NEWBORN: Book One of the Newborn Trilogy (15 page)

* * *

In between classes I take bold steps in the
direction of the dining hall. This is it – my new regime starts
today. I will digest a container of yogurt even if I have to take
five minute breaks between each spoonful.

The dining hall is crowded and loud.
Unfortunately, it’s almost noon which is the worst time to be here.
The line for the grill looks terrible and even the salad buffet is
getting too much attention. I find my way to the back corner where
the tiny refrigerator is. Oh the benefits of being a minimalistic
consumer! No lines! Grabbing a spoon, I find an empty table for two
and sit down.

I notice – once again – that everybody seems
to have a lunch buddy. Those who don’t are carrying out to-go packs
and will probably end up meeting somebody. I sigh with resignation.
I must look like a real idiot sitting here alone.

You do
, my alter ego informs me.

Shut the fuck up
is my response to
her.

I choke down the yogurt. It’s awful. Not the
yogurt, but the effort of eating it. This is worse than before.
It’s like my body wants to reject the food. The yogurt, though so
smooth, seems to stick in my throat. Closing my eyes, I take
another spoonful and force it down. Disgusting. I hate this! It’s
how I felt when eating grass as a child – terrible and obtuse, like
I’m the wrong species for it.

Fuck it.

I’m not finishing this yogurt. It’s too
painful. Putting the container down, I’m assaulted by a feeling of
overwhelming defeat. Geez, I can’t eat yogurt! How much more
deficient can I become in life? Good thing I haven’t had any exams
yet. Poor grades can only add to this ass kicking. I need to start
listening to inspiration music or reading self help books or some
shit. This isn’t working!

* * *

The English 103: English Composition
classroom is mostly full when I arrive. It’s not so much I’m late
as they are early. Sitting down in my seat by the window, I pull
out
The Great Gatsby
and wait for class to begin. Eventually
Dr. James decides to arrive.

“Settle down,” he says to the respectfully
watching class. “It’s time for schoolwork. Life isn’t a series of
parties. Too bad nobody told Gatsby.” Dr. James pauses, looking
around expectantly for appreciative laughter. When none comes, he
resumes, “Today we’ll be continuing our analysis of this
masterpiece of American literature. I want a volunteer. Let me see…
you there, by the window!”

It’s tempting to remark that obviously he
wasn’t searching for a volunteer. “Yes?” I say politely, adding,
“do you have a question for me?”

“Most certainly,” Dr. James says deviously,
opening his folder with a swat of his hand. “Let’s see now…” Geez,
it’s so obvious he’s only calling on me because I got it wrong last
time. No doubt he’s picking out a really hard question. “Exactly
which character,” Dr. James begins, “tells Nick Carraway that
before she married Tom, Daisy was in fact in love with one James
Gatz?”

I roll my eyes. “That would be D – Jordan
Baker.” I know I shouldn’t be a smartass to a teacher, but his
pointless antagonism is irritating. I feel it coming from afar. A
tirade of inspired frustration.

“Apart from the specific gotcha questions
you’ve been asking,” I begin loudly, “shouldn’t we talk about what
the book is about? How it’s a profound narrative on the American
Dream as it hangs on a knife’s edge in the early 20th century? How
between The Great War and The Great Depression there was a
millisecond – only a millisecond– of great prosperity for so many
people and yet it was squandered, wasted by bootleggers and cheats?
How this American Dream – once it was at last achieved in the 1920s
before the country went bankrupt – only led to moral
bankruptcy!”

Oh fuck!

I shouldn’t have said all that. But I had to.
I wanted to. Now everybody is staring at me, including Dr. James,
whose bespectacled gray features appear more astonished than angry.
I wonder what he’ll do now. Many of my peers look delighted. Many
more look as bored as when class started.

Coughing once, Dr. James readjusts his
glasses and picks up his copy of
Gatsby
. “You in front with
the dreadlocks,” he resumes. “When Gatsby goes out with Nick they
are stopped for speeding by a police officer. Gatsby produces a
card and hands it to the police officer. What color is the
card?”

* * *

Walking back to my dorm I realize I should
see a doctor. The idea occurred to me before but I never took it
seriously. I assumed my anxiety would die after a week or so. But I
can’t eat. Two more weeks might do it, and if not maybe three or
four. My inability to eat yogurt can’t be a good thing.

In the evening I decide to give Dad a call.
He’s due to call tonight anyhow, but calling early might be a
pleasant surprise for him. Shows I’m looking forward to it. So I
dial his number. Two rings and an answer like always.

“What’s wrong, Nora Rae?” Dad asks.

I can’t help my grin. “Nothing’s wrong! I’m
checking in early. I may have been at dinner later,” I lie. “How
have you been?”

“Better,” Dad says gruffly. “Remember when
your mom and I dropped you off at school and got into a… a
discussion
about my date that night?”

“I remember,” I say. Seriously, Dad, it
wasn’t that long ago.

Dad – usually so calm – is agitated. I can
hear it in his tone. “Well, your mother has gone and got herself a
boyfriend now.”

“What!” I exclaim in horror. “She can’t
have!”

“Well, she did,” Dad follows up. “You know
why? To get back at me for having one date last weekend.
One
date! Didn’t even go anywhere. And now after two years and no
dates, she gets herself a boyfriend. Must have skipped the
mandatory month together or whatever. She has a
boyfriend
,
she said.”

“How?” I gasp. “When? How did this
happen?”

We’re both talking about it like it’s a
travesty. It kind of is. Mom is not the type of person to do this.
She’s cautious and reserved. She’d never call somebody her
boyfriend this fast.

Don’t just put this on Mom
, my alter
ego quips.
Admit it. You’re fucking embarrassed she has a
boyfriend post-divorce sooner than you do
.

I may have her beat, actually
, I
respond.
So there!

“I’ll tell you how!” Dad says angrily. “She
comes to my house and knocks on my door. I open it and she gives me
fifteen dollars. Said she did the math and still owed some for the
iPad. Then she gestures behind her to where some idiot is
shot-gunning her ride. Says ‘that’s Pat, my
boyfriend
.’”

I sigh deeply. “What a mess,” I say, thinking
aloud. “I – I mean I’m sorry that happened, Dad. She’s just getting
back at you for last weekend. But how on earth did she find
somebody so fast?”

“Beats me,” Dad says. “I know she’s getting
back at me. I say, ‘What’s this, Cindy? Some kind of revenge
story?’ She looks at me with some serious willful ignorance. She
understood.” He breathes heavily into the phone. “I can’t believe
this, Nora. Can’t believe she’d do this like this.”

“I know,” I tell him. “I’m sorry.”

Dad calms down enough to say, “Ah well. How
are you getting on? Have
you
been meeting anyone?”

Oh geez!

“No,” I say too quickly. “Nobody, Dad.”

“What?” He sounds disappointed. “Nora Rae,
you have to get out and make friends. The first week is crucial!
You can’t start when you feel like it. The first week or so is the
best time, when everyone is new and open to new people. The guys I
met the first week at UW were the ones that stayed my friends.”

“I’m friends with my roommate,” I say
hurriedly, trying to repair the damage. “There’s this guy in
writing class who’s nice.”

“Yeah, well,” Dad says hesitatingly, “why
don’t you stick with girlfriends for the time being.”

Is he kidding me right now?

Kiri bangs through the door carrying her
cello case.

“Can I call you back, Dad?” I ask him. “Kiri
– my roommate – got back and I need to ask her something before she
runs off again.”

“Let’s call it a night,” Dad says. “Stay
well, make friends, study hard. By the way, how’s the liquor in
town?”

Surprised, I stumble through, “I – I wouldn’t
know.”

“I’m not a fool, Nora,” Dad says. I can hear
the smile on his face. “Moderate it. Keep it to weekends.
Hear?”

“Yes,” I say, abashed.

“Goodnight, Nora Rae,” he says. “Love
you.”

“Love you too, Dad,” I reply, blushing as I
swivel to look at Kiri. She’s politely pretending not to listen.
Hanging up, I put my phone on the desk. Kiri is looking at me
expectantly. “What?”

“I should be asking you,” she tells me. “What
did you want to ask me before I ‘run off again’?”

“Oh right,” I say. “Want to go to dinner?”
I’m not sure why I’m asking her to dinner, considering I won’t be
able to eat anything. But it’s something I’ve been meaning to do
and Dad said to be more social.

“Totally,” Kiri replies, beaming. “Let me get
ready.”

Five minutes later we’re out the door. I’m in
jeans and a flowery camisole. Kiri’s dressed in an Indian-laced top
and a swishy, straw-like skirt. I have no clue where she gets her
clothes. She looks like the girl in
Island of the Blue
Dolphins
. She also looks amazing. We don’t speak until dorm
building C is behind us.

A last bit of light glows in the distance
above the trees. The regular campus bustle has died down, leaving
only a few stragglers off to late classes or else a late dinner.
Luckily the dining hall is open till 9:00pm. The serenity of the
campus at night sinks into my system, thrilling my pores.

“You know,” Kiri says, “I’m not that hungry.
Are you?”

I’m relieved to hear this. “Not at all,” I
say truthfully.

“Wanna hit the bar?” Kiri asks. Her grin is
luminous below bobbed hair and sharp glasses. “I’m buying.”

“We’re underage,” I remind her, feeling
uneasy. What was Dad’s request? It is a school night, after
all.

“No worries,” Kiri remarks. “My brother
graduated from here two years ago. He told me there’s a bar off
campus called The Mousetrap that doesn’t check ID. I’ve been
meaning to check it out. Want to?”

Do it
, says my alter ego.
You’re so
fucking boring! Live for once
.

Hey
, I tell her,
go easy!

“Fine,” I say resignedly. “So long as you’re
buying.”

“I said I was,” Kiri replies. “Come on. It’s
just south of Red Square.”

* * *

The Mousetrap is a cute little dive. The
mouse’s tail on the hanging wooden sign is so long it curls around
the entire name. The poor mouse is cloven in two. Inside is the
usual show. A long counter runs away down the right side as you
enter while a halfhearted assortment of chairs and tables adorns
the left.

Scooting inside, Kiri and I find a table and
sit down. “Leave this to me,” Kiri says excitedly. “You sit
tight!”

“Gotcha,” I reply, leaning back in my chair.
I watch her scuttle over to the bar, the straw of her skirt
swishing around agile legs.

Soon Kiri is back with a drink in each
hand.

“What’s this?” I ask, taking mine.

She takes a hasty sip standing then plops
down beside me. “India Pale Ale,” she answers. “Try it – tell me
what you think.”

Raising my glass, I wait for hers. “A
toast?”

“Yes!” Kiri says, raising her glass. “To love
everlasting and peace on earth. And awesome grades for minimal
work!”

“Cheers,” I say, kissing my glass with hers.
Raising my glass to my lips, I drink deeply. My first taste of
beer. Almost at once I replace my glass on the table, coughing.
“That’s bitter!” I exclaim.

Kiri giggles. “No it isn’t! It’s god’s gift
to mankind.”

I shudder and push it away. “You can have
mine.”

“Hold on,” Kiri says after a drink. “I know
what to get you.” Hopping up, she goes back to the bar. Soon she’s
back and pushing a clear drink into my hand. A long straw is poking
from its rim.

“What’s this?” I ask warily.

“Gin and tonic,” Kiri says. “It’ll do you
wonders. Try it.”

Watching her suspiciously, I lower my mouth
to the straw. Surprisingly, I like this one. It’s still bitter to
the tongue but less so. It smells better. That counts. “I like this
one more,” I tell her. “A lot more.”

“Cool,” Kiri says, sitting down again. “Think
of it like a strong soda. With alcohol. And a straw.”

As time goes on the bar begins to fill up.
Turns out Kiri’s brother isn’t the only one who knows about this
very accepting establishment. Many teenage-looking students are
sitting at the bar or else lounging at tables. One boy I recognize
from my English 103 class. He can’t be twenty-one.

“Oh life,” Kiri says after finishing her
first beer, “you’re a tricky bastard.”

I giggle. The alcohol is affecting me. My
body has grown lighter. The clouds of smoke dissipating around my
head. “What makes you say that?” I ask Kiri. “You seem to have
things together from what I’ve seen.”

Kiri sighs and reaches for my unfinished
beer. “Oh, it’s nothing – life – you know?”

“You can do better than that,” I tell her.
“Come on – tell me what’s up. If you tell me I’ll tell you about
the guy I met.”

Kiri’s eyebrows rise. “We’re bartering
now?”

“It appears so.”

She wags a finger at me over her beer. “You
knew I wouldn’t be able to resist. Oh well,” she concedes. “It’s
depressing stuff I’ve had on my mind lately. You don’t want to hear
me complain.”

“I do,” I say. “Tell me.”

“Twist my arm, why don’t you?” But she
readjusts her glasses before saying, “I’ve been doing some
research. It’s difficult to make it as a musician. Even if you do,
you’re living on peanuts. I’m an above-average cellist, but I’m not
outstanding. The problem is you need to be outstanding to get the
peanut jobs.”