Lessons in Love (22 page)

“I’m not that bad! Plus, you know I’m a sucker for sugar-cream frosting. So, make or buy a cake.” I smile. “And thanks for thinking of it.”

“My pleasure.”

Over the loudspeaker, outcomes of various events are announced as though anyone really cares and then upcoming races.

“I’m up.” Chris makes a strong man stance, his arms flexed.

“Good luck relaying,” I say.

“Good lucky relaying yourself. The message, I mean.”

I open my mouth to say how punny Chris is but we’re interrupted by a swish of hair and the strong smell of Chanel NO. 5 perfume, which can only mean one thing.

“Lindsay,” Chris fake smiles.

“What message?” Lindsay doesn’t miss a beat and with her hands on her hips turns to me. “Anything I should know?”

“Nope.” I keep as closed as possible, knowing that if she sees a crack she swings any door wide open.

“Ready for the Crimson?” she asks. “Isn’t tomorrow your big day at Harvard?”

I take a breath as I think of just how big a day it is: the interview, the breaking up, the college tour, the wondering about my future, not to mention finding Jacob after my conversation with Charlie and — presumably — telling him how it went.

“I have an interview, if that’s what you mean.” I make space between my face and the scent of the Chanel, waving my hand in front of my nose. “It’s a fairly common occurrence this time of year.”

“Yes,” Lindsay says giving me a full-on look. “Fall’s all about interviewing for new positions.” She pauses, letting the weirdness of her comment linger. “Good luck with all your endeavors.” She sounds like a promotional ad for insurance or something equally banal, but I know she’s up to something.

“Don’t overinterpret her,” Chris warns.

“I’ll do my best,” I say, imitating Lindsay’s tone. “What position could possibly be new for her?” He and I laugh. “Ugh, can you believe Jacob had the poor taste to kiss her?” I try not to freeze in my mind the image of their mouths meeting.

Chris shakes his head. “At least it was just a kiss — and be glad you were abroad when it happened. But yes, poor judgment.”

Chris and I part ways and I look across the field to where Jacob and Dalton and the rest of their crew are benched now, talking and laughing. The last Field Day will be over soon. My first college interview will be, too. And maybe other endings. Firsts and lasts, firsts and lasts — those are the words that I hear when I head down for my next event.

Thoroughly exhausted from just watching Field Day, I tuck myself into a corner booth in the student center to indulge in two of my favorite pastimes: people-watching and writing about it. In order to observe and writer down any dialogue (Chaucer’s always saying to go out and study how people really speak to write believable stuff), I turn off the Ipod. Goodbye to my songs of the moment: The Kinks — Waterloo Sunset, Elvis Costello — Every day I write the Book, and Anne Heaton — Give in to You…and hello to snipits of dialogue to recycle in my stories for ACW.

“She’s not even that nice…”

“But after you try it, don’t make it so you can’t twist the thing off…”

“Not even. Mrs. Jackson’s busting me about turning the paper in late which-”

I write all of this down in my journal. Not because it’s fascinating but because it’s not. Sometimes, words and conversations are just regular, and if I’m going to be a decent writer I have to know how to write that way, too.

“…if you say so. Then fine. But don’t waste it with…”

“Do you think he knows? He might. But maybe not. But maybe.”

I look up briefly after this last one. Just as I suspected. Chili Pomroy confiding in another sophomore. I wave. Chili waves back, continuing on. I bend down, scribbling so it’s not obvious I’m eavesdropping in the name of creative writing. “But if he does know, do you think he cares?” Her conversational partner sighs, both of them dreaming about Dalton Himmelman, oblivious to the fact that they’d have better luck with the sophomore boys currently ogling them from the fooseball table.

As I shift in my booth, the most recent Gala postcard slips out from the journal’s pages. I reread it, tracing her loopy script with my pointer finger.

Love —

Isn’t this picture a hoot? And to think I used to have shoes like these! Be glad you don’t have to walk to class in such silly things. Right now, I’m actually barefoot and mailing this from Mexico (brief sojourn to nudge a reclusive artist to record a new song). Hope it gets to you on time!

X, G.

The picture in question is hilarious — a black and white snapshot of a woman whose feet are clad in wedge shoes tall enough to be stepstools, a beret tilting precariously to one side, and a crocheted sweatervest that demands a headline such as “fashion crisis”. Except that when this picture was taken she was probably the height of cool. I smile knowing that Gala thought I’d find it amusing and that she’s right. The smile lasts until I hear more dialogue worth writing down.

“It’s like she doesn’t even know how dumb she is.”

“She can’t possibly think anyone — let alone the one she wants — is ever going to care.”

I write that last one down word for word, chewing on my pen cap until I hear.

“And gross. Is she in third grade? Who chews on pens anymore?”

Chewson pens. Ahem. That’s me. I look up. Chris was wrong. My paranoia about Lindsay Parish is well-founded. She stands there, brows arched, arms crossed, smug.

“Can I help you?” I ask, trying fiercely to avoid blushing. I actually wrote down insults being said about myself! Note to self: cross off realistic sounding dialogue from to-do list.

“I seriously doubt it.” Her gaze rests on my journal pages until I quickly cover them, slamming the book shut with a loud slap. “I was thinking I could help you, actually.”

I swallow, a sudden burst of salvia heavy in my mouth. Breathe. Breathe. Why does she inspire such a race of annoyance and worry in me? “And just how, praytell, would you be able to do that?” And when did I start using words like “praytell”?

Lindsay inserts herself into my booth, causing not one but a few surprised expressions from several on-lookers. We are not the usual buddies in a booth. “Well, you know you’ve got this quandary,” she starts.

The interview? I’m not sure where she’s going with this so I lean back, trying for my best could-care-less pose. “How so?” I put my book into my bag, gearing up to go lest she think I’m game for hanging out with her here.

“For starters, you’ve got your interview tomorrow.”

Bingo. “Yes. All set, thanks so much for your great advice, Linds.”

She looks at my as though I’m four years old. It works and I feel dumb. Then annoyed at myself. “Not Harvard. That you can mess up on your own.” She leans forward, her hair falling on the table, but narrowly missing the glob of ketchup leftover form someone’s curly fries. Mine would have gone in. “I’m talking of more romantic pursuits.”

Romance. What does she know of my romantic life? Nothing. Except she clearly wants to know Charlie or make me think she does. We lock eyes. Suddenly it occurs to me that she’s gazed at someone like I have. Surely she must have felt real emotion at some point? I feel my chest get heavy, a little sad, wondering if she’s ever been in love or anything close. “I’d like to keep my romantic life out of this.” I make a sweeping gesture between her body and mine. I stand up. “Gotta go.”

“Love, wait.” Linday’s voice is stern, but not mean.

I wait. For a moment she appears soft, kind even, her head tilted. “What?”

“Did you ever really, really just…” her voice is so normal I feel bizarre. Is this what it would be like if she weren’t evil?

“Did I what?” I return the favor with a normal voice, but don’t allow myself to race ahead to where we’re friends and have regular conversations and go to dinner in Boston, or flit off to NYC to her palace house for a weekend. No I try and stay here. To the one minute she’s being nice.

“You always seem to have it together, you know?” She smiles. Normal. Not with fangs.

Oh my God. This is so Disney I can’t take it. Except it’s so much better than mean. “Really? I always think that you —”

“I totally kidding, you fool.” Lindsay looks at me as though she’s stubbing me out with her heel. Which she kind of is. “In no way shape or form are you together.” She does air quote for that last word.

And right as I’m about to respond and give her a list of all the ways I am so together, she goes on. “And just so you know, don’t waste your time with…”

“Charlie’s not interested,” I spit out. I want to dangle his old tee-shirt in front of her, to show her how much he’s mine, and then I remember I don’t want him to be.

“I’m not talking about Charles Addison,” she says. She stands up, too, so we’re level — or would be if I were taller.

“Oh, yeah?”

“I’m talking about Jacob. Jacob Coleman.” With that, she gives her regular smile, and I feel the bite.

“What about Jacob?” My bag slides off my shoulder and I heft it back up, balancing on the table with my hands.

Lindsay shrugs as if this is a casual name. “You know when you were off in London?”

“Yes, I do. It was a whole semester after all. Not one I’m likely to forget.” I glare at her to imply just how tremendous my time abroad was, and beat her to the punch. “And I know about you and Jacob.”

“Really.” Lindsay says it as a whole sentence.

The image of her mouth on Jacob’s pops up again and I try to smush it away. “So what?”

“Nothing,” Lindsay says, sliding out from the booth. She takes a step and then adds, over her shoulder, “I just thought you’d care that we slept together.” She watches my face for a reaction. Somehow, I manage to keep it together for three whole seconds before my heart starts bouncing and jolting. “Especially, you know, since you guys wrote about your virginity — and how precious it is.” Now it’s Lindsay’s turn to wait.

I compose sentences in my head. Real ones. Ones that sound like real dialogue from real people. Real people who are shocked and not entirely believing. “You’re lying.”

“That mail table in your house — wasn’t very protected. Shame no one ever gave you and your dad a proprer mailbox.”

“You took my mail?” I think back. “That’s illegal.” Then it hits me.

“You were leaving for London…”

“You took it?” As I was getting on a plane to London, Jacob said he’d mailed me something important. A letter. One I know now I never got. “You’re faking it.”

Lindsay’s face says otherwise. “Sadly for you, I’m not. Ask him. Ask the man himself.”

“Show it to me. Produce the letter.” I want to think she’s making it up. That she’s only ever kissed him. That all these months I’ve consoled myself with thinking they didn’t really hook up, they didn’t really have anything, that she doesn’t really get to me. But maybe they did, and she does. “Why? Why would you sleep with him?”

“The word revenge ring a bell?”

My mind sorts through files of why and what for and then registers, “Because of Robinson Hall?” Lindsay’s face changes the minute she hears his name. “God, Lindsay, that was so long ago and it meant nothing.”

“Sure.” Lindsay’s body look stiff and angry, her hands clenched. But before she can be at all vulnerable, she cocks her jaw. “And that’s how I feel about Jacob.”

“But I never even slept with Robinson.” I say, defending myself.

Lindsay clears her throat on her way out. “More’s the pity. At least Jacob and I had fun. Ask him.”

I don’t want to ask Jacob. I can’t. “Show me the letter.”

“Maybe one day,” she teases.

Her footsteps scrape the floor as she exits, leaving me with surprise, a bit of horror, some lingering doubt, and a hand smack dab in a blob of ketchup.

Saturday begins early, with the usual rounds of getting showered, dressed, and ready for whatever the next hours hold with the added bonus of anxiety thrown in. I walk to the T, take it all the way into Harvard Square and crunch through the leaves toward Byerly Hall where the campus tour starts. On my desk I found a note from Mary that read:
Good luck today — and smile — we’ve got tonight!
It’s nice to have a roommate for this reason — the notes, the well wishes, the shrugging off of yesterday’s Lindsay run-in. I’ve liked being with Mary. And tonight, I can only assume it’s time for Sweet Potato.

The black metal gates frame the entryway into Harvard Yard. In my boots, black pants, and bright but not too bright sweater (I read that you should wear something colorful so that you make a mark on your interviewer, but not too bright lest you create a visual disturbance), I take in minute to inhale and exhale before going inside. Around me, undergrads clomp through the fall air on their way to study or shop or have coffee. How can life continue on when I’m facing such huge possibilities like where to plant myself for the next four years? Times like this, I hear Aunt Mable’s voice,
because it can
.
Because you just keep going
. Which I do. But —

How can everyone look so relaxed when I’ve bundled up so many nerves that it’s all I can do to walk? In each face I see I check for Charlie, even though I know he’s already hunkered down in the yard somewhere, reading for charity and no doubt fending off the miraculous Miranda. Curiosity gets the better of me and I take a quick peek through the gate to see if he happens to be right there, but he’s not.

“Ms. Walters,” I say when Harriet’s next to me.

“Just keep moving. Pause too long and you’ll loose the nerve to go in.” She was on the T with me, but we didn’t technically come together. Checking her out now, I see she’s cast off her hippy-gauzy skirts and Indian print tops for the day and looks like she did last year, all poised and together.

“Did you leave the peaceful sixties back at Hadley?” I ask, giving her the sign with my fingers as she tugs me through the gate. “You look nice.”

“Thanks. I figured that my temporary foray into stoner-wear might not be an accurate representation of the woman I am.” She slides some Chapstick on and offers me some which I accept.

“And just who is that?”