fruckner, Bishop, and Deals people moves slowly past the graveyard, past the main buildings, and finally down the hill toward the big dining room for our family-style dinners.

“Maybe it’ll be something good,” Mary sniffs the air once and holds the door open for us.

I look at her with my eyebrows raised. “Maybe it’ll be roasted
sweet potatoes
.” I keep hoping she’ll clue me into what the words mean — the untold code of starch.

She shoots me a look and then glosses over it. “I prefer
homefries
.”

“Me, too,” Carlton says, clearly getting her hidden meaning. He swats Mary’s butt as he walks by. Following closely with him are guys I saw on the Vineyard — Nick Samuels, Jon Rutter, and then Jacob and Dalton.

My blush mixes with the heat of outside as I wait my turn to go in. Jacob. My virginity. Chris appears next to me. Having told him everything from my weekend, he knows just what to say.

“Look, either he knows or he doesn’t. He heard or he didn’t. And does it really change things? No.” Chris looks at me, his face pleasantly flushed, as if the stifling temperatures haven’t phased him. The reality is I know he and Haverford Pomroy did their own version of Friday Night Flicks but at an actual movie theatre, unbeknownst to Haverford’s boyfriend Ben, who was studying all night. My best friend’s a cheater, the other man. But at least he seems happy.

“You have the crush-high written all over your face,” I say and touch his cheek.

“Does it show?” Chris backs into the doorway, and I follow him, past Mary and her assigned table where there are no clues as to what Sweet Potato might mean, and past Harriet Walters and Chili who are sharing Chili’s fan.

“I’m at table sixteen,” I say and scan the room for it. On each of the long polished tables are metal placecard holders, each one sprouting a number. Every week the tables are shuffled so that — in theory — all the students get to know one another, mixing with other class years and new faculty members.

“I’m at nineteen. Prime real estate.” He smirks, also looking for his table. Thoughtfully, none of the tables are in order, so there’s always a group of people standing where we are, at the edges of the room, furrowing their brows, their gazes wandering to table after table until they find their rightful place.

“You did not just make a math joke,” I say and shake my head. With one hand I keep a firm grip on my story. New title: What We Don’t Know. I look for my table and for Mr. Chaucer, figuring I’ll dash over to him, hand him my story as he ordered, and sneak in a few sentences of how hard I worked and what it’s about.

“I did. I guess spending extra time in the science lab is paying off,” Chris says, giving a verbal nod to his advanced physics section — another overlap with Haverford. “Oops, sorry to bring up that place.”

I roll my eyes, thinking back to the cool soapstone slab, the way it felt on my bare skin. The sound of Jacob’s
hey
when he saw me there.

“Oh,” Chris says. “You’re over there — by the big window. And Chaucer’s over there…” Chris flicks the pages of my story and I flinch like he’s touched a sprained wrist. “Jeez, nerves much? It’ll be okay. Just give it him.” Then he goes back to looking for his seat. “And I’m — oh, poor me. I’m at the no reservation table.” He points to the worst seating, the table closest to the kitchen, forever getting the churning heat from the ovens, the shouts of the disgruntled workers, and bumps from the students on serving duty. Freshman — the class IVs — all have to carry the water trays, the food, the plates out to each table where the faculty member plates the food. “At least I’m not serving. Save me a seat in chapel?”

I nod as Chris heads for his crappy table and I walk slowly to mine. The tables by the windows are illuminated by the early evening sun that still lingers in the sky. I focus on the small round placard that has 16 printed on it trying to get past the fact that Mr. Chaucer is the faculty “anchor” at my table, and among my tablemates are Jacob and Dalton. Of course. I sigh, knowing Chili will quiz me endlessly about what Dalton wore and what he said and if her name ever came up. She watched him at the batting cage behind the gym on Saturday, pretending to study while checking out his swing — among other things — and her crush is stronger than ever.

“Happy to have you at sixteen,” Mr. Chaucer says and gestures for me to sit down at the far end of the table.

I move to try and sit closer to him so I can explain my story and the work that went into the writing. “Hi, Mr. Chaucer. I have the—”

Mr. Chaucer welcomes two other people and promptly points for them to sit in the chairs next him, cutting me off. I wonder if it’s intentional, but try not to take it as an affront.

“Good weekend?” Chaucer asks the table. It’s standard fare for pre-chapel dinners. I used to come to this meal with my dad, the only difference now is that I don’t get to keep within me the surety that, after the mediocre food and service, I get to leave. Part of this new experience for me is a night like tonight, where I’m not equal but separate, I’m just in it like everyone else.

Only, I have the crushing need for Mr. Chaucer to take my story and read it right then and there, and listen to my side comments. I lean forward, trying to get his attention. “Mr. Chaucer, I have the…”

“So who saw
Room with a View
?’ Chaucer asks, accepting the water tray from a freshman and then sending her back to fetch the food.

“Aren’t you missing an article there?” Dalton helps himself to water then reaches across to my glass and fills it. He’s in good spirits, not grumbling about the weather like everyone else.

“Aren’t you the gentleman?” Jacob considers Dalton’s move while Dalton waits for Mr. Chaucer’s response.

“Ah, yes, I dropped an ‘a’ back there. Sorry.” Mr. Chaucer goes so far as to lean down and mime picking something up from the floor when sunlight spills over the oriental rugs and hardwood floors. “Did anyone see
A
Room with a View?”

“Nope.” Dalton drains his glass of water and refills it right away.

Jacob looks at me, head on, for the first time since I was semi-shirtless, my virginity echoing all around. “I wasn’t at Flicks.”

Maybe Jacob was there, but doesn’t want to admit it. Maybe he’s protecting me from the embarrassment of that night by pretending he wasn’t there. That he didn’t see the movie or me. Or maybe he just doesn’t care. I hold my story under the table, hoping it isn’t getting wrinkled, and take a sip from the water Dalton poured for me. He’s hard to figure out, that one. I’m not sure if he’s well-mannered and that’s why he poured the h2o or if every act of his is a subtle form of sarcasm. Jacob’s stare persists. The freshman appears with another tray of food.

“I saw the movie.” I say to Mr. Chaucer and then glance back at Jacob, who flicks his eyebrows up. “Some of it. I saw some of it.”

Chaucer begins dishing out manicotti and steamed broccoli. When he’s filled a plate he hands it to the person next to him and she passes it, and so on down the line until the plate’s circled almost all the way around and we each have a hot meal. “Some? Didn’t it hold your attention?”

“It wasn’t that,” I say, faltering. “I’d seen it before. I love that movie actually.”

Dalton smirks, sliding a bite of pasta into his mouth. Mr. Chaucer checks that we’re all served, takes some for himself, and looks at Dalton. “Mr. Himmelman, do I detect an all-too-knowing sigh?”

Dalton looks up from his plate. Jacob’s eating, despite the fact that the last thing any of us feel like is tucking into a streaming dinner when it’s almost one hundred degrees outside. At least the dining hall is air-conditioned. Chapel isn’t and Chris and I will need to find a spot at the back to avoid breathing in the pungent odors. My appetite is usually strong, but today I haven’t felt much like eating. Either I miss Charlie, feel worried about work, or else the heat’s just put me off food for now.

“It’s just…” Dalton wipes his mouth with the cloth napkins used on Sundays. “It kind of figures that you’d like it, that’s all.” He gives a small smile, then shrugs.

Jacob looks at me. I wish I knew what he heard, if he heard. What he thought about finding me in that room with Charlie. The irony that he was heading in there with Chloe to do basically the same thing.

“What does that mean?” I point to Dalton with my fork for a second, then think it’s rude, and put it back on my plate. In my journal from when I was in London, I have a list that includes bad table manners (I was going through a very faux upper class Brit invasion) and I can picture my handwriting,
do not use utensils for gesturing
. All of those lists and journal entries and lyrics and beginnings of writing are all stacked in my bedroom at home, squirreled away out of sight. And now I have a real story, one with a middle and an end, ready for reading. With my fork back on my plate, I look at Mr. Chaucer and try again with my story. “Mr. Chaucer — I have the — I wrote my…”

“No, really, Dalton, I’m curious — what does all this mean? Are there types of people who flock to Flicks? Or is it that you think Love, in particular, likes that movie?”

Again, my efforts to hand-off my writing have gone interrupted, which is annoying. But I, too, admit to wondering what Dalton means. “Yeah, Dalton, is she — what — an EM Forster groupie?” Jacob laughs.

“It’s like this.” Dalton pushes his plate away, drinks more water, refills, and then starts. “Some people like stories — books, plays, movies — about ideas and other people like them about reality. They want to see themselves portrayed or else they want to live out a fantasy that takes them away from their lives.”

“But
A Room with a View
is both.” I glug my water then wipe my mouth. “There are ideas, like thinking versus feeling, religion versus nature, and so on but…”

“But the whole movie’s a statement.” Dalton leans his upper body in over the table, making it seem like he’s really invested in the conversation. “Sure, it’s nice to look at, and the accents are swell, but it’s no
Simple Men
or
House of Cards
.”

Jacob intervenes. “I don’t think you can compare EM Forster with Hal Hartley or Mamet.”

I can totally see why he and Dalton are friends — Jacob’s got music as his territory, Dalton’s got books and writing, and they meet in the middle over film. In an instant I can seeing adding myself to their friendship, being the girl who refreshes their banter, changes their straight line to a triangle. Then I mentally bonk myself for having such thoughts — not that they’re impure (well, maybe just the tiniest bit — I mean, they’re both incredible looking in very different ways) — but because they’re a closed society. Dalton and Jacob have roomed together since freshman year and though they’re widely liked and accepted into various social circles, they kind of have their own language. Probably like me and Chris.

“You have it all figured out, don’t you, Dalton?” I say it matter-of-factly, my fork in proper usage as I attempt to pick up a piece of manicotti. The floppy pasta won’t stay speared, though, and falls back into a mound of tomato sauce, sending a spray of small red dots onto my borrowed dress. Can you say dry cleaning costs? Dalton doesn’t respond to my comment, but looks at me long enough that I know he’s heard it.

“First of all,” Mr. Chaucer says, swallowing a spear of broccoli, “You can compare anything. You, Jacob, I seem to recall, wrote an essay contrasting the works of Shakespeare, Bob Dylan, and LL Cool J.”

“Maternal Figures and Images of Courtly Love by Three Cool Dudes — God, I was such a sophomore loser,” Jacob laughs. Dalton joins in, raking his hands though his hair and causing more than one girl at a nearby table to gawk. More evidence of their cool society that I’m not a part of. The kind of guys who can refers to themselves as losers because they’re not. I start to laugh anyway, but then I think about Jacob in our class III year. If he was such a loser then, in his opinion, doesn’t that make what we had then — first a friendship then more — loserly, too?

“So how exactly, does this relate to Love?” Mr. Chaucer watches our faces.

Jacob’s gaze returns to me, and I feel that same burning — does he know? Does he care? And then something new. Why do I care so much? It’s so easy for me to write off my fumblings usually, and I not someone who minds minor public humiliation. Then I realize, this isn’t that — it’s private. The most private. I look at him and dare to raise one eyebrow. Do you know? I ask with my eyes. Does it matter — to me, to you, to anyone?