Principles of Love (16 page)

“Thanks,” I say. “You’re pretty good.”

“Maybe we can play at your aunt’s place some time,” Chris asks when the whirling slows down and we can speak in normal voices.

“How’d you know about Slave to the Grind?” I ask.

Cordelia nudges me and raises her eyebrows, always looking for gossip. Chris stammers. “Oh, just heard about it, that’s all,” he says and slinks off, hands shoved into his pockets. Maybe there’s more to MLUT-boy than I thought — or maybe I’m just slightly intrigued by him having any knowledge of my life outside Hadley. For a brief moment, I picture drinking vanilla decaf with him at Slave — then I try to calculate how many girls he must have, shared liquids with and sigh.

“Much improved,” witchy Thompson says to me as she hands back my first test of the year. It’s the first time she’s spoken to me since Robinson walked me to class that first day without so much as a sneer or insult. I look at my grade. B+. I smile and feel proud of my efforts, then slightly dorky, but still proud.

I have yet to get my history term paper back, but I’m hoping for an A. Not an A minus, just a solid A after twenty-nine pages and endless hours of writing and rewriting. In the mean time, I’m following Cordelia’s suggestion and going to a party at some DSG’s house. I’m so good I even told my dad that I’m driving — and gave him reassurance (that he insisted he didn’t need) that I’m responsible enough not to drink and get behind the wheel.

I play Radio Love Gods in my head while Cordelia puts on make-up in the front seat. I get “Hurts so Good” as to what will happen to Robinson and me and don’t know whether this is some sexual thing I should worry abut or emotional or what. Then I play the game with the next song being Jacob to me. He’s been noticeably absent from my life since our coffee house night and I’m afraid if I push it, I’ll get into a situation where he says something like
well, nothing happened
and I’d rather just enjoy the memory of the night as it is in my mind — special and untouchable. The radio blares out “I’m Coming Up” some random oldie-but-goodie (um, no?) and I wish I could see into the future to see what this means.

She directs me onto Route 128 and we drive North to some suburb where large houses line wide streets and the sidewalks are cleared of snow. I park on the opposite side of the street at the corner so I won’t get blocked in — this in case I want to leave early.

The house is a faux-Tudor, hulking exterior and massive front door with a bell that plays Fur Elise when pressed. Inside, the party’s in full swing. Bedrooms are occupied, music filters in, liquor cabinets are open and being taken advantage of. Lila comes over, clearly sloshed already and hands me a large plastic cup with what looks to be blueberry slush in it.

“BWB!”

“What?” I yell. Lila produces a plastic blue whale from her back pocket (a position no doubt envied by many of the other mammals in the room) and shoves it head first into my cup so the animal looks like it’s scarfing my beverage.

“Blue Whale Beverages!” Cordelia comes back with hers and we toast. I take a small sip.

“These are great,” I say drinking a larger gulp and getting brain freeze. “Just like Gass n’ Mart dining.”

“Yeah,” says Lila, slurring. “But with, like, five shots of liquor in it!” She and Cordelia laugh. All the boarders come to parties like this under the jurisdiction of their
in loco parentis
— the parents of friends who willingly sign boarders out to sleepover and then don’t pay attention to what they do. Lila will no doubt crash at someone’s house — Colorado’s probably — and wake up hung-over there.

And speaking of possible hang-overs, my drink is refilled and half-drunk again by the time Robinson comes over and tells me what’s in it; blue Curacao, white rum, lemon vodka, and a shitload of sugar and blueberry mix.

“I’m supposed to be driving home tonight,” I say. Robinson laughs and sticks a finger into my drink and licks it clean.

“I’d say that’s fairly unlikely at this stage,” he says. “But relax — never mind — sit back and enjoy.” As if my life is a finally a feature film after the coming attractions.

I do. Kind of.

“Wanna dance?” I ask some guy in a very faded Hadley sweatshirt. He’s probably a senior, since the shirt is so worn in — though I have heard from Cordelia that freshmen sometimes drag their Hadley gear through the mud and wash it to extremes to mimic the seasoned senior garb.

I’m half in my body, dancing with some random guy and half on cloud liquor. Whatever. I’m beyond caring, just flowing with whatever — whoever comes my way.

I slurp down another BWB and wonder if they ever make other flavors.

“What about raspberry? Or peach?” I ask earnestly of the girl mixing more. She looks at me with sympathy — or disgust — not sure — and hands me another one.

When I tire of dancing and drinking, I snoop around the house agog at the photos of worldwide travel.

“Hey there,” Chris the MLUT oozes up behind me and puts his hands on my shoulder in the classic guy move of fake back massage as an excuse for touching. “Looks like someone’s had more than her fair share of juice.”

“Juice?” I say and look around for a second to see if there’s pitcher somewhere, like at camp. Or like Juice Newton, that singer on the 70’s cd. “Do you know Juice Newton?” I ask and sing a bit of “Queen of Hearts” to MLUT.

“No,” he says and smiles, “But I’d be willing to learn…”

He tries to corner me as I fondle a photo of some Roman ruin but I squeeze away. A minute later, Channing gives me a what’s up by the bathroom where he’s already vomited. And Colorado, wasted as can be without requiring emergent care says, “Like, hey bitch!” to me and smiles — this is her at her friendliest. Not bad.

And then the Twister starts. For Harvard and Yale-bound Hadley Hall students, I’m surprised that there’s not more creativity among the party games. Sure, in the kitchen some people are playing bullshit (the wrestlers who can’t drink because they need to keep their weight down) and in the living room there’s a hearty game of truth or dare (freshman and the sluttier set), but most of the crowd goes to the empty sunporch where the dotted board is spread out and Cordelia’s in charge of the spinner.

Colorado and Chris the MLUT wind up knotted and nasty. Lila spills her drink and disappears to the kitchen. From where I stand I can see Jacob talking to some freshman girl in the kitchen. I hadn’t seen him before now and I have real pangs of sadness and desire — but I know I’m not all here and I don’t want to say something stupid to him or wind up crying on his shoulder about how much I loved hanging out with him (drunk girl crying = sure fire way to dread looking at self in the morning).

Besides, he’s paying what looks to be very close attention to the girl in the pink cardigan in the kitchen. I turn my attention to my drink, which is a beautiful blue blobbing burst of — hey what a lot of words start with B!

I’m looking at the empty twister board and thinking of words I like that start with ‘b’ when Robinson comes to stand next to me. He leans in and whispers in my ear, “You up for a round?”

I use his low-down voice as an excuse to do the same back and say, “No — no thanks.” And I linger a little longer than I would under normal circumstances. Three girls start singing some moody song about walking through fire (probably a Sarah McLaughlin song — aren’t all of hers about leading someone through the fire?) and suddenly the whole thing seems mortifyingly obvious and glaringly inane to me. The answer is I should just tell him. Tell Robinson how I feel and it will all be okay. Right? Isn’t that what confident women do, follow their hearts and lusting loins and just say it?

I let Robinson lead me onto the dreaded double Twister mat next to Colorado who is now paired up with SShhh (Spencer Stiller Heller who did such a great job as the cow’s ass in
Into the Woods
, he’s been cast as the phallic donkey’s nose in
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
) and liking it. Robinson and I position ourselves next to them and wait for orders.

“Right hand blue,” Cordelia laughs and slugs her drink. Robinson does it. I follow with left foot yellow and right hand red and then back to yellow and then I’m thinking about Robinson’s lips and the ice sculpture and the blue sno-cone and the blue drinks tonight and how in the summer I LOVE blueberries in yogurt and then I picture the quivering yogurt and am in a spread eagle all fours position and feel a little worse for wear.

“You okay?” Robinson asks from underneath me.

“Now I’ve got you where I want you,” I say. His face is slightly blurred in front of me.

“Finally,” he says and I’m not sure whether he’s joking or not and his left hand moves to cover mine on a green circle. He looks up at me, serious, and I could fall into his arms, lie right down on his strong chest.

But instead, just like the Radio Love Gods song predicted but with the wrong guy, I’m…I’m Coming Up. Make that throwing up. In one powerful heave I splash blue icy chunks all over Robinson’s shirt, face and the left side of his head. Cordelia stumbles to get me and we drunk-girl walk to the bathroom, leaving a revolted Robinson and a riveted audience behind.

But the trouble is, even cleaned up and washed off, I can’t drive and neither can Cordelia and Lila’s nowhere to be seen and I don’t even think to look for Jacob (and his pink sweater girl is gone, too) and I can’t not go home.

So I call Mable.

And, like the good person she is, she drives out to fetch me and Miles, her now official fiancé (emerald cut, two baguettes on either side), drives my car back to Mable’s. Miles leaves us there, in the safe haven of Slave to the Grind, amongst the comforting smell of beans and says he’ll come by tomorrow.

“I’ve already phoned your dad, he knows you’re staying here.”

“Did you tell him why?” I swallow the Tylenol Mable hands me.

“No,” she says. “Not exactly. I mentioned that the party was over and you needed to talk, which is true.”

I slip into one of Mable’s oversized flannel nightshirts and pull my knees up against my chest on the couch. She lectures me about drinking and about my behavior — somehow she knows I slept here after the open mike night.

“I mean, you did fall asleep in the chair that FACES the window, Love. Honestly, did you try to get caught?”

“No,” I say. My head hurts and my tongue is a wad of dry paper. I will never be able to smell blueberry anything without wanting to barf. Bye bye Poptarts and fruit salad.

“Well, you act like you did. In fact, I think you’ve been crying out for some attention — which isn’t like you.”

“If I have been — which I seriously don’t think so — it’s not. Well — you haven’t exactly been in shouting distance,” I say and feel guilty. My aunt should have a love life, even if I don’t. Even if it means ignoring me. “I mean, you didn’t even THANK me for hosting that night — all so you could be out with Mr. Coffee.”

“Miles,” she corrects. “And I’m sorry. You’re right. I should have been more appreciative. But I need to have a life. And so does your dad.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means…” she drifts off. “Nothing. Nothing. Just that you need to be aware of my limitations, that’s all. And I love Miles. I do.”

We segue into her relationship and I hear all about their dates and trip to Vermont and the proposal. And I fall asleep only vaguely aware of the mess I’ve left not just on the Twister mat, but in my social life.

I drive back in silence the next day. No RLG, no ads. Just me and my five-speeds and blue whale-splotched pants. Shift, clutch. Back home. When I walk I the door, my dad whispers something into the phone and then hangs up.

“Was that Mable?” I ask, thinking she’s spilled the proverbial puking beans.

Dad stutters. “No, no. It wasn’t.” He gives me a hug and retires to the study for his Sunday evening symphonies (probably no one professes the perks of maxi-pads on that station).

Upstairs I shower and do a seaweed and cucumber face mask in the hopes that, as the package suggests, it will purify me. Or at least my pores. I sit with the algae-colored goop on my face and check email. Nothing. Check again five minutes later. Nothing. I Google Robinson Hall and get nothing except some genealogy thing about his maybe or maybe not relatives from two hundred years before. But then I try JC Hall, remembering the conversation I had with him about how if he ever becomes a famous director he’ll be JC after Joseph Conrad who wrote
Heart of Darkness
which became
Apocalypse Now
which all guys (Channing, my dad, Chris the MLUT) adore.

Bingo. The all-time jackpot. Better than an old school photo on line or a message posted to some pathetic dating site, JC Hall has a Blog.

And, according to entry one-thirty-one dated three days ago, I’m in it.

So I have to say, I’m glad to be back at school for one reason only. The food. No. Love. Love gets me every time, pulling me back from wherever I’ve been and bringing me into the moment.

Okay, okay. He could mean Love the thing, the emotion. And I can’t go any further back than a week’s worth of entries so there’s no way (damn!) to find out what he thought (if anything) all fall. But a week ago:

Cheesy and gooey, flavorful, you bet — all the toppings you can eat and easy to order and get — Pizza Plus — we deliver and…

The girl I like is a voice-over goddess and just hearing her sexy extra cheese voice makes me want to do inappropriate American Pie sorts of things to pizza.

And that is how I know the ROBINSON FUCKING HALL the one and only LIKES ME. Or at least he did before I slimed him.

I check email just to make sure he hasn’t written. And Robinson hasn’t. But DrakeFan has. I click on the message and open it.

Who ARE you, anyway?

I crawl still hung-over and weirded out and happy and confused into bed, snuggling under the covers and breathing in the cold air from the open window. On the one hand, Robinson could still have feelings for me. On the other hand (or face), I threw up on him last night. And whoever DrakeFan is — Robinson? — I’m not sure whether to interpret the message as “I’m really curious to find out your identity” or “who the hell do you think you are.” My sense is that it’s the second of these choices. He could have witnessed, played an active role in, or just heard about the party fiasco. But the worst part of about the whole thing is the image I have of myself — drunk and sloppy and playing the game I said I wouldn’t. Am I one of
those
people?