Love Show (4 page)

When he disappeared, I turned on
her. “So, you’re married. And you’ve moved.”

“Yes,” she said calmly.

“I can’t believe you didn’t tell
me.”

“Hadley, you just always get so
upset when I tell you I’ve met someone or that I’ve decided to move.”

 “Well, it’s way more upsetting
that you didn’t tell me at all. I literally found out from a stranger named
Roy.”

She sighed. “I’m sure your guest
doesn’t want to hear this.”

I looked at David. My mother was
right. He didn’t want to hear this. He’d had enough stressful Christmases. I
gritted my teeth. “Well, how was the wedding?” I asked civilly.

“We hardly had a wedding,” my
mother sniffed. “We just went to town hall.”

She showed us the big kitchen with
its wraparound porch overlooking the infinity pool and Sol’s dock slip down on
the bay. The house was beautiful, big, modern, and immaculate.

“I can show you upstairs, too,” my
mother said, when we reached the staircase.

“That’s okay,” I said quickly.
“We’re tired. I’m tired. I just want to take a shower.”

She brought us up to the guest
rooms, which were identically beige with sea foam accents.

“Sorry,” I muttered to David once
she’d left us to unpack. “I didn’t mean to go all teenaged drama queen on you.”

He laughed. “I kind of liked it. So,
is this her fifth husband?”

“Sixth,” I shook my head.
“Honestly, why bother? How can you think, after five failed marriages, that
it’s worth getting married for a sixth time?”

He smiled and shrugged. “Maybe she
loves him.”

“Right,” I said.

“Well, she loves you,” he said, a
little bit sadly.

I exhaled and closed my eyes.
“Yeah, I know. I know. You’re right. I’m being a bitch. I’m over it. Totally
over it. We’ll have fun. In Belvedere with my crazy family.”

It ended up being the nicest break from school I’d ever had.
Sol and my mother were still in some kind of honeymoon phase, so I took David
all over—to the Castro, Golden Gate Park, Stinson Beach, the Ferry Building,
and the old Marine bases.

“I love it here,” David said when
we were walking across the bridge, bundled in warm coats. “Seriously, I do,” he
said fervently. “It’s so beautiful. And the people seem so happy.”

Later that day, we went to Greens
for overpriced organic food and priceless views. The water came right up to the
window and David sipped lemonade and told me about South Dakota.

“It's cold,” he told me. “And
small. I felt like I couldn’t breathe. There’s all this wide-open space, but
everyone knew everyone. And it was so conservative. And you know me...I’ve
always had the voice and the limp wrists. I never seemed straight.” His voice
wavered for a moment. He seemed raw, like he was actively experiencing what it
was like to be there. “I just sometimes felt like I would be crushed by it. I couldn’t
hide it. Being gay. Being me. I couldn't hide it."

He hardly ever talked about this.
It hurt to hear.

“I tried though. God, I tried.” He sighed.
“I think what bothers me most about it, though, is that it made me ashamed of
who I was. And I’m not ashamed of who I am. And I’m never going to let anybody
do that to me again.”

I met his shining, blue eyes and
saw the resolution there. I believed him.

On Christmas Eve, my mother insisted we have brunch. Alone.
Without David.

My mother wore Prada. I wore ripped
jeans and a Free Lil Wayne t-shirt I’d gotten at a college journalism
conference in Ohio. She was horrified.

“With all of the beautiful clothing
you have, I can't believe you would choose that shirt—”

“Do you want me to take it off?” I
asked. “Because if that would make you more comfortable, I can.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Hadley.”

She ordered a salad with dressing
on the side. I ordered a burger and curly fries. She grimaced.

“So, tell me about school.”

“It’s great,” I said.

“I’m very proud of you,” she said.
“And I’m very proud of your writing.”

I fought the urge to say something
snarky. “Thanks,” I said.

“You know, I have an old friend at
Vogue
.
I feel like that might be
just
the place for you.”

I stared at her incredulously. “Are
you kidding me?”

“Well, they have really good
articles in
Vogue."

“That may be true, but that is not
just
the place for me. No matter how good the articles are. I’m clueless when it
comes to fashion.”

“You’re not clueless. You just
choose to dress like…” she paused, thinking for an inoffensive word.

“A slob?” I suggested.

“A tomboy.”

I raised my eyebrows.

“Well, you should think about it.
I'll email her."

"Don't email her."

"Don't tell me what to do,
Hadley. If I want to email my friend, I will.”

"Okay, but I don't want to
work at
Vogue
. I want to be a reporter anyways, not a long-form
journalist."

She wasn't listening. She was
watching a petite brunette woman out of the corner of her eyes. "Betty
Sachs had so much plastic surgery I don't even recognize her anymore."

I followed her gaze. "That’s
so interesting, Mom."                       

She looked back at me. "What
were we talking about?" She nodded. "Shopping after lunch. You need
new boots."

"I like these ones," I
said defensively. "I could use a book though."

"You know, Solomon and I met
at a bookstore."

That surprised me. "Which
one?"

"Barnes and Noble. I thought
he worked there. He kept trying to tell me which books I should read. Anyways,
he recommended so many, he insisted on paying for them."  She looked at me
dreamily. “He’s not like any of the other men I’ve been married to.”

I’d heard that before. I’d probably
hear it again. “That’s nice,” I said, instead of:
that’s delusional
.

"He's really the one,"
she said emphatically. “Are you dating anyone? I had a crush on a new boy every
week when I was in college.”

“That’s more David’s style.”                                            

She laughed. “No one, really?
You’re such a pretty girl.”

I shook my head. “I don’t have time
for a boyfriend.”

“You’re only going to be busier
after you graduate.”

“Right. Well, I’ll cross that
bridge when I come to it,” I said.

“Let me give you some advice.”

I resisted the urge to roll my
eyes.

“You’re young. You can be a little
reckless,” she smiled. “You won’t be able to be reckless when you’ve got a job
and a family. Have some fun—the beginning of a new relationship is the most
fun. And you’re in college. Nothing is that complicated.”

I thought about the boy in the parking
lot. It hadn’t been fun. That wasn’t the right word.  It had been terrifying,
but in a good way. It had made my heart drop. Not fun, but something else
almost like fun—something you felt more deeply that fun. Something that made
you go weak.

We flew back to Evanston three days before the semester
started. David had a bag full of new cooking utensils from Williams Sonoma that
my mother had given him for Christmas and I had three new pairs of shoes that
wouldn’t survive three minutes at a college party.

We hauled our bags back to our room
after midnight—the flight had been delayed and then they didn’t have a gate for
us, and my back was in knots.  I collapsed into bed, taking off my shoes as I
turned off the light.

My phone woke me up before 7 AM.

Justin’s name flashed on the
screen.

“Hey, Justin,” I said. “Um, is
everything okay?”

“Yeah, I guess.”             

“What’s up? How was your
Christmas?” I sat up and flipped on my bedside lamp.

His voice shook slightly when he
responded: “Okay. Um. I just got back.”

“Yeah? Where’d you go?”

“London?” he sounded unsure of even
that.

I sat up in bed, “You sure you’re
okay?”

“Yeah, I-I just... I got back last
night. There are all of these texts from people about the article. And some of
them are threatening and there’s stuff on that campus gossip blog and my
roommate’s not even talking to me and—”

“Justin,
slow
down,” I said.
“What’s going on?”

“That article,” he said. “About
hospitalizations from drinking. People are pissed off.”

“Shit,” I muttered. I had never
heard back from the fraternity president after I offered to print a letter. I
got out of bed and started pulling on clothes.

“I’m kind of freaking out.”

“Well, don’t do that. I’m coming
over. We’ll figure out what to do, okay?”

“Alright,” he said shakily.

I glanced out the window at the
bleak morning. It looked cold. It was always cold in Evanston in January. I
shouldered into a parka and ran out the door.

Justin lived in the freshman dorms,
which were pretty, bucolic stone buildings clustered on the quad. I swiped my
ID at the door and jogged up to his room.

 “Hey,” he said. He looked like he
hadn’t slept. His hair was tousled, he had dark circles under his eyes, and I
could see worry lines creasing his forehead. “Sorry. I didn’t realize it was so
early. I’m kind of jetlagged. I just…I didn’t know what to do.”

“You called me. That’s what you’re
supposed to do,” I smiled reassuringly at him. “Let me see the emails.”

“They were sending texts, too. I-I
deleted most of them,” he said sheepishly. “But…” His voice trailed off as he
handed me his phone.

The first text I saw read,
you’re
a faggot. stay the fuck away from our frat and don’t write any more lies about
us
.

“Have you responded to any of
these?” I asked, trying to keep my voice neutral.

He shook his head.

“Good.”

“Actually…well, I asked them to
leave me alone. A few times. Before I thought to call you,” he said softly. “And
it just made it worse…They said—they said they’d stop if we printed a
retraction.”

“We’re not printing a retraction,”
I said flatly. “Retractions are for correcting mistakes, and you didn’t make a
mistake.”

“Well, I deleted my Facebook. But,
now there’s stuff about me on CampusRag.”

“I fucking hate that website,” I
said bitterly.

He smiled weakly. “Right.”

CampusRag was a gossip blog where
anonymous posters could say whatever they wanted about whomever they wanted. It
was basically a disgusting mess of anonymous vitriol. Nobody deserved to be
trashed on the Internet. Especially not Justin.

“Alright,” I spoke authoritatively.
“Don’t write back to them and don’t let them think you’re intimidated.”

“But I
am
intimidated,”
Justin insisted. “I just—I don’t know what to do. And they’re telling the whole
world that I’m gay, which is something I haven’t told most people.”

 “I’m going to handle this. I
promise.” I looked into his glassy brown eyes. “Okay?”

“Okay,” he said softly. He closed
his eyes and pressed the heels of his hands to his eyelids. He pulled off a
heartbroken smile. He believed me. “Thank you.”

 “Of course.” I spent a few minutes
on his phone, forwarding the text messages, and longer on his computer,
forwarding the emails. When I was done, I smiled at him and squeezed his
shoulders. “This will look better in a few days.”

“Okay.” He breathed unsteadily.            

I looked around the small, cramped
dorm room. I remembered how lonely dorm rooms could feel in the awkward days
before everyone returned from Christmas break. “Do you have dinner plans?”

He shook his head. David
would
like him. I mean, it would be hard not to.

“My roommate’s a great cook,” I
offered. “You should come over.”

He smiled. “I’d like that.”

“Good, text me when you’re free.
It’ll be great.”

He nodded.       

“Don’t freak, okay? We’ll figure it
out.”

I felt less sure of myself in the
hallway outside of his room. There were official steps I could take to report
harassment, but it was a long, arduous process and a resolution in April
wouldn’t mean much to Justin now. Plus, the paper’s faculty advisor, Dean
Canady, had gone to Romania for the break.

I fired off a quick email to him
from my phone, alerting him of the situation, and letting him know I was
looking for the quickest remedy. I scrolled through my emails until I found the
one from Alexander Faulk.

While I walked to my car, I emailed
Faulk, asking when he would be available to speak. I sat in the car turned on
the heat and waited for him to write back.

I’ve never been the world’s most
patient person. After a Miley Cyrus song and three commercials on the radio, Faulk
still hadn’t written back so I drove to the frat house.

It was eight o’clock in the
morning. I told myself that civilized people woke up at eight o’clock, which
meant I was allowed to disturb the uncivilized people who were still sleeping.
Maybe teach them some good habits.

The frat house was charming, yellow
and clapboard. I parked across the street and walked as confidently as I could
up the porch stairs to the front door.

I hadn’t been to a frat house at
Northwestern. Not because I had anything against them. I didn’t. I just didn’t have
friends in fraternities.

But this felt personal. It was hard
not to hold a grudge against the organization responsible for bullying Justin.

I rang the doorbell and looked at
the wide porch, which would have been inviting if it weren’t carpeted with
crushed beer cans and cigarette butts.
This is revolting
, I thought.
How
does anyone live like this?

I hit the doorbell again and then
knocked loudly. I thought of Justin. I took a breath and remembered that I was
here in a professional capacity.

Justin. Confront it head on.
Like an adult. Man to man. Woman to man. Just do it.
I took a breath and
knocked once more.

“YO! Just come in. It’s unlocked!”
someone shouted over the faint sound of music. I pushed open the creaking door.
The wide entryway was dusty, but uncluttered, and the French doors to my left
were flung open to an empty lounge, where the TV was on.

“Hello?” I called out.                               

Nobody responded.

“Hello?” I shouted, a little
louder.

“There’s money in the kitchen. Just
leave the pizza on the counter,” the same rumbling voice called.

“I’m not delivering pizza,” I
shouted back.

Who the hell ordered pizza at eight
o’clock in the morning anyways?

“Shit. Hang on.”

He came down the stairs, buttoning
a red plaid shirt.

When he looked up, my heart
stopped.

It was the boy from the tailgate
who I had kissed.

God, he looked good.

And God he was the last person I
wanted to see right now.

I took half a step backwards like
fleeing back to my car was an option.

No
, I told myself.
Just
do it
.
Pretend you never kissed him. Never happened.

He laughed. It was a low, rolling,
and pleasant sound. He ran his hand through his damp hair. I bit my tongue
watching him.

“I really never did catch that
name,” he said softly. He slid his hands into his pockets and smiled at me.

“Hadley Arrington.”

 “Ah. Hadley Arrington.” He smiled
wider. “Well, I knew the easiest solution to my problem would’ve been asking
you, but you are very, very hard to find. In fact, I had very recently
concluded that you were some sort of rainstorm mirage.”

“I’m not a mirage,” I said flatly. 

“I bet that’s what you tell all the
boys.”

My eyes quivered in their sockets,
absolutely itching to roll. “Listen, is Alexander Faulk here?”

“You mean Xander? No. He’s not back
from Minnesota yet.”

 I nodded. “Gotcha.”

“Hadley Arrington,” he repeated my
name with a wolfish grin, and came the rest of the way down the stairs. He sat
down on the steps and tied one of his sneakers. “You remember me, right?”

I nodded. “Yes.”
Unfortunately,
since I’m not here to make friends
.

“You honestly don’t want to know my
name?” he asked. I looked at him, praying his name didn’t belong to one of the
email addresses I’d culled from Justin’s inbox.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

 “Jack,” he said with a cocky grin.
When I didn’t return the smile, he ran a hand through his hair and stood up.
“I’m sorry. I’m not being very helpful. Are you okay? You don’t look like you
were expecting to see me. Um, Xander’s not here. But I could give you his phone
number.”

“Well, is John Diamond here?” I
asked.

Jack smiled again. “That’s actually
me. Everyone calls me Jack.”

Well, that was just spectacular.

He was the fraternity’s
vice-president. And therefore at least partially responsible for this. And the
person I’d have to confront about it.

“Great,” I muttered.

He cocked his head. “I have to say,
you seemed a lot happier about seeing me the last time we met.”

I flushed. “Well, I was drunk.”

His eyes twinkled. “You weren’t
that drunk.”

“How would you know?” I demanded. “Anyways,
I’m not here to discuss tailgate.”

His smiled faded a little. “Okay.
Uh, what are you here to
discuss
then?”

“I’m the Editor-in-Chief of
The
Daily Northwestern
,” I said. “One of my staff writers is being harassed by
members of your fraternity.”

His smile faded completely.
“Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

He gave me a defeated look.
“Christ. We told them to leave it alone.” He ran his hand over his face.

“Told who?”

“Our sophomore class. They’re all
motherf….animals,” he said. He shook his head. “Damn.”

“Well, they’re not leaving him
alone.”

“Yeah. Shit. I’m sorry…You want to
talk over here?” He led me into a study room off of the foyer. He quickly
closed the open sketchbooks on one of the bigger tables and placed them on the
floor.

I sat down across from him. He
rested his chin on one hand thoughtfully. “So, what are they doing?”

“Juvenile, cyber-bullying crap.
I’ll forward you the emails.”

“Oh, yeah, sure. Let me grab my
computer.” He got up and I heard his footsteps on the stairs. I focused on the
crooked dartboard hanging on the wood-paneled wall.
Be professional. Resolve
the problem.

I forwarded the material to his
email address while he went to get his computer. When he came back, he looked grim.

“As you can see, this is clearly
crossing the line,” I said formally. “And while I understand that members of
your fraternity didn’t like the facts that were printed in Justin’s article,
you were repeatedly contacted with a request for a comment. I let Alexander
know he could talk to Justin and clarify your position…” My voice trailed off.
He wasn’t listening to me.

His eyes were glued to the screen
and he clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth regretfully. “Ah,
shit,” he said wearily. “This is not—this is not something I knew about. Xander
either. Our sophomore class is really out of control.” He ran a hand through
his hair and put his screen down. “We’re looking into the roofie thing, by the
way. Honestly, we were all really freaked out when we saw the article. I mean,
I was and I know Xander was. Neither of us even had known about it. That’s why
Xander emailed you. He wanted to explain.”

I took a deep breath. “And I told
him he could. Justin emailed you both, asking for a statement.”

Jack winced. “Yeah, I know. Xander
is crazy busy, though, and I’m not so good with emails.”

“Look, that’s not the point,” I
said. “If there’s an update, if you’d like us to print a statement, that’s
fine. I told you that we’d do that. But this shit has to stop. He wrote an
article about student health and you guys are making his life hell.”

He cleared his throat. “I’m not
behind this.” He looked at me. “I mean, I’m not saying it’s not awful. It is.
But this is like a few random kids. This isn’t a fraternity-wide effort.”

“Well, it needs to
stop
.” My
voice sounded brittle and harsh to my own ears. I didn’t want to hear about
Jack’s lack of culpability. “He wrote an article. He tried to get a lot of you
to talk to him, but none of you would. He didn’t make this stuff up. It
happened. It happened
here
.”

“I’ll talk to the guys.”

“No,” I said. “I don’t want you to
talk
to the guys
. I want you to let the guys know that they can either apologize
and take down the posts on CampusRag and stop emailing him, or else they can
deal with the administration. I’m not going to let you bully one of my staff
writers out of school.”