Love and Other Things I'm Bad At (23 page)

1/4

Went to Badicals meeting (mock run-through for tomorrow). It was sort of a shock to see WW III there. He was wearing this blue-and-red Nordic-type sweater, and he looked really, really cute. Forgot how blond he is. But never mind. I said hi and was really friendly, but I couldn’t talk to him. I left before there was a chance of any alone time.

Later on Grant and I dropped by BF so I could pick up my paycheck and new schedule. Jennifer is running the place herself while everyone is on vacation. Said I had to start on Saturday. Or Monday at the latest. Monday, then. I asked how the holiday specials had sold and she said maybe there were some things better left to the Bagle Finagle main office.

Mmm. It is so nice to have Grant here lying next to me. But very crowded. Stupid single bed. Grant keeps insisting on coming to the meeting tomorrow to support me. I keep worrying about what will happen if Wittenauer is there.

1/5

This entry might need a parental advisory. Or there should be official notes about this somewhere taken by a secretary: not me. I should not be responsible for the official version. Too involved. Too many things happening at once. Agh!

All-day trustee meeting started at 10
A.M.
Students wishing to make statements or requests had to be there at 1
P.M.
I could not eat, and I drank too much coffee. Said good-bye to Grant and Mary Jo, who promised to come over and meet at the lecture hall and be there for my presentation. So Annemarie and I found the Badicals and we huddled outside the lecture hall, awaiting our turn. Wittenauer was not there and I was relieved. What if I botched the presentation in front of him? That would be awful, I was thinking. He’d lose all faith in me. Should have been the least of my worries.
Least
.

Dean S. came out at 1:00 to gather waiting groups. We went in. Waited our turn. I nodded at the long table of trustees on the stage and started to make my speech about wanting the college to not use “CFC” in any official capacity. I had 5 minutes and I filled it with important data so they’d be impressed. I also presented mock-ups of our new T-shirt design.

A minute or so later, Thyme/Morgan came in with some CFC 4-ever group,
including
Tricia (Incompletes? Complete lie!). I didn’t even know Thyme was back yet. Turns out she was hiding out like a wealthy mercenary in a hotel suite, gathering her troops. She stood up and started presenting her argument to keep all the CFC stuff. “The CFC name has existed for over a hundred years, and it’ll go on another hundred years, long past the day we’re students here,” she said, completely toeing the trustee line.

Then fur began flying. Whatever that means. She started pulling all this very familiar-sounding academic crap out of nowhere, about how it made sense we were doing this because it was a “rite of passage” to be “part of a counterculture,” and how we were having a “role conflict” and we needed to be “resocialized,” but the
sweatshirts
definitely didn’t need to be redesigned.

“Wait a second,” I interrupted. “Don’t listen to her! She got that from my sociology notes! This isn’t even an original
thought
!” Not only that, she was completely talking down to us.

Stupid photographic memory. I knew I shouldn’t have let her look at anything of mine, ever.

She and I got into this screaming match about stuff, and she said I didn’t take this seriously and had no convictions. She said she’d known I was a fraud ever since September because one time she counted the number of Slim Jims in a mug on Mary Jo’s desk and Mary Jo was away for the weekend and yet the number of Slim Jims went down. Very embarrassing. “I didn’t eat any!” I said. “I opened the package to see what it was
made of
.”

Meanwhile another group had come in. Started telling us to get our petty concerns off the stage and get ready for a revolution. At this point, the trustees were looking worried. Caught Mary Jo and Grant sitting in the middle row of seats, also looking concerned.

“I’m sorry, but there are more important issues than this college’s abbreviation,” a guy at the front of his pack said.

Recognized his voice as the guy who had sprayed me with red stuff. Wanted to run over and punch him in the nose, see how he liked being sprayed with red liquid—only this time, actual blood.

“What is more important than saving what little is left of the ozone layer?” I asked.

“So there’s a hole, okay, the EPA is working on that,” the guy said. “What about the problems of economic globalization?” He went on with very impressive list of world problems, like dairy cows being cloned, and genetically engineered foods, and chemical warfare, and human rights violations, and the fact the CFC shirts might come from a factory that used child labor and sweatshops—his group was checking into that.

I glanced nervously around at my group. Erik and Annemarie were kind of shifting around, looking uncomfortable. Spray Guy was very impressive and smart.

Trustees’ necks turning back and forth as if watching a tennis match, as everyone in the 3 groups argued. One of the trustees started having a flashback to the sixties. “What will happen if this escalates? We can’t have violence on campus. We can’t have tear gas and firebombs and the National Guard!”

“Which is why you should let the name stay the same!” Thyme insisted. “It’s so unimportant in the grand scheme of things.”

“Exactly. Because wouldn’t you rather save the wild Arctic refuges from being drilled by oil companies?” the guy said.

“Definitely. That’s the largest breeding ground for pregnant polar bears!” I added, getting sort of excited. “I mean, um, before they get pregnant. Whatever.” My group was suddenly frowning at me, as I had apparently jumped ship, and was sounding like an idiot as I did it.

“But, ah, to redirect this discussion . . . how does that affect
us
here at Cornwall Falls College?” Dean Sobransky asked.

“Everything affects us,” the sprayer said. “We’re the future, whether you like it or not. And we have a responsibility to the planet.”

“That’s what we’re trying to say!” I insisted. “That’s why we don’t want to
cheer
for CFCs. That’s why we don’t want anyone thinking that CFC is a good thing that should be put on sweatshirts and bumper stickers!”

Suddenly the door opened and a giant stalk of corn came running down the steps. Wittenauer!

“What is Corny doing here?” I heard Dean S. mutter.

I started getting really nervous as Wittenauer walked up past me and onto the middle of the stage, right in front of the trustee table. “Hello, trustees,” he said. Then Wittenauer took off his corncob helmet. “It’s me, Dean Sobransky,” he said. “I’m Corny, and I completely support the idea to get rid of any and all CFC merchandise.”

“Wi–wi—Wittenauer.” Dean S. got purplish. Started stammering about Wittenauer’s “unmitigated gall.” “You’re breaking a one hundred thirty-seven-year-old tradition of Corny being a—a—secret. How could you do this?”

“Because it’s time to stop hiding behind a cornstalk. It’s time to stop keeping secrets,” Wittenauer said. “I think Cornwall Falls has lots of great traditions—but this isn’t one of them.” He started to strip out of his costume.

Dean S. slammed down a pointer he’d been using to illustrate, well, some point or other. “What are you talking about?”

“It’s an elitist tradition,” Corny said as he peeled off a husk.

Suddenly I realized he wasn’t wearing anything underneath.

“It means that only the same kinds of people get picked, year after year. I got picked by someone just like me, whose dad went here, who was like a third-generation Cornwaller Faller. We’re all male. We’re all white. It’s not fair.” Another husk came off. Soon he was standing there bare-chested. Then he reached for the “cornbelt” that circled his waist.

“Please, ah, Walter, be reasonable,” Dean S. sputtered as some of the trustees studied their notes and some watched eagerly. “We can discuss this in private. Is this really necessary?”

“Who cares?” one of the older women said. “Keep talking, Corny, whoever you are.”

“Walter Wittenauer.” He smiled at her as he reached for the waistband of his green stretch pants. “The third.”

Oh my God! I was dying. Was he really going to—?

Then he pulled off the pants.

Giant sigh of relief AND disappointment from the crowd.

He wasn’t totally naked. He was wearing a pair of green-and-yellow CFC boxers. And he had put a red line through each little CFC logo.

“We need to change the abbreviation. We need to change the ways things are done,” Wittenauer said. He turned to the More Radical Than Badicals group. “And yeah, we need to be more serious after this and work on bigger problems.”

“Isn’t he cold? Because it’s like freezing in here?” I heard Tricia ask Thyme.

Dean S. cleared his throat. “If everyone could just give us some time. We need to discuss this. It’s a lot to take in all at once.” He took off his blazer and handed it to Wittenauer. “Come back in half an hour and we’ll have some decisions for you.”

“Better make that tomorrow morning,” one of the trustees said. “We have a lot to discuss.”

We all went out into the hallway. Wittenauer was standing there in a leather-elbow-patches blazer and CFC boxers. I just looked at him and laughed and ran over to hug him. I couldn’t help myself.

Then I remembered Grant was there. Oops. Because he and Mary Jo came up to hug
me.

“So, this is, um, Grant,” I said. My boyfriend from home? Even though I forgot he was here? “And Grant, this is Wittenauer.”

“Walter, actually.” He reached out to shake Grant’s hand.

Is this what life is like for the Tom? Constantly introducing people he’s kissed? I couldn’t stand how nerve-wracking it was. Worlds colliding. Courtney freaking.

“Hi,” Grant said. “Nice, ah . . .”

“Full Monty?” Mary Jo suggested.

We all laughed. I was actually impressed with the way Wittenauer and Grant were getting along. I admired them for it.

“So, do you think we have a chance?” I asked Annemarie as the group gathered around me.

“We didn’t. Not until Mr. Maize here showed up.” Annemarie checked out Wittenauer’s muscular legs. “So. Been skiing much?”

Everyone went out for coffee, but I went back to the dorm with Grant. I should be so upset he’s leaving tomorrow. But I’m not. I mean I am, and then I’m not. And I can’t sleep. Too worried about what will happen tomorrow, next semester, next year, etc.

1/6

Grant is gone. I am crying, but for the wrong reason. I did the unthinkable today. I am regretting it already.

Grant was supposed to be leaving tonight, but he ended up leaving this morning. We got into this conversation over breakfast before our 2nd trustee meeting and the next thing I knew, I was telling him that maybe we should break up, because long distance relationships really didn’t work. I said I couldn’t help feeling jealous of him, when he was with Mary Jo, and I didn’t trust him and Melinda, or him and Beth, or—or anything. So I didn’t want to pretend that everything was okay being apart, because it wasn’t. “When I come home this summer, we can start seeing each other again. But in the meantime, I don’t think we should promise to be exclusive, because—”

“
You
, jealous? What? It’s not me that you need to worry about.
I’m
so jealous of all the guys around you, I can hardly even breathe sometimes,” Grant said. “Who is it? Is it that mascot guy? Is it one of those guys you work with—what’s his name—Mark? No—Ben. Wait. Hold on. It’s not
Ed
, is it?”

“No! I mean, they’re nice guys. Great guys. But no, that’s not it,” I said.

“Then who?”

“It’s nobody, Grant. It’s me,” I said. “I just can’t. I feel like I’m living my life in these two different places, and I’ve got to choose one and just
go
with it for a while.”

Grant looked so upset. Suddenly I felt like throwing up. What was I doing? What was I saying? I was throwing away Grant? The superiorest guy I’ve ever met (except for small slip-up) (still a factor, still bothering me).

“You’re going to think about this some more, right?” Grant asked. “I mean . . . God, Courtney. You’re not
serious
.”

“Grant, you know me. Once I decide something . . . well, it’s pretty much set,” I said.

“Like how you decided we’d make this long-distance thing work, no matter what?” Grant asked, sounding angry and sarcastic all of a sudden.

“The no-matter-what part sort of got to me,” I said. “I didn’t think no-matter-what would include what actually happened. But Grant, look. This summer, maybe we can work it all out, maybe—”

“You know what, Courtney? Forget this summer,” Grant said. “I’ll make my own plans.”

Then he left. Left! Drove away. Left me standing there in a snowbank. Zero compassion.

I still love Grant. I love him to death. But I can’t go through another semester like the last one. Especially not in this weather.

1/7

Spent the day on the phone with Alison, Bryan, Mom, Jane, even Beth. Even Dad. “You did
what
?” was the common response. Mary Jo thinks I’m insane. I begged her to not tell Ed I am single now.

Anyway, trying not to focus on the negative. Trying to enjoy the “New Year’s Resolutions for Cornwall Falls College” that were published by trustees after meetings concluded yesterday.

RESOLUTION 16
: to phase out the use of the initials CFC and to spell out the college name on all official clothing, in all cheerleader chants, in all university publications, and whenever and wherever possible.

If I wasn’t so depressed over kicking Grant to the snowbank-covered curb, I’d be happy.

1/8

Another Monday morning at Bagle Finagle. Another New Product Team. New Product: THE CHEESE SHOPPE. Located within the walls of BF. Cream cheese not enough. We’re going to sell wedges of cheese. Cheese fries. Cheese curds (both deep-fried and fresh). Cream of Cheddar soup. I swear, I don’t get it.

Who wants cheese fries with their bagel? Who would come to
us
for cheese when there are specialty shops on the same block?

But suddenly it was really funny, because we were all back there: Jennifer, me, Ben (best co-worker ever, just named Assistant Manager), and Marcus (missed him on vacation).

“Courtney? Can I rely on you to be the Product Lead?” Jennifer was asking.

“What? No,” I said. “I’m going to be really busy this semester.”

“Well, then . . . Marcus!” Jennifer said. “You can be Head of Cheese. Or . . . Head Cheese. Or Cheesehead! Ha ha ha.”

Mark/Marcus shook his head. “You can make me Assistant Manager if you want. Of
Apron
Redesign.” He pulled one of the new bright yellow ones over his head. It said “Cheese All That” in black letters. “Who comes
up
with this stuff?”

“You know, Jennifer . . . we’re going to quit if you don’t stop introducing new products to run local family-owned stores out of business,” Ben said. “You took on Brat Wurstenburger, and Brat Wurstenburger won. They’re
still
doing great. Take that as a lesson, okay?”

“And what does a cheese shop have to do with bagels?” I asked.

“It’s market research,” Jennifer said brightly. She was over her burnout, back on her warpath. “I thought you’d be glad, Courtney. I thought you’d embrace the lack of meat.”

Marcus had picked up a plate of cheese fries Jennifer handed him and dug in. “Oh my God. These are really good.”

I stared at the cheese fries, resisting them. But feeling very, very weak. I walked over to the Blue Cheese Bonanza and took a whiff, just to kill my appetite.

Later, we all stared glumly into the new refrigerator case.

“If she even suggests putting brats
and
cheese
and
cheese curds in a
bacle
? We’re going to quit. Right?” I said to Ben and Marcus.

“Oh, definitely,” Marcus said.

Ben nodded. “We are so out of here.”

“Me, too.” I started stacking the napkins with the BF logo facing out. Every once in a while, though, I stuck one in backwards or upside down. I’m such an instigator.