Lessons in Love (9 page)

“Then I could just magically get into you ACW class.” I use the abbreviated name feeling that maybe that will make me more likely to get into the class. Then I realize this is how star-struck people feel when they see a famous person, like calling them by their nickname will really make them close.

Mr. Chaucer stands up and starts writing on the board. I watch the chalk spell out naturalism, setting, foreshadowing, and wonder what they’re reading. “I wish I could tell you there is a magic way.” He keeps his back to me, writing more. The heat of the day shows up on his back, showing sweatmarks on the cotton of his blue shirt. My own forehead is rimmed with beads of perspiration — at least my hair’s not long anymore. Then he turns around, waving in the students who linger outside the doorway. “Writing, unlike movies — can’t do that magic. Of course literature is magical, but the fade out, quick cut, music over, isn’t going to work — at least not the standard forms.”

I plead my case, knowing the red second hand on the large black and white clock are about to signal I have to leave. “I really, really want to take the class. I know I didn’t take the other ones —”

“Why don’t you?” Mr. Chaucer takes his seat around the table and looks up at me. “You could enroll in the intro to creative…”

“With all due respect, Mr. Chaucer, I don’t think I’m at that level…”

He makes a face like he’s tried a dessert that’s only decent, not great. “Okay…so why, exactly?”

I spit it out while the freshman watch, fascinated. “I’m way beyond the intro class, okay? I’ve been writing since I was five, only I never really thought about it as writing because singing — that other pastime — always overshadowed it. Then, last year, in London — I realized maybe it was it.”

“It?”

“My…focus.”

“So take level two.”

“But…” I try not to whine. “I studied with Poppy Massa-Tonclair…I learned from her. She’s amazing.”

“I’m sure she is — she writes exquisite novels.” Mr. Chaucer points to his bookshelf behind the desk and I recognize the spine of 72 Brook Avenue, her first book that won so many literary awards I can’t keep track.

“And she thinks I should go for the Beverly William Award…”

Mr. Chaucer bites his lip, nodding. I can tell he thinks this is a stretch. “It’s highly competitive.”

“I know — wait. Forget that — what I’m trying to ask is, what do I have to do to get into the ACW section?”

“Remind me why you can’t take the standard level?” He turns to the students. “Copy what’s on the board — I’ll be with you in a second.”

“Your sections only meet on Tuesdays and Thursdays, which conflicts with required History of Hadley and my science lab.” I watch him open his mouth but cut him off — I have nothing to loose now. “And yes, I could fit Mrs. Randolph’s section in, but she’s not…”

“She’s a great teacher.”

Just for a second, I wonder if Mr. Chaucer and the formerly Ms. Gregory now Mrs. Randolph, had a fling. You never know with these teachers — if they’re neutered or getting it on back at their faculty housing. Even my dad dated within the faculty pool.

“She is — but she isn’t you…”

“I’ll accept that flattery and advance you ten places,” Mr. Chaucer says, miming moving a piece around an invisible board game. “But it won’t get you into ACW. It would be a disservice to you. And to the students — they’ve been toiling at this for years, and this class is…”

“I know what it is,” I say. I’ve passed by it once before — with my dad. On Wednesday nights, for three hours, three seniors and sometimes a very talented junior, sit with Mr. Chaucer — at his house — reading their work aloud, offering constructive criticism that goes well beyond the usual “it was good” or “I didn’t like the ending”.

“Mr. Chaucer?” one of the freshman guys points to the board. “”Does that say definition or defepition?”

“What’s defepition?” Mr. Chaucer asks, humored.

“I don’t know.”

“Then go with definition.” He turns back to me. “Okay. I liked your movie speech. I get it. Poppy Massa-Tonclair and so on. But I’m not going to be swayed by your actions, no matter how proactive they are.” He motions for me to start to make my way out so his class can finally get started. The last bell rings. “You hand in to me — on Sunday night — a completed short story.” He says that like I understand fully what that means.

“Sunday night…”

“At Chapel dinner. You said you don’t write poetry — so I’m assigning a short story. And I will read it. And consider it. And after that, and on the merit of that alone — not your project with Ms. Massa-Tonclair, not your ardency — I will say yes or no.” He looks at me. I open my mouth to say something but there isn’t anything to say. “That’s really the best I can offer.”

I feel the room swell and recede, the eyes of all students on me, my legs holding firm to their spot on the floor as though if I stepped one way or the other I would fall, failing already. I can’t beg homework, or my two papers, or my boyfriend’s impending visit, or the fact that short stories aren’t my forte, or cry and say I’m a senior and this is my last shot at this class. All I can do is nod. “Sunday. Okay.”

“Good. I look forward to reading it,” he says.

“Me, too,” I say, wondering what on earth I have to say.

After a dorm dinner from which Lindsay Parrish was notably absent, I retreat from the Fruckner common areas to slave away at my desk. I have yet to get used to my room. It’s still, as Mary and I are calling it, a work in progress. There are various formations double rooms have — beds far apart (I hate you), beds pushed all the way together (we’re best friends or room is too small for anything else), bed in an L shape.

We’ve opted for beds semi-far apart, not because we dislike each other but because we have the space. Plus, the theory is that when Carlton Ackers, Mary’s joined at the hip boyfriend appears, they’ll have more privacy. Her bed is to the right when you walk in, with her desk at the foot of the bed and her dresser to the right. She’s covered the twin bed with spread that has, for me at least, nautical connotations — light blue edged in green — something you might find at a beach house. So far, her walls are empty, but on her desk is a series of sports trophies — miniature bronze hands holding basketballs — with MVP engraved or the word Champion. Next to the trophies is a photo of Mary with Carlton, in front of the Hadley circle, where cars drive up and let students out. The photo isn’t recent — they’re maybe freshman — and they are thrilled to be together, caught on film with his arms around her from the back. Her wide smile is turned toward him but her eyes are to the camera.

I do not have such a picture on my desk. Mable is there — the two of us dressed in tacky retro garb and caught mid-cackle — and my dad is, too. It’s a black and white picture of him when he was at college, and I’ve always liked its simplicity and that it was taken long before I was born. I like the reminder of that — the world that existed before I got into it.

Mary’s side of the room already hails her sporty, open personality. Her life seems easy to me in the way that any life that isn’t your own can seem free. She has decent grades, doesn’t worry too much about getting a B on a paper, is well-liked by all, plays sports and will no doubt get into a good school and — from what I know — her family life isn’t a shambles. All in all, easy. And I’m sure that’s how mine could seem, too.

My side of the room is more cluttered — not messy, but fractured. Mary present one complete vision: I’m sporty, nautical, and have a boyfriend.

My duvet is white, and I’m trying for this airy country house vibe that really only works if you a) have a country house and b) furnish it with Danish pieces that never function in real life.

Behind my bed I put up a little shelf. On that is another picture of Mable, one of Arabella, and one of Chris in which he looks moody and dapper — his thin white duke phase he calls it. Seeing Arabella’s photo tugs at my chest — her father’s been ill. I try to imagine what she’s doing right now, if she’s with her brother — my ex — Asher. Or if they’re with Angus at the hospital, or at home with Monti, AKA Mum. I haven’t wanted to plague her with calls, and with no cell phone, no calling card, and the time change, it’s tricky to do even non-plaguing, i.e. regular attempts. We’ve emailed, but nothing big. Just the usual we’ll see, talk soon, loads of love.

Loads of love and LOADS of work.

I put my book bag at on the floor so it doesn’t take over my desk and think about what to tackle first; papers, science lab, reading, short story.

I hate that my first full weekend back at school is going to be so pressured. Should I call Charlie and cancel? Maybe I should. Or maybe I would have if I hadn’t heard about the charming old friend of his, Miranda. Even her name is old and wealthy — Shakespearean. I imagine she’s dark-haired with bright red lips, straight out of a sonnet. And in college. With him.

“I’m not canceling,” I say to Chris when he comes to my room after getting parietals from Mrs. Ray.

“She’s a tough one,” he says of the dorm mother. “Not like Chet — he’s cool.”

“Well,” I say, still at my desk, “We can’t all be so lucky to get the fresh-out-of Berkley guy who wants to be everyone’s buddy.”

“Okay, Jealousy, what’s the problem?” He sits on my bed then looks out the window. “Shit — you have the palace? That deck — it’s like Hadley legend. I heard…”

“I know, I know. People have bedded down out there, star-gazed and smoked themselves sick. But from the assignment load I have so far, I doubt I’ll even get out there…”

Chris puts on a mock sad face. “Oh, woe is me…”

“Woe is I. I am woeful. I feel like I have to choose between academic excellence or, um, not that but something like trying my hardest — and getting into Chaucer’s class and seeing Charlie.”

“Obviously, you don’t have to choose.” Chris leans back on his elbows. “You just have to juggle, which you’re good at.”

“But what if I’m not?”

He twists his mouth. “Sometimes I play these little games…”

“Like where you make out with someone else’s boyfriend?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.

“No, bitch, not that.” He explains. “Like, if I had to do this or this — which would I do. If I had to pick…”

“Give me concrete examples, please.”

“Fine.” Chris pushes his hair off his forehead. “If I had to choose either leaving the GSA — orum, GAS, as I’ve been calling it now and then, which I only just founded, but in return could have Haverford…”

“But those things aren’t at all related.”

“I know that,” Chris says, exasperated. “But sometimes if you compare the incomparable, you can see what’s inside.”

“So…” I reach for a hair elastic from the pile I have in a mug on my desk. The mug is from Menemsha Potters, where my college counselor, Mrs. Dandy-Patinko’s brother works, and the elastics are from when I still had enough hair to warrant them. I pull my hair back into a half ponytail.

“Now you look like you’re twelve.”

“Thanks, Chris — feeling really ready for Charlie now. Great.”

“That’s what I mean,” he says. “Like, if you could only have one of the following — a) great grades all year, b) serious relationship with Charlie, or c) kick creative writing ass in Chaucer’s class, which would it be?”

“Could I just….” I always do that; try to quantify, qualify or add extra info to totally unrealistic and hypothetical situations.

“No — no further questions. No justifications. You can’t say, do Charlie and I stay together or do good grades equal getting into the college of your choice. Just pick.”

Here’s what I see:

Charlie kissing me, the two of us happy the way Mary and Carlton are in her picture. Me as part of a couple. A serious couple.

Then I wipe that away and see:

My report card, the grades in the upper ranges, glowing comments, that pride of work well done.

Then, right as I’m mushing Charlie into my grades, and my father’s voice swelling with my accomplishment, I see something else.

Or rather, I hear something else. A quiet voice, a soft tap on the shoulder. A voice I don’t know yet, and then a bunch of empty pages. I see me: the Love that has been and will be, at a desk or in a library or outside — with a journal. That happy me, documenting everything and churning out words that mean something.

Chris looks at me. “I knew it.”

I blush, wondering if he really does know or just assumes I’d pick a lovelife. “What?”

Chris stands up. “You better get to it.”

“I know,” I say. “I don’t even have a title yet.”

Chris nods. All the years and places of our friendship sway between us — I’m so lucky to have him. Of course he could help me figure out what’s most important. “You will…and when you do, if you want? I’m all ears.”

Maybe I’ve been typing for two hours, or maybe one plus, or maybe more. I don’t keep track nor look up from my laptop until I have that creepy feeling of being watched. Mary’s not back from practice and whatever she did afterwards, and I’ve enjoyed the space and quiet. My story isn’t great. It might not even be good — yet. But it is pouring out of me; the fiction Mr. Chaucer demanded. The writing bliss has filtered from page to my mouth, so when I look up and find Lindsay Parrish staring at me from the doorway, the first thing I do is wipe the smile from my face. Showing emotion of any kind around her makes me too vulnerable.

“Upping the dosage on your meds?” she asks, her fingers tracing a smile on her made up mouth. She’s dressed up, in a close fitting skirt and tailored top, classic pumps in cream and navy.

“I thought you were the one in need of that,” I say. Then, so as not to bend to her level, I add. “I’m working here, so…”

“I’ve been working, too. Had to wine and dine the Harvard dean…” she fakes a sweat, running the back of her hand against her forehead. “Those college applications are so for the masses.”

“Sounds nice,” I say, keeping my voice flat. She wants me to chew on her power, to froth the way most people do, and I won’t.

“Did I miss much?” she asks, faux-worried. “I heard it was meatloaf night. Shame. I had roasted wild cod instead, and fresh greens, served with a….”