Higher Education (11 page)

“
Gal
?”

“
There's no heat in this goddam room. Let's give Kurt a call, okay
?”

He looks at me and smiles
. “Ma chère,”
he says
, “ma chère.”
He pronounces it
maw-shair,
drawling out the
shair
until it sounds like a four-syllable phrase
.

“
Michael
?”

“
Yeah
?”

“
While I'm calling Kurt,” I tell him quietly, “you'd better get out your Larousse. We have some more work to do.
”

“Well,” Teddy says again, with undimmed cheer, “this is my stop, I guess.”

“What?”

“I said, I'll see you later.”

“Okay,” I say absently. “Good luck with getting your mom's birthday present.”

“Thanks. It was last week, so there's no rush.” He dissolves into burbling laughter. “Yo ho ho. God, that was funny.” As I turn away, he cries: “Wait.”

“What.”

“Which party will you be at tomorrow night?”

“Which party?” I feel a keen ache behind my eyes.

“Spee or Advo?”

“Aren't you guys having your usual Saturday-night bash?”

“Oh, sure. But you know us, we love to crash parties. Break a few glasses here, break a few glasses there.”

“All in a night's work.”

“Yep.” He starts giggling again, and I wave at him and start walking toward Quincy Street. When I reach the crosswalk, I'm overtaken by a vociferous knot of freshmen bent for lunch and enthusiastic over the prospect of ratatouille. I pause, letting them pass me, and then all at once I decide to skip class and go back to C-45 for some aspirin and a nap.

I'm sitting cross-legged on Henry's couch, holding an immense bouquet of irises in my arms as I watch Henry pace back and forth, a Ronald McDonald glass half-filled with Miller Lite dangling in his hand
.

“
Miranda, “he's saying, “I just don't understand.” Back and forth, back and forth. “I just don't understand this at all.
”

“
There's nothing to understand.
”

“
Nothing to understand?” He glares. “There's plenty not to understand. Like why I'm not supposed to see you anymore, for example.
”

“
We can't, Henry.
”

“
Why not?” Back and forth. “Tell me why we can't.
”

“
Because I'm going out with Jackson.
”

“
I know that,” he says impatiently
.

“
So why don't you understand
?”

“
Thanks for reminding me. I also don't understand why you're going out with him.
”

“
We're not discussing my relationship with Jackson.
”

“
Maybe we should.
”

“
I'd rather not.
”

“
Finally, something I can understand.” He grins sardonically
.

“
Bully for you.” My mouth tight, I watch him as he strides to and fro in his noiseless black Converse hightops
.

“
Look, Miranda, can we stop this goddam running around in circles? We're not getting anywhere.
”

“
No, but it's good exercise.
”

“
You don't want to talk about your relationship with Jackson, you don't want to talk about your relationship with me.” He runs a hand through his already disheveled hair. “Maybe you'd like to talk about the weather
?”

“
We don't
have
a relationship, Henry.
”

“
Will you stop with the goddam semantics
?”

“
Shh.” I point at the door. “Your kiddies.
”

“
Whoops. Thanks.” He takes a long swallow of his Miller Lite, and then holds the glass out to me. “You want some
?”

“
No. Thanks.
”

He resumes his pacing. “Let's try and talk about this honestly, okay? I'll start. Ready? Okay. Now, I'm perfectly aware of the fact that you're going out with Jackson.
”

“
Look, Henry
—”

“
Although why you're doing it is beyond me.
”

“
I don't want
—”

“
If you ask me, it doesn't seem to be making you particularly happy.
”

“
Nobody's asking you.
”

“
The point is, Miranda, I'd just like to spend some time with you.
”

“
It's not that simple, Henry.
”

“
Why not
?”

“
What happened the last time we saw each other
?”

“
Miranda, nothing happened.
”

“
I beg to differ,” I say coldly. “That was not nothing.
”

“
So we kissed each other. It was nice, right
?”

“
Yes, but—
”

“
And we left all our clothes on, right
?”

“
I—yes
—”

“
And I didn't even try to unhook your bra, did I
?”

“
I—what
?”

“
Oh, sorry. You don't wear a bra, do you
?”

My face is burning. “Screw you.
”

“
Coward, coward,” he taunts me
.

I jump to my feet and throw the irises at him. They flutter against his chest like slim violet-plumed birds and fall rustling to the floor. Henry takes another sip of his beer, and looks over at me. “I'm sorry,” he says mildly. “I thought you liked irises.
”

I stoop to pick up a flower that's landed near me. Gripping the stem in my fist, I straighten up, feeling a little dizzy. He stands watching me as I come near, and timidly I put my arms around him. Closing my eyes, I rest my cheek against his sweater, which smells faintly of Miller Lite, Liquid Paper, and my creme rinse. “I'm sorry too,” I say, dropping the iris
.

His arms encircle me. “I guess that makes us even.” I can feel the Ronald McDonald glass against my shoulder blade, chilly even through my shirt. “Next time I'll get you roses, okay
?”

“
Okay.” I press my cheek harder against his chest. “Henry
?”

“
Miranda
?”

“
Please don't spill your beer all over my shirt.” I don't see any reason to tell him that it's Jackson's
.

The light ashen shadows of late afternoon are spilling into my room, silvery and mysterious. I look over at my clock-radio. It's nearly five-thirty, which means that the Adams House tea is doubtless in full swing by now. Yawning, I picture the prim dark rooms at Apthorp Court, jammed with the usual assortment of physical-sciences nerds, house tutors, classical musicians, overweight political activists, social climbers, zealous sophomores, unidentified kindly-looking adults dressed in what appears to be their Sunday best, and a sprinkling of glammie types prowling ecstatically around with a particularly offensive air of being deliberately out of their milieu, the whole lot of them eating and drinking as if there's no tomorrow, rattling teacups and standing around making halfhearted conversation while busily scanning for fresh trays of brownies and puff pastries.

On the whole, I'd rather go running.

Shit
. In the middle of another yawn I remember that I told Michael I'd be there. I roll over onto my back, fingers laced together behind my head. Pondering, I start flexing and pointing my feet. Left, right, left, right.

By the time I hear the front door slam, I've degenerated into mindless absorption in my foot-flexing. Left, right, left, right. “Jessie?” I call out.

There is no reply. I get up and peer into the living room. “Jessica?” Nothing. I go into the hallway. “Jessica?”

“No, dope, it's the Queen of England,” she screams from the bathroom.

“You're squeezing your face, aren't you,” I scream back and dart into the bathroom, where indeed, she stands before the mirror with forefingers poised like pincers. “Hey!”

“Hey what.”

“Stop that.”

“Go away.” She starts pinching her chin.

“Jessie, stop for a second. Please, just for a second. Pretty please? Pretty please with an olive on top?”

Without turning her head she rolls her eyes in my direction, rendering her absolutely carplike for a brief, magical second. “I hate olives.”

“Well, I know you don't like cherries, so I thought I'd substitute olives.”

“I hate olives, cherries, and Melba toast.”

“Yes, but you'll like this.” I lean against the towel rack. “Knock knock.”

“Oh Christ.”

“Come on. Just this once.”

“Christ.”

“Thank you. Knock knock.”

“Who's there?” She keeps her fingers at her chin.

“Olive.”

“Olive who?”

“Olive you.”

She gives a brief mirthless smile and begins scrutinizing her forehead. “Hilarious. Will you go away now?”

“Not until you leave your face alone.”

“It's my face. I can mutilate it if I want to.”

“Will you at least tell me why you're doing this?”

“Because my complexion sucks. Isn't it painfully obvious from twenty feet away?”

“Jessica, your complexion is fine.”

“Easy for you to say. I'm the one looking at all these zits.”

“You're crazy. Now look, what's the real reason for all this?”

She grips a piece of flesh between her fingers. “I'm a horrible, disgusting person. Is that a good enough reason?”

“Can we please talk about this in the living room? You know how I hate these little tête-à-têtes in the bathroom.”

“I can't leave now. My face is all red and blotchy.”

“We'll put a paper bag over your head, okay?” I take her hand and draw her into the living room, where we settle into opposite ends of the sofa. I unlace her shoes and slip them off her feet, blinking at her socks. Today she wears a black-and-white-striped glitter sock and a brown cableknit knee-hi.

“Righto then.” I start massaging her insteps. “What seems to be the problem?”

“Nothing. I have no problems.” She sighs, leaning her head back against the sofa. “That feels great.”

“Look, I give footsie, you spill guts. Deal?”

“A little harder on the arch, please.”

“How's this?”

“Fabulous.”

“Good. Now talk.”

“Well, my first mistake was going to the tea.”

“Foolhardy girl. Hey, did you see Michael there?”

“Michael?” She thinks for a moment. “No. But I did see Beverly Stinson.”

“Mistake number two?”

Jessica nods, then drops her chin and rolls her eyes in a single coordinated gesture of woe. “Beverly,” she says darkly, “has not only finished her thesis, she's had it typeset and bound in a blue leather cover.”

“That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard.”

“Pigskin,” Jessica moans. “Hand-tooled Spanish pigskin.”

“Jessica, Beverly Stinson has a face like a scallop. What are you worried about?”

“I'm worried about her blue pigskin thesis.”

“Twenty years from now, your thesis won't mean shit.” I switch to her other foot. “And Beverly Stinson will still look like a scallop.”

“That's true.” Jessica brightens a little.

“An aging scallop.”

“Yeah,” she breathes.

“Good. Now, is there a mistake number three?”

Her face droops again. “Melba toast.”

“Oh, right. Olives, cherries, and Melba toast.”

“After talking to Beverly, there was only one thing to do.”

“The buffet?”

“What else.”

“It's always the victims who blame themselves.”

“I ate about ninety hors d'oeuvres, mostly cream cheese on Melba toast with little olive slices on top. I'm about to explode. Don't bring any pins or other sharp objects near me.”

“I thought you said you hated olives.”

“Now I do.”

“Ah.”

“Besides, they ran out of brownies.”

“I see.”

“So I spent an hour stuffing the goddam Melba-toast things into my mouth waiting for more brownies to arrive.”

“Look at it this way. If you hadn't been busy eating olives on Melba toast, you might very well have been cornered by some social misfit wearing chukka boots.”

“Yes, but—”

“But what?”

“Don't you know how fattening olives and cream cheese are?”

“But they were on Melba toast.” I'm gently bending each of her toes in succession. “Melba toast isn't fattening.”

“But olives and cream cheese are.”

“So that makes up for it.”

“Huh?”

“Don't you see? They cancel each other out.”

“They do?”

“Of course. I thought everybody knew that.” I give her metatarsals a final knead and stand up. “It's simple yin and yang. Olives in, Melba toast out.”

“Fine.” She wiggles her toes. “I'm just not eating for the next three weeks.”

“That's my girl.” I put one leg in front of the other and bend forward, touching the floor with my palms. “Now listen. I'm going running. If you squeeze your face while I'm gone I'll beat your nose in.”

“Promises, promises.”

“Don't be disgusting.” I reverse my legs. “Hey, it's Friday night, isn't it?”

“So what?”

“So it's time to start having fun.”

“Says who?”

“What glamorous schemes have you cooked up for yourself?”

“Don't say cooking.”

“Sorry.”

“My plans for tonight? Three guesses.”

“Starts with T? Six letters? Rhymes with—”