Principles of Love (13 page)

Can I just say that if I have to hear the exotic plans of one more Hadley Hall elite I’m going to hurl up my salad bar and deli meat lunch? All around are winter vacation plans including, but not limited to: Turks and Caicos for scuba diving, Tuscany, Thailand, Aspen (the place, not the girl who is a freshman), Banff, Miami and Cuba, London (fine, so this is from Clive who lives there is just going home, but still, it sounds better than staying on campus with Chinese take-out and Dad and watching Friend-Girl movies).

Still markedly absent from Hadley Hall campus, Lila emails me again and tells me she really really needs to talk. I give her my phone number but she so far hasn’t called. I assume she’ll be back for exams, but maybe not.

My left hand is cramping up, and I have two more sentences — no, wait, three, and then I am done with my second exam — French (tres bien, j’espere) and — time’s up. History’s done, too. I think it’s slightly unfair to have an exam and term paper in one class, but at least it gives the hope that if you tank on one, the other could even out the final term grade.

I hand in my blue books — the small, lined exam book with the official Hadley Hall crest on the cover and the motto in Latin — and head outside to sit on the steps of Maus Hall (Eek!) in the cool air.

Everyone walks around with their heads down or plugged into some exam-distracting music, trying not to stress about exams but stressing nonetheless. It’s impossible not to, with the lists of exam rooms and furious studying and late-night library hours. I finally see Lila across the street with — none other than Colorado and her cronies. She lets me know she’s seen me and when she’s a little closer mouths
I need to talk to you
but keeps walking with the streaked masses.

Just as I’ve found tentative piece of mind with two exams done, a free day to study tomorrow and a dad who has gone on a dessert kick (read: homemade white chocolate brownies and tiramisu — great for post-midnight cramming — in the fridge at home), said father comes and strides towards me. First I think he’s going to do what he did when I was little — pick me up and swing me around and sing a silly song about ducks. But no such luck. He’s got his scowl face on, and when I see his green eyes flare, I know it’s something I’ve done.

“I don’t know what to say, Dad,” I try to focus on inspecting the brownie plated in front of me. The plate has the Hadley crest in its center, purple and orange, the school colors, rimmed in gold and probably the real thing. We used to have mismatching silverware and dishes — a couple from Crate and Barrel, two glasses Dad brought back from a conference on public school (the letters had rubbed off from multiple washings so they read Ublic Ool), and various hand-me-downs from our moves around the state. Now our Hadley cupboards are well-stocked — stacks of cream-colored plates and saucers and tea cups and side dishes and — chowder bowls and consommé dishes. A bit overkill. “I don’t know,” I say again.

“Well, think of something,” he says, tone unflinching despite my obvious fear.

“I guess I just forgot that I couldn’t give rides — I mean tell me you at least recognize that it’s freezing outside and I was just trying to be nice.”

“I don’t care about nice,” he says, sounding like a pod parent (pod parent = invasion of the body snatchers type moment where your parent sounds totally like they’ve been replaced by a replicant with the same footwear). “I care about rules, Love. And having my daughter follow them.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I say, voice rising high enough to hit a Celine Dion note, “I won’t do it again — really.”

“Oh, I know you won’t,” he says and I’m comforted in the fact that at least he believes me. “I know this because I’m docking your car privileges for a month and if this happens again, you can look forward to being treated like a boarder, signing in and singing out.”

“Oh my God, Dad — you can’t be serious,” I say even though I know he is. “That’s ridiculous — you want to be my dorm parent? Do I need parietals to invite friends over?”

“If it comes to that, yes,” he says. “In the meantime, no more convenient store runs and certainly no more shuttling Lila Lawrence to and from her appointments in the city.”

“I did that precisely ONE time,” I say. Maybe two.

“One time and yet you didn’t get permission, an admittedly easy thing to do.”

We leave it at that and I’m fuming, too angry and annoyed to study. Or to listen to “Feel Like Makin’ Love” or any of the other 70s songs that deny both my experience and freedom. So I lace up and run, but avoid the mat, since I don’t want to deal with a Robinson run-in until I am more composed.

By the ugly fish statue, I see Cordelia, who is taking photos of it from odd angles. I jog in place next to her.

“You look happy,” she says.

“Oh, yeah, fabulous fucking mood today,” I say, and then add quickly, “But I don’t want to get into it now.”

“Whatever,” she says and clicks the camera. “I’d have thought you’d be psyched — considering the news.”

“What — new salad bar? Pajama Monday?” These are some of the headlines from the Hadley Hall Newspaper.

“Nope,” Cordelia turns the camera on me, still focused through the viewfinder. “Your Boy Wonder Robinson broke up with the lovely Lila. He’s free for the taking.”

My mouth hangs open and Cordelia takes the photo to prove it.

Twenty minutes later, I can hardly catch my breath. Not so much from running, although the sharp air stings my lungs and makes my already red-prone cheeks feel slapped or sunburned, but more because I am now PLAGUED with two thoughts: Robinson is single. I have no car. Who’d have thought I’d get so attached to the after only a couple of months? Wait — do I mean the Saab or Rob?

Single. That is, if Cordelia is correct and did her fact-checking (she once reported that an adventure in rhinoplasty had been undertaken by a junior named Greta, only to find out she was wrong — and Greta had the nose bump to prove it). Instantly, movie reels of me with Robinson in the student center splitting sodas and playing foosball, Robinson watching me sing at Slave to Grind, Robinson inviting me up to his room (Note to self: should this ever occur, must get parietals!), and so on until I have jogged my way to a combo of fantasy and frustration, all the while knowing full well I’m on my way to meet him.

In the movie version of this moment…it looks just like this. The way it does on the blue mat, under the blanket of Robinson’s down jacket, my head near (but not in) his lap. The wind tosses his hair back from his face and he reaches out to tuck the sleeve of his coat under my shoulder for extra warmth. When I sit up, knees to my chest, sneakers touching Robinson’s thigh, he’s in the middle of telling me about his favorite restaurant in the Hamptons and how his mother taught him to make clam chowder based on a recipe from there and how I’d like the view from his room at the beach house. Yes, I’m sure I would. Even movie cameras couldn’t make this scene better.

Unless, of course, he were to lean in and I — Note to self: They just broke up. I am still her friend. He is still clearly, at best, ambivalent about me. And I just forgot what he asked me.

‘What?” I say. “Sorry — I spaced for second there.”

“I asked what you were up to for break — any plans for beach or mountains?”

I shake my head and stick my arms down the arms of his jacket — backwards, so I look like a priest, though my thoughts are impure. “Nope — just me and my dad and big time date with the video store.” I realize after I say it that I sound lame and loserly, but it’s the truth — me in nutshell. “And maybe some singing.” I add this to give a more well-rounded image, so I’m not just eating microwave popcorn and talking to the principal in Robinson’s mental image of me.

“That sounds great, actually,” he says. “Maybe sometime we can rent that movie you told me about — what was it, The Story?”

“
The Philadelphia Story
,” I say, reminding him it’s my favorite and how amazing Katherine Hepburn is in it — and how her men swoon and how poised she is, even drunk.

“Right,” Robinson looks at me — really looks hard into my eyes and I’m dying to know the exact words forming in his mind.

“What?” Should I ask him about Lila? Or no, that would just be a reminder of his past, or his break-up present. I could suggest another meeting but that’s too proactive for me to justify.

“Nothing,” this comes with a small smile from lips I want so badly to kiss.

And despite our movie moment, the final credits roll before there’s a single smooch — no last second grab and outpouring of love. Just me, standing up, feeling guilty but thrilled and Robinson feeling God knows what, maybe
nothing
as he said. Instead of a hug goodbye, he takes his jacket back and I’m left shivering, wondering what it all means.

Just as I’m rounding the track, past the hurdles and the benches, I turn back and see the tail end of a scarf blowing in the breeze — a red and white striped scarf, a veritable candy cane motif, belonging to none other than Cordelia herself. From where she’s standing, down the small hill near the high jump area, she could have witnessed the entire thing.

With a mind-blender of driving-induced disciplinary action and non-delivered kisses and spies with big mouths (and the ability to twist what they’ve seen) I arrive back to the house to find my dad has let Lila Lawrence into my room. I figure she’s come by to talk about the break-up and to dissect the parting words — who held the power, who cried, who spoke the
it’s not me, it’s you
or if another reason was given. But rather than look like she’s just broken up with (or been dumped by, I’m not sure which), with the female on-the-verge-of-tears expression, Lila looks white and drawn.

Her hair is pulled back and she looks more real somehow, less a vision of glamour and golden beauty. Her lips are chapped, too, and she’s had no benefit of concealer to mask the plum-dark circles under her eyes.

“Love,” Lila whispers. I shut my door and hug her. She clings for a minute and then, as if realizing this doesn’t suit her, pushes me back. I go and sit on the bed and she slides down the wall and sits on the floor with her legs splayed out in front of her, her posture slumped.

“What’s going on?” I ask.

“Well,” Lila looks at her hands. This isn’t a break-up regret nor is it a stressed about exams meltdown — this is something else completely. Lila reaches into her pocket and rummages for something. “Promise you can keep a secret?” she asks.

I nod.

Once when I was about ten we had to watch this school educational film that was supposed to enlighten all of the fourth and fifth graders on the dangers of smoking. Old ladies with raspy voices spoke about their emphysema and teenagers talked about having sick parents or not being able to play football because of their decreased lung capacity. Since my dad lost his own mother to lung cancer, I was well-versed in the no nicotine laws of the Bukowski house, but I watched the movie wondering why they’d chosen what looked to be some tropical resort for filming purposes. The backdrop of palm trees and tiki huts made the serious subject matter seem surreal. I’m pretty sure there were even cocktails being sipped in the background — pineapple rum blendeds with giraffe-necked straws. Too surreal to make a point.

This vaguely mimics the feeling I have right now, in my tower bedroom with Lila Lawrence who leans against the wall, sitting right under my black and white print of the Paris café I latted at this summer, and to the left of the signed framed sheet music from Joni Mitchell’s “Carey” — a gift from Aunt Mable. When Lila tells me she thinks she’s pregnant, she’s like a small, balled up version of herself surrounded by my room props. No tropical drinks, just books and the hum of my computer, and the empty-tabled image of the deserted café above her.

“I mean,” she says, sweeping a stray hair back and tucking it into the elastic, “I’m on the pill, and this is just not normal.”

“Is that why you were late coming back to school?” I ask and regret my word choice — Note to self: for now, avoid words such as
late
,
missed
, and
period
.

“I just kept thinking that if I stayed home and chilled out, you know, relaxed — they say stress can make you late — then I’d wake up and find…” she puts her face into her palms and I can tell by the way her shoulders shake that she’s crying.

“Lila…”

“No — you don’t have to say anything,” she says. “I know you’re probably like, how could she be so fucking stupid and get herself in this position in the first place.”

I sit next to her on the floor. “No, not at all. I don’t think you’re dumb.” I mean, mistakes happen — and maybe we’d all like to think we’re about it — me with my little driving excursions for example, but the twists and pitfalls of life have a way of pointing out your derelict mishaps. Your absent-mindedness — or your sexual laissez-faire attitude.

“I’m totally being punished,” she says. “That’s how I feel.”

I so want to ask if she means by the God of her choosing or by her own body or by Robinson — and hey — does he even KNOW? I think about the fact that an hour ago I was covered by his jacket, wind-blown and dreaming of kisses — and feel like I’m going to puke.

“I’m so sorry,” I say, meaning more than Lila can know at this point.

“Here,” Lila reaches into her pocket and pulls out a foil-wrapped item. “It’s an EPT.” Early pregnancy test — ironically not invented for early-in-life, but rather early in the menstrual cycle…

“Have you done it yet?”

“I was hoping you could take me to the doctor, actually — I can’t face peeing in the bathroom and then, like, what? Calling home? At least if I go to the office it seems more — less bizarre, more — I don’t know.”

I bite my lip and grimace, “I can’t.”

Lila looks at me with eyebrows raised. Her lids are swollen from crying and her face is blotchy. She still looks gorgeous — just like the sad girl in an after-school movie about teen pregnancy. “Fine — what this is too much for the principal’s daughter to handle?” her tone is so mean, she sounds like Colorado and the cruel crew. I can see how in another context, Lila could be just like them, on the dark side.