Love and Other Things I'm Bad At (41 page)

12/3

Despite Grant’s confidence in me, I showed up for class with nothing. I walked into the room at the last second, nodded at my classmates, and took a seat.

Dr. Bigelow strode in two minutes later and dropped his heavy briefcase on the desk. I was hoping he’d launch into one of his usual lectures, but no. He turned directly to me. “Well, Ms. Smith? What do you have?”

A nervous feeling
. “We, uh, discussed things,” I said. “And we’re getting there?”

Dr. Bigelow sighed. “Courtney, I expected more from you.”

My heart sank. “We, uh, well . . . we’re thinking of something maybe on the plaza outside the student center.”

“Something?” He made air quotes. “Such as?”

All of a sudden, a face popped up in the door window.

It was Grant. He was hopping up and down. And waving. And jumping. And smiling.

I cracked up laughing, and for some weird reason, that’s when I realized it. I’m definitely in love with him again. (Still?) Absolutely, totally in love with him. I can’t ignore or avoid it any longer.

He’s so thoughtful. He doesn’t forget anything. I told him about this once, how I thought I saw him, it was months ago, and he, like,
remembered
.

“Ms. Smith, is there a problem?” asked Dr. Bigelow.

“No. No, not really.” I coughed. “I just, um, thought of what we could do for our big class project,” I lied. Because I didn’t totally have it, yet.

“Enlighten us.
Please
. Time’s running out.”

I reached for my notes and nearly knocked over my cup of herbal tea that I’d bought in order to try to calm myself. Suddenly, I had a vision. An idea. I looked around the room at the cups and bottles on everyone else’s desks. (This is a two-hour class, and you get thirsty and/or sleepy.)

If we were all in this class because we were really concerned about the environment, and even
we
were still using some Styrofoam, plastic, and insulated cups . . .

Well. That’s how I found myself making something up, on the spot, for the entire class’s grade.

12/4

Poor Bryan. Because Dara doesn’t get it.

He emailed her a poem, trying to tell her how he felt, and she wrote back and said it was hopelessly simple and displayed a complete lack of visual imagery and tonal structure. She showed both emails to me.

Ouch. But I’m not sure what she means, exactly, by showing it all to me. He was going to come up this weekend but now is not. Which may be for the best, because Shawna is trying to ask out Matt next door—

Oh. She’s back. He said no, sorry, he didn’t, like, like her that way, and said he thought she was dating Bryan, anyway, because of all the time they spend together and how much fun they seem to have.

Disaster.

Shawna and I both tried calling Bryan, for different reasons, but he isn’t taking either of our calls. “Did you have to be so mean to him?” I asked Dara.

“I wasn’t mean. Just truthful,” she said.

“He’s young, so he doesn’t know how to write poetry, he was only trying to impress you,” said Shawna once we’d explained what was going on.

“Well, it didn’t work. And why would he be interested in
me
? I’m so not the right person for him.”

“But how do you know that? I mean, how do you know who
is
the right person?” I said. “Remember when things went haywire before? In my life?”

Shawna nodded. “When Beth and Grant, like, whatever?”

“Whatever. Yes. That,” I said. “Everything feels kind of crazy like that right now. I mean, I’m supposed to be living with Wittenauer next year and I can’t even get him to talk to me, and—and—Grant’s, like, being the nicest he’s ever been, and it’s like history repeating itself except it’s switched—”

“Wait a second, wait a second.” Shawna waved her straw in front of my face. “What did you just say?”

“You and Wittenauer are moving in together? When? Where? And when were you going to tell
us
?” demanded Dara.

“What is it, like, about us?” Shawna said, laughing. “We end up making people move in with their boyfriends.”

“You won’t get the security deposit back,” said Dara. “Oscar’s ruined the hardwood floor.”

“What about DeathKitty? She’s trashed—”

Dara started to cry. “Don’t bring her up. She’s missing. I haven’t seen her in forty-eight hours. You know what that means,” she sobbed. “She’s not coming back.”

Did I imagine it, or did Oscar’s ears prick up when she said that?

The night ended with all of us watching
The Hills
marathon and eating popcorn. I love other people’s problems. Even when they’re fake.

“Holding Court”
by Courtney Von Dragen Smith

Is Getting Married
Environmentally Sound?

When I get married, my wedding will leave zero carbon footprint.

How do I love thee, environment? Let us count the ways.

The wedding dress. You can find one that’s been refurbished or restored, or choose something unusual that you can wear again. Like, for instance, a rain barrel.

Your bridesmaids should not have to buy new shoes that are dyed with environmentally unfriendly harsh chemical dyes. And are cranberry colored, no less.

The invitations—use email. Come on. No one’s going to save the fancy invites but you. Print one for yourself and frame it. Done.

Flowers—forget it. Carry only sustainable crops.

The food for the reception must be locally grown or at the very least grown in the U.S.A. Stay away from beef. Just good common sense. Everyone likes finger food best, anyway.

The napkins—please. Use recycled, and avoid getting your names plastered all over them in harmful, environmentally unfriendly gold ink. Look for soy ink.

The cake—make it vegan and gluten-free. Your friends will thank you.

The limo—no, thank you. Take a train, bus, or bike to the wedding reception!

The photos—store online.

Finally, the honeymoon. What can we do to lessen our carbon footprint? Well, we can probably skip flying to Maui.

If and when I get married, I will make sure I leave no trace.

12/5

DeathKitty is still missing. Dara is getting frantic, you know, like how she did during the blizzard.

We keep telling her not to worry, that cat can clearly take care of herself. She’s survived on mice and birds.

“But that’s the thing,” said Dara. “I’m worried because she hasn’t caught anything in weeks.”

I thought about it. There had been a distinct lack of carcasses on my bed. “Maybe she’s reformed?” I suggested.

“She’s probably trapped in someone’s garage and will come out soon. Don’t worry,” said Shawna.

We have opened three cans of tuna with no luck.

Hope she will return soon. None of us likes tuna salad that much.

12/6

Dara and I went to the Humane Society to see if DeathKitty had shown up, if she’s been picked up for loitering.

Grant was there volunteering, working behind the counter. I could say that I’d forgotten he volunteers on Sundays, but that wouldn’t be true. It was actually my idea to go look for her there, but I mean, why did no one else have that idea? It’s because I’ve had to deal with a missing pet. Frequently.

We toured the cat room with Grant, checking all the cages for DeathKitty. No luck. So many cute cats and kittens, though. We went back out to the reception area so Dara could file a report, and while she did that I wandered back into the cat room to look at a family of black-and-white kittens I’d fallen in love with. I can’t adopt a cat, I know that. I already take care of a crazy epileptic dog and live with a psycho killer cat. It wouldn’t be fair. Or nice.

Still, they were so cute!!!!!

When I came back out to the main area, Dara and Grant were leaning close to each other, whispering. “What?” I asked.

“Nothing,” said Dara. “Just telling him how upset I am.” She sniffled.

“Here. I’ve been meaning to give you this,” said Grant, shoving a small, brown envelope at me. “Make sure he wears them or you’ll be here one day looking for him, too.”

Engraved Oscar ID tags. Grant didn’t forget. He doesn’t forget anything.

12/7

Need a new grocery store. Stat.

Was shopping at Shop & Shop, staring at the Tofutti options through a foggy freezer door, when phone rang. It was Dean Sobransky, of all people. Figured he was calling to check on me, but he said right away he had great news. “Guess what, Courtney? Some money has been freed up in our scholarship program.”

“Dropouts?” I asked.

He coughed. “Improved budgeting,” he said. “We’d love for you to come back to Cornwall Falls if you’re interested. I can fax or email you a revised financial offer. . . .”

I felt excited and sick at the same time. “You’re asking me
now
?” I cried.

“Uh, yes,” he said. “We’ve run through all the numbers. Had all-night budget meetings. We’ve come up with a way to invite select students back for spring semester and we’re just thrilled.”

“Thrilled,” I repeated, half in a daze.

“So you’ll do it?”

“Wait! I’m thinking,” I said. “I mean, this would have been a dream come true back in, say, September,” I said. “But I’ve kind of settled in.”

“Well, you don’t need to decide today. Think about it. What school will give you a better opportunity to grow, change, and affect the future of the world?”

“Oh, is
that
all,” I said.

He started laughing. “Ah, Courtney, I’ve missed you.”

“Oh, I miss you, too, Dean Sobransky.” He laughed. “No, really,” I said.

“So what do you think? Can Cornwall Falls win you back?” he asked.

“I’m going to have to think about it before we go any further,” I said. “I really—I don’t know. But can you keep this confidential for now, Dean Sobransky?” I needed time to think it through on my own, before anyone else—like W—knew about it.

After saying bye, I slipped my phone back into my pocket. Then I heard someone clear their throat behind me. Guy Nicollet was lurking. And smirking.

“So. That’s one smoothie store owner you’ve had an affair with, one college dean . . .” He used his fingers to count. (Probably doesn’t know any other way.)

I glared at him. He still owed me my last paycheck. “Are you following me or something?”

“No, I’m here for supplies, obviously.” He had a shopping cart full of giant 5-quart pails of ice cream.

I narrowed my eyes at him. “You’re supposed to sell premium ice cream. Not store brand.”

“What are you going to do . . . sue me? Oh, never mind, you already trashed my reputation. But you know what? It hasn’t hurt sales at all. Not one bit. There’s no such thing as bad publicity.”

What is it about him that makes me want to punch him?

On the way out of store, ran into Grant at customer service desk. I ended up blurting out about the call from Cornwall Falls. I wanted him to say, “Don’t go” and “How could you even think about it?” But all he said was, “Well. Sounds like a plan.”

A plan? “But I’d have to leave.” For spring semester. And every semester after that.

He shrugged. “Might make things easier. You never know.”

How would it make things easier? I wondered. What was he talking about? “Well, I haven’t said yes or no yet. He just called. I’m busy working on this huge project for Bigelow’s class right now. I’m kind of committed to stick it out for that,” I said, trying to sound important and wondering why he was being so cold and rude to me.

“Hm. Well, good luck.”

Grant wants me to leave. That’s all I can think. Really?

12/8

I’m finally ready to talk to Wittenauer, to tell him what happened, how Dean S. called and what he said. I know he’ll be excited and at the same time, I know this might change things. Or, change everything. The thing is, now that I’m ready, I can’t reach him. Which is weird.

I don’t know if I can handle transferring again. Feel like a Ping-Pong ball. Live here, no, live there. Live at home. No! Live next to Grant. Move in with W. No, don’t. Move back to Cornwall Falls.

I think I should at least talk it over with him, but since I can’t seem to reach him, I talked about it with Mary Jo instead. Mary Jo = voice of reason, except for that brief but all-too-long period when she was seeing that loser Joe.

“Have you seen Wittenauer lately? I keep calling him but all I get is voice mail,” I said.

“Um, not really. How are things?”

We talked about classes, finals, Mom’s wedding, et cetera, and then I told her about Dean S.’s call last night.

“Wow. What a tough decision,” she said.

“Yeah,” I said. “It is. I mean, three months ago—you know, I’d have jumped at it. Maybe even two months ago. But now?”

She was quiet for a minute, then she said, “I miss you like crazy, and things would be a lot more fun if you came back, but in a way, I don’t think you should transfer.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Um. Lots of reasons. Because you’d have to retransfer. Because if I were you, I’d be mad at the school. Plus, there’s a good chance they’d screw up the finance package again, you know?”

All those things were very true. But were they the reasons I wasn’t calling Dean S. back immediately and saying, “Yes, see you in January”? Probably not.

12/9

All spare time being spent on project—we’re doing this on Friday, no time to waste.

Ha-ha. Pun. No time to waste. Maybe I can use that somehow on posters.

Mom just called with umpteenth wedding update and schedule. Reported that it may be a tad uncomfortable at the ceremony because her parents are getting a divorce. Then she brought up the seating chart.

“Again, Mom? Again with the seating chart?”

“What?” she asked innocently.

“Mom, there are other things going on besides your wedding, OK?”

“What’s going on?” she asked.

“Only everything,” I said. “Only my entire future!”

“Again?” she said. “Again with your future?”

Touché. I guess.