Love and Other Things I'm Bad At (20 page)

12/7

Have been studying constantly, so I haven’t been able to write in here much. However, 2 things are notable. The 1st one extremely notable.

1st Thing:
Mary Jo broke up with Joe yesterday. For good this time, she promises. He kept showing up late or not showing up and then she saw him at the library with another girl and then he said he had to look at other options because she didn’t care enough about him to bring him home for Thanksgiving, and she said if he couldn’t understand why she did that then he’d never understand her, so what was the point? That I needed her more at the time. Whoa. As noted earlier: surprising amount of backbone.

2nd Thing:
I got a Christmas card from Ed today. It was signed: “Love, Ed.” “You didn’t tell Ed any weird stories, did you?” I asked Mary Jo. “Like, that I broke up with Grant and I was interested in him?”

“No way,” Mary Jo said. “But don’t worry. He’ll be totally infatuated with you for a few months, and then
poof
! He’ll drop you and find someone else. He does this constantly.”

Hope the infatuation ends soon. He’s a very sweet person and all, but I don’t really see myself ever liking him that way. Would have to get over my fear of flannel, for one thing.

12/8

Annemarie got me a spot on the radio today to discuss our CFC-logo cause.
Talking with Wauzataukie
is the show. Usually they pull some random person off the street and interview them. The DJ, named Paul, asked me to describe my pet issue.

“I don’t have a pet
issue
,” I said. “I do have a dog named Oscar, though, and I love him very much.” Was supposed to just be a little joke, but we got into this lengthy discussion of our dogs and how weird Oscar is and how funny his Chihuahua is. Suddenly I realized my time was almost up and I hadn’t done anything to promote our cause.

Might be fired as organizer of this thing. Managed at the last second to get in our plug for the protest tomorrow at the bookstore, but might have been cut off midsentence.

Oh well. Nobody listens to the campus station anyway. Right?

12/9

Attacked! I’ve been attacked!

Went to the CFC bookstore. There’s this lobby area with lockers to stash backpacks—a couple of tables that are usually filled with people selling Guatemalan sweaters and credit cards.

Erik and I and a few other Badicals set up a table with signs, banners, posters, etc. We were sitting there greeting people and handing out a flyer about how we want new sweatshirts, new notebooks, new bumper stickers, etc. We had brought all these cans with symbols that said “no CFCs” to remind everyone of what a
negative image
we’re promoting here.

We kept trying to grab people as they went in and out of the bookstore. This big group of students came toward us, and I got hopeful because there were a lot of Phish T-shirts and reggae colors and green army pants in the crowd. So I stepped toward them to make my pitch.

All of a sudden, out of nowhere, someone jumped right in front of me and sprayed something all over me. I was seeing red. I thought I was bleeding. “What are you doing?” I demanded, reaching for the sleeve of his jacket. “Stop it!”

“This is really lame and useless!” the sprayer yelled. “Why don’t you work on something meaningful for a change? Fight for change that matters! Do something important!”

“I am!” I yelled, pawing at the wool ski mask the man was wearing—like half the people around here do just to walk to class. Not good evidence.

I wiped off my face and saw this stuff on my hand that looked like blood. It turned out to be watered-down ketchup.

“People are dying every day, and you’re arguing over
sweatshirts?
” he yelled. “Forget bumper stickers. Save someone’s life!” He ran off, leaving us to get into a fight with bookstore staff over who should clean up the mess.

Protest over. Game over. We collected all our stuff and went home and everyone stared at me as I walked across campus as if I had been shot. Mary Jo clung to me when I walked in the door, ready to call 911, screaming, “Who did this? Who did this?” over and over.

Took a very long shower and thought things through. First I was very irate and mad. Sort of freaked out, also. Hate being criticized. Then I realized masked man is right.

It’s not exactly a serious cause, but we had good environmental intentions at the beginning. We need to wrap this up and move on to another, more serious issue.

I wonder what group he was from. Or was he sent by Dean S. to break up our protest? I’ve got to ask Wittenauer about it tomorrow at the party at Dean S.’s house. If he goes. If I go.

12/10

Okay, so how many parties have I gone to that I shouldn’t have?

Well, 1 good outcome. 1 very unsettling outcome.

First: Wittenauer and I tracked down Dean S. by the “nacho hot dish.” Looked like nachos to me. He had lots of food and a giant bowl of cider on a table by the fireplace. Roaring fire, very cozy, festive, if you could ignore Wisconsin sports memorabilia clogging the living room.

Dean S. said he heard about the bookstore melee yesterday and that he wants to resolve this peacefully. “So do I!” I said. “So could we please set a date for us to talk to the administration?”

“You can bring all your concerns to the trustee meeting on January fifth,” Dean S. offered.

“But classes don’t start until the eighth. You’re only scheduling it then because most people don’t get back until the seventh!” I said.

“You can come back early,” Dean S. said. “Of course, if you’re not really committed to this . . .” He looked very hopeful.

I picked up another nacho, scraped some beef off of it, and ate it. “Oh, I’m committed,” I said. Or I should be.

Dean S. turned to serve another guest some punch, and Wittenauer started to get this really antsy look. “I have to tell him. I’m going to tell him,” Wittenauer said.

“Don’t!” I whispered. “It’s better if you work behind the scenes. Behind the helmet, I mean.”

“Why is that better?” he asked.

“Because you can, um, get closer to people,” I said. That came out entirely wrong.

“I can?” Wittenauer asked.

“You could like, infiltrate conversations,” I said. “Stay friends with Dean S. and figure out what the administration is planning.”

“But that would make me a spy,” he said.

“I know. Isn’t it cool?” I said.

Just then Dean S. turned around. “Well, Walter? What are you planning for your vacation?”

“Not much. But there’s something I want to tell you before we all leave for break,” Wittenauer said.

“Don’t!” I said as I grabbed his arm.

Wittenauer smiled. “I was only going to tell him what an excellent fund-raiser you are. She’s made a real contribution to the group, you know, Dean Sobransky?”

“Er . . . yes.” Dean Sobransky obsessively filling cups with the exact same amount of cider. 30 cups teetering on the table. He did not realize the cider was sort of beyond its date and had morphed into an alcoholic beverage. Within the hour carols were being sung and Dean S. was nervously and discreetly arranging rides home for all of us.

Wittenauer walked me back to Rankin. We were standing outside and laughing about the stuff in Dean S.’s house and about exams starting tomorrow and how we were sort of tipsy.

Mary Jo walked by on her way home from the science library and glared at us as she went by. Apparently didn’t approve of partying on nights before exams. Probably right.

“So Courtney? Have a really good vacation,” Wittenauer said. “Don’t forget to work on our arguments for the trustee meeting, and call me if you need any help. It was great hanging out with you tonight. And thanks for keeping me from confessing to being Corny.”

“Well. You’re kind of blowing your cover right now. You’re being
very
corny,” I said.

Wittenauer rolled his eyes. “Ha ha. Good night.” Then he kissed me on the cheek. Felt very sophisticated. And I thought, Cool! That’s what friends do in college.

But then he kissed me again—on the lips. For real. And the kiss just, like, blew me away, because I haven’t kissed anyone that intensely since Grant. And it seemed very romantic because it was sort of snowing, little ice crystals were falling on our cheeks, and we were leaving for vacation, and we were standing there smushed up against each other and it felt warm—

Then I realized I was doing
exactly
what Grant did to me. Getting totally carried away by the proximity of a good-looking, opposite-sex friend and a couple of cups of turned cider!

“So, okay, good night,” I said, bolting for the safety of the dorm.

“Courtney, would you
please
stop that?” Mary Jo just asked, interrupting flow of thought here. She is still studying. “You’re humming. Or glowing. Or
something
.”

“Sorry,” I said. “I was just thinking about something.”

“Like how you and Walter were making out? And how you’re going to tell Grant about it when you get home on Friday? Or maybe you should call him now, and get it over with—”

Whoa!
“We weren’t making out,” I said. “It was a friendly kiss. A kiss between friends. And his name isn’t Walter.”

“Please. I could see you guys from up here,” she said. “And if you’re trying to get revenge on Grant or something by using Walter—”

“His name is Wittenauer!” I interrupted. “Only teachers are allowed to call him Walter.”

“—then in a way you don’t deserve Grant, who drove all the way out here to beg your forgiveness, and who’s going to fail out of college if you don’t totally forgive him soon—”

“So he fails?” I said. “So what?”

But the thought of Grant never becoming a D.V.M., never opening Superior Animal Hospital, is very upsetting. I don’t want that. Don’t want to make out with WW III again. I kissed a school mascot.
Voluntarily.
I really need to get out of here. Christmas can’t come soon enough.

12/11

Exams start today.

I go home on Friday.

Wish me luck.

See you then.

Yes, I should tell Grant what happened.

But am too busy worrying. I mean studying.

12/15

On the plane right now. Direct from Milwaukee to Denver. Feeling very jittery. Spent last 3 nights awake due to 1) cramming for exams, 2) anxiety attacks, 3) camping out at library overnight last night so I wouldn’t see Ed when he came to pick up Mary Jo for Christmas. Man does not take “no” for an answer, kept insisting I spend Christmas on the farm, Christmas riding horse and sleigh, Christmas as Mrs. Ed.

I’m writing to look busy because the 2 people next to me keep talking, trading “Best Christmas Ever” and “Worst Christmas Ever” stories. Since I’m thinking this year will be one or the other, I don’t want to get involved.

Oh no. We’re beginning our descent.

Funny, I thought I began my descent about a month ago. Ha ha ha.

I am so nervous. I can’t even think about the fact I just took 4 finals and don’t know how I did. I can’t finish my soda and the flight attendant is getting really annoyed because he keeps coming by to get everyone’s cups and I’m sorry but it’s like
too much pressure
right now for me to finish my diet 7-Up.

All I can think about is that Grant is picking me up at the airport and I’m going to die when I see him.

LATER . . .

Home. In bed. Exhausted. Oscar’s furry chin is resting on my shin.

Grant wasn’t at the airport.

NOT AN OMEN NOT AN OMEN NOT AN OMEN

Bryan was.

He said that Grant called in a panic because he couldn’t get out of work due to the holiday crush/rush and could Bryan please pick me up, he was really sorry blah blah blah.

I was starting to get furious by the baggage carousel when Bryan handed me a present Grant had dropped by the house already as a “Welcome Home” gift (a/k/a Forgive Me). I opened this little box and inside was a pair of silver earrings with little amber stones that match my hair. Beautiful. But does he think earrings will fix everything? I wondered as I lugged my giant Army duffel of Christmas presents off the conveyor belt. If I’d never bought all this stuff for Grant when I was still in love with him, I wouldn’t have bounced checks and maxed out new credit card.

Am I still in love with him? You can’t have these thoughts at airports under fluorescent lights while avoiding Smarte Cartes and listening to overhead pages.

Anyway, Bryan asked if I was hungry, which I was, now that I wasn’t worried about seeing Grant tonight, so we went to Perkins on the way home. An amazing thing happened there. Over a pitcher of coffee and way too many pancakes, we had our first real, actual conversation ever. Mind blowing. He told me about Mom and his theory of why she won’t date the guy in the book club or the guy from the awards banquet and will only write flirty emails to men in cyberspace. If they are actually men, and not a) 15-year-old boys or b) women.

He told me about this girl he’s seeing now, Samantha, and his theory of why they’re good together. Turns out he has many theories, even about me, Grant, and especially Beth. He isn’t bitter at all. Not sure where he got that from.

But here is the mind-blowing fact of the evening:
he
broke up with Beth. Not the other way around. He said he was pretty sure she didn’t see it coming, thought she could just treat him like he was always going to be there for her, no matter what. She was totally shocked and upset. So maybe that’s why she made such a huge mistake with Grant.

I felt myself starting to forgive Beth, right then and there, in the middle of Perkins at 11
P.M.
Or was it just the maple syrup going to my head?

“Are you guys ever going to get back together?” I asked. Because that would make everything a whole lot easier for me.

“We might,” Bryan said. “But I doubt it. Not right now, anyway. I could see maybe in another year, you know . . .”

Danger. Little brother starting to sound like ex Dave, with time theories. Next thing you know he will want to be “free and clear.”

Got home and really really wanted to call Grant. Everything here is about him, about us. Except Mom knocking on my door, constantly asking if I need anything else. Driving me crazy.