Love and Other Things I'm Bad At (26 page)

9/2

After using superhuman powers to turn off VH1, I rode my bike over to the University of Denver campus to look around. Even if Beth is in Italy now, it’d be fun to go to the same school when she gets back. Beautiful campus, students roaming around looking happy and not stressed. DU sounds a bit like “DUH,” but is nowhere near as bad as CFC, chlorofluorocarbon, my previous school. Where, I’d like to announce, again, I made dean’s list spring semester. Even if that same dean did call me to his office to tell me I was being cut from any and all CFC lists.

Am I obsessing about dean’s list? Sorry. I just find it so ironic that it makes me a bit ill.

When Mom got home from work, I told her my brilliant idea.

She just chopped a leafy green and said it would be too expensive because DU is a private school, and that I need to go to a state school, for in-state tuition. “You know, Metro State.” Chop. “Colorado State.” Chop. “University of Colorado.” Chop chop.

My stomach turned into a giant knot. Those are no doubt awesome schools. The problem is that I know people at two out of three of them. And by “people” I mean my two ex-boyfriends that I don’t want to see because I kind of hate one of them, and one of them kind of hates me.

Probably I should be mature enough to not let that bother me. But I’m not.

Then Mom asked if I wanted to go running with her before dinner. Um, no. But I did go for a long bike ride. Since that’s my primary mode of transportation right now, I’d better get in good biking shape. Can just see me riding round-trip to Boulder every day. I’d barely get there in time for my classes and would be a sweaty, disgusting mess. Mom would think that was so great. Classmates would think I smelled. And would be correct.

9/3

Have been talking to Wittenauer on the phone for two hours straight. Ear hurts. He wants me to move back to town even if I am not going to be in college anymore. Said he knew he was being selfish but didn’t care. Said I could work for a year and then reapply for aid in the spring and in the meantime we’d be together.

“Where would I work?” I asked.

“I don’t know. Bagle Finagle? Or you could wait tables somewhere.”

“Right. Right! Definitely!” I said, though the thought of returning to BF made my shoulders slump.

Being a senior, Wittenauer has a different outlook on life. He’s been thinking about “the real world” a little more than I have, which is to say, a little, anyway. He said I could wait and apply to wherever he decides to apply for law school and we’d be at the same college again, like at UW.

The way he described it, and us, sounded nice, better than nice even, but as I’m lying here thinking about it, that would mean postponing college. A whole year.
And then maybe not even getting another financial aid package for the next year. “I don’t want to do that. I want to finish college in four years because . . .”

“I’ll be done with law school then,” Wittenauer said. “I know.”

Actually, it has nothing to do with him or his plans. I just want to be done in four years. I have my own goals, and the sooner I graduate with my degree, the sooner I can save the environment, animals, planet, etc.

Plus, I have this cousin, Karl, who has been in college for, like, eight years, and everyone complains about him all the time, and his parents have totally cut him off.

9/4

I’m on the bus to Boulder—Bryan claimed he needed his car today. I’m all in favor of public transportation, but this bus seems to run on an endless cloud of diesel fumes. Thought that Colorado had a zero-tolerance emissions policy. Or maybe that’s a zero-tolerance admissions policy, so why am I heading to the University of Colorado?

Because Mom and I got into a huge fight. Huge. One of our worst ever.

She said I must find a new college to attend and move out. Me? Loser of financial aid? Now must be homeless?

“You know, when I was your age, I wouldn’t have wanted my parents looking over my shoulder. You want to be free to live your own life, don’t you?” she asked.

“Well, yeah.”

“And besides, I need my privacy,” she said.

“Hold on a second. Bryan still lives here,” I pointed out.

“That’s different.”

“How is that different? Because he’s a boy? Because he doesn’t cook with tofu and isn’t vegetarian? Because he’s a runner, so that’s OK because now everyone has to take some kind of running test to live here?”

“No. Because he’s still in high school, he’s under eighteen, and he needs me. And two, because he leaves the house occasionally to go to school,” Mom said. “And you don’t.”

“Oh. Low blow, Mom. None of this is my fault.”

“No, but if you ever want to graduate from college, you’d better start moving. Sprinting. Now.”

Everything she says now has to have some sort of running connection. Annoying.

OK fine, I know that, and I’m the one who wants to stay in school and not miss a semester, but I still don’t want to go to Boulder.

Too many unpleasant memories of visiting ex there and thinking we’d get back together when we so obviously weren’t. Am getting off at next stop.

Phew. This bus is better. Much better. Less smelly.

Wait a second. Where is this bus going? Thought it was back to Denver.

Just asked overly cologned guy sitting next to me. “Fort Collins,” he said.

WHAT? Totally misread schedule. No, no, no. Grant is there and I’m not ready to see him yet!

OK, so it’s a big town. A city. And chances of seeing him are really slim. But I have just that kind of luck lately.

Or. Perhaps universe is sending me a signal. That I should ditch CU–Boulder for CSU–Fort Collins. But am I in any position to ditch anyone? Actually, this is more of a begging and pleading because my life is passing me by kind of situation.

Miles are going by. I should call Grant, I thought. I should ask him for help, tell him what’s going on. But I don’t want to see him, or at least, I’m dreading the first time I do. What would I say, anyway? “Remember when I asked you to go on spring break and we totally made plans, but then I freaked out at the last second and told you I wasn’t coming and I was seeing someone else?”

Crap. Just spilled Diet Squirt all over my transcript.

9/5

Report from the Fort yesterday:

Took out my soggy Diet Squirt–soaked transcript and headed for the admissions building, which only took me, like, half an hour to find. Big campus. Very pretty oval.

I’d been here before, of course. To see Grant last year when home on break. But hadn’t spent a lot of time here. Still, it gave me chills.

This nice admissions counselor was coming back from lunch and asked if he could help me. I told him my plight, how I needed to talk about transferring ASAP. Shoved my transcript in his direction. He looked at it like it was a dead fish.

If anything, coming from Cornwall Falls, it was a dead piece of bratwurst.

“What is
this
? You know, you can do all this online. Or, um, by mail,” he said.

“Yes, but you see, my mom wanted me out of the house. Ever since I got home, I’ve been messing up her intense workout schedule.” I rolled my eyes.

“And she is . . . ?” he asked.

“What?”

“Who is she?”

“Nobody. My mom.”

“Oh!” He laughed. “I thought she was a big-deal athlete.”

“She thinks so, too, I guess,” I said.

We both laughed and after that he was really nice. He said I might have some issues proving I live here for in-state tuition, since my transcript from Wisconsin shows otherwise, but he’d actually heard of Cornwall Falls, and he helped me and they’re going to review my materials and let me know if they have room for one more sophomore.

Do they have room? Excuse me. They have 25,000 students. What’s one more?

He also said I’d be starting two to three weeks late, and asked if I was prepared for that, playing catch-up, and he said there wouldn’t be a discount just because I missed a few weeks. I could just see Mom arguing that point. Ms. Frugal Goes to College. He also said I should get a job.

“For, like, backup? Just in case?” I asked.

“No. To help prove your residency. Plus, have you
seen
how much textbooks cost these days?” He chuckled.

Ha-ha. Very funny.

I walked around campus for a little while afterward. I was kind of hoping I’d run into Grant and dreading it at the same time. Call him, call him, I told myself. But he was probably in class. I didn’t want to disturb him. He takes his studies very seriously, you know. Or, at least, he did. Back when we were not estranged. Estrangers. Whatever.

I went inside the student center to check out the bookstore and get something to drink; it was jammed. People at tables lined the hallway, trying to sign you up for clubs, sell you cheap jewelry, become your cable company and best friend. Tons of students moving slowly.

All of a sudden, around the corner, at this table selling newspaper subscriptions (like everyone our age doesn’t read the paper online), I saw him.

Grant.

It’s him it’s him it’s him.

That was the beating of my heart. Off the charts. Would he acknowledge me? Talk to me? Spit in my face?

First I wanted to duck, then I wanted to flatten myself against the wall, then, before I knew it, my body took over. I pushed my way through the crowd. “Grant!” I shouted. “Grant!”

He didn’t look—he didn’t hear me over the din of other people yelling, selling, cajoling, high-fiving, etc. He turned to walk away, toward the exit, and I shoved a couple of girls with sorority letters on the back of their shorts out of the way (OK, so pledging there is now definitely out) and grabbed his elbow.

A very strong elbow.

An elbow not belonging to Grant Superior.

“Can I
help
you?” the guy asked, jerking his arm away and staring at me.

“Oh. No. Sorry. Thought you were, um, someone else. Sorry.”

A Grant look-alike was the last thing I needed.

So are heart palpitations. I am so clearly between health insurance policies.

LATER (DUDE)

Wittenauer is so sweet.

Sweetest.

Ultrasweet.

But not NutraSweet. NutraSweet is artificial and therefore not genuine and original like Wittenauer.

Got home from watching Bryan’s cross-country meet (he came in second) and there was a care package waiting. FedExed. Filled with items from Wauzataukie: brick cheese, cheese curds, chocolate cow, sausages (?), Bagle Finagle bagels, and a black Brat Wurstenburger tee that is fitted and actually looks kind of good except the name is too long to really fit onto the shirt and you have to read around my entire chest, which is probably going to make some people stare at my chest, which is not cool, and some Corny items. I don’t mean just corny as in tacky and schmaltzy. I mean things made by CFC to promote Corny: a Corny cornstalk bottle opener, a Corny corncob pen where the stalk peels away when you turn it upside down (sexy), and a scarf that looks like a corncob.

Looks terrible on me—I can’t wear yellow—
but it only makes me miss him more.

Tears dropped onto cheese curds. Had to throw them out; got kind of gross.

Bryan ate all the summer sausage.

“How could Wittenauer not remember I’m a vegetarian?”

“I was wondering about that, too,” said Bryan.

“It’s because I’m supposed to share this stuff,” I said. “I guess.”

“So give me the chocolate cow,” he said.

“No way!”

We started fighting over it, tackling each other, and the melted cow slipped out of my hands like a wet football.

Living at home is turning me back into a toddler. Must move out soon.

9/7

This is what I don’t like about being home. Instead of being at Cornwall Falls Fall Blast party, outside on big grassy hill, I had to attend awkward Labor Day picnic at Mom’s man-friend Sterling’s house. With Sterling’s extended family.

Talk about labor. Making conversation was impossible. Gave up and started texting friends. Then Mom yelled at me for being antisocial.

So Bryan and I played badminton with some elderly aunts and bratty nephews. I found myself struggling for the racket with a nine-year-old, fighting to the death, yelling, “Give it! GIVE IT!”

Well, better than knocking the eighty-year-olds to the ground, I guess.

I’ve got to find another place soon—and something positive to actually DO with my energy.

9/8

Classes have started everywhere. In a related development, Courtney V. D. Smith is falling further and further behind. And eating lots of Wisconsin brick cheese.

Well, the few scraps that Bryan didn’t eat before heading off to school this morning. How can it be that I envy my little brother for going to Bugling Elk? I couldn’t wait to get out of there. Now I’d like to just have someplace, anyplace, to go.

Enough slinking around. If I end up going to Colorado State, then I have to talk to Grant sooner or later. Besides . . . I could really use a friend right now. Mr. Novotny across the street doesn’t count.

For some reason while Grant and I were dating, I got to know Grant’s grandmother (Grandmother Superior, who I occasionally call Grantmother) better than his parents, even though they all live in the same house. I can’t really explain why. Maybe because my grandparents, who I really do love, really drive me crazy most of the time? And she’s just so refreshing. And because Grant was always such a good grandson, doing errands for her, etc.

Or, maybe it was because his parents never liked me much. Actually, I could never tell how they felt. But I’m guessing after the way I kind of vanished from his life they probably aren’t Courtney Smith fans right now.

I figured they’d be at work during the day, while Grantmother might be home, and gave it a shot. Thankfully, she answered.

“Mrs. Superior? I’m so sorry to bother you, but . . .”

“Courtney. I’d know that voice anywhere.”

“You would?”

“Well, that and we have caller ID and I don’t know anyone else with the last name ‘Smith.’ So how can I help you?”

“This is kind of bizarre, but—”

“You’re looking for Grant?”

“Well, yeah. How did you know?”

“Why else would you call me? And, why are you calling from Denver? Shouldn’t you be at school now?”

Man. Even Grant’s grandmother is critical. I am soooo tired of explaining this to everyone.

Still, she gave me his new cell number. “Would you like me to call him for you?” she offered.

Even she knows the situation is dire. “N-no,” I said. “That’s OK.”

But it was so tempting. Maybe I could ask Grantmother to do my dirty work. Call G for me, let him know I was seeing W, find out if he was with someone new. Etc. But that was probably asking a tad too much.

“But really,” she said, “you just give him a call. He’ll be so happy to hear from you.”

“He will?” I asked.

“The boy’s not heartless.”

“So, um, how is he?” I asked, suddenly dying to know. You know when you don’t think much about a person or see a person for a long time, you kind of forget about how they are, what they’re like? And then when you do get to see them again, it’s amazing because you were so close once? Just talking to Grantmother was flooding my brain with good memories of me and Grant.

“He’s happy, and busy, and happy because he’s busy. Trying to make a big dent in sophomore year.” She said he works at a grocery store called Shop & Shop near campus, and told me where it was. I could track him down there, she said, and told me his schedule. “You know Grant. I mean, you could
try
finding him at home, I’d be OK giving you his address, but he’s always either in class or at work.”

That figures, I thought. Grant Superior. Reliable, hardworking, handsome, best boyfriend ever—

To someone else, probably. Not me. Now I am with W. And besides, I’ve changed, so I bet Grant has changed, too.

For instance, now I’m a college dropout. Kickout. Dropkickout.