Higher Education (14 page)

“
You know, Gerard.” I wink at him in a grotesquely exaggerated expression that distorts most of my face. “Entertaining.
”

“
Mmm.” He shuffles his oxfords. “Where is Jackson, anyway? I stopped by Boylston Hall and got his Camus reserve readings.
”

“
Do you want to come in
?”

“
Sure.” Still blushing, he leans against the edge of the dresser. “So where is he
?”

“
He's at a dinner party at his thesis adviser's.
”

“
That's nice.
”

“
Speaking of entertaining.
”

“
Mmm.” Gerard shifts nervously. “So why aren't you there? Didn't they invite you too
?”

“
Of course I was invited. I'm Jackson's girlfriend, right
?”

“
Right. So why didn't you go
?”

“
Have you ever gone along with Jackson to one of his dinner parties
?”

“
No, he usually goes with
—”

“
Right.” I push myself a little higher on the pillows
.

“
I mean
—”
Gerard runs a hand through his hair. “I mean, he always seems to have a good time.
”

“
Have you ever had to sit through a five-course meal listening to people argue over where the best restaurants in Provence are
?”

“
Well, I can't say as I
—”

“
All the while wondering which fork you're supposed to use next
?”

“
Well, no, not—
”

“
And then have Jackson rag on you for two hours afterwards for not contributing to the party
?”

“
Contributing
?”

“
You know, Gerard.” I wink again. “Contributing.
”

“
Mmm.
”

“
So Jackson and I decided that maybe it would be better if he went by himself.
”

“
Oh.
”

“
We decided this together, of course. We had a long discussion about it, and together we decided that this would be the best thing for all concerned.
”

“
Sure.
”

There is a silence, during which I trim an already short thumbnail
.

“
Charlie Chaplin festival at the Brattle,” Gerard says suddenly. “If we hurry we can catch the beginning of
The Kid.”

“
When does it start
?”

He looks at his watch
.

“
Ten minutes.
”

“
Okay, I
—”
Then I shake my head. “No, I can't go.
”

“
Why not
?”

“
I left my wallet in C-45.
”

“
That's okay. I'll take care of it.
”

“
I don't have a jacket either.
”

“
Borrow one of Jackson's.
”

“
I'm not wearing any makeup.
”

“
You look fine.
”

“
I've got a lot of work to do.
”

“
Are you going to come along peacefully or do I have to sling you over my shoulder
?”

“
Oh, Gerard.” I swing my feet onto the floor and reach for my sneakers. “You really know how to handle a woman.
”

“
Do you want me to pick out a jacket for you
?”

“
Sure. Thanks.” I tie my shoelaces and stand up, noticing out of the corner of my eye that he's blushing again
.

Gerard waves at somebody over by the checker's desk. I follow the direction of his wave and see Jackson and Stephanie Kandel, the girl in my writing class who was so anxious about missing the assignment, standing in line and looking our way. At this distance it's hard to tell if they're smiling or not.

“My stars,” I say quietly. “Isn't that Jackson over there?”

“Yeah, we're having dinner together.” Gerard slides his chair away from the table. “Then we're going over to the Advo to set up for the party tonight. You're coming, aren't you?”

I pick a tiny piece of orange pulp off my sweater. “I didn't know Stephanie was on the
Advocate.
”

“She's not.”

“Ah.”

“Come sit with us.” He stands up. “I never get to see you anymore.”

“Thanks.” I stand up too. “But I'm on my way out.”

“Come to the party, okay? You owe me a dance.”

“Listen, will you give Jackson a message for me?”

“Sure. What is it?”

I turn away. “Nothing. Never mind.”

“Bye, Miranda,” he calls after me. “See you tonight, okay?”

Walking out of the dining hall I am careful to keep my gaze on the floor in front of me. I'm mechanically climbing the C-entry stairs when I nearly collide with someone coming down. “Sorry,” I murmur, flattening myself against the wall.

“Baby.”

There's a touch to my shoulder, and I lift my head. Richard Amidei is leaning against the railing, looking down at me with his great deep-set dark eyes. He's wearing his old black leather jacket tonight, which has a tiny white Sex Pistols button pinned on the pocket over his heart.

“Richard.”

“Babes.” He takes my hand and raises it to his mouth.

“I like your button.”

“Thanks. I like yours too.”

“What? I'm not—Oh.”

He's begun sucking upon my forefinger. “Orange,” he says softly. “Your hair looks great. So why do you look so sad?”

“I thought I looked embarrassed.”

“No, you look beautiful.”

“Will you please stop doing that to my hand?”

“Why?”

“Because.”

“Because why?”

“Because I haven't washed my hands in three days.”

“Better and better.”

I tilt against the wall, gazing at his strong sharp features and the smooth muscled curve of his jaw and throat. His dark hair, long and curly, is tied into a small ponytail that brushes artlessly against his nape. When finally I pull my fingers away, he steps a little closer and holds out his own hand.

“My turn?”

I take him by the wrist and hold his palm to my cheek. He smells of sweat and smoke and another, subtler musk.

“Baby,” Richard whispers, lightly touching my face. “Your skin's so smooth.” His fingertips glide across my mouth and as I start to sway toward him there's the clattering of what sounds like a hunting party tearing downstairs in hot pursuit.

“'Scuse us!”

“Coming through!”

Richard and I step apart to let my next-door neighbors, the Bicknell twins, skitter past.

“Hi, Miriam,” Beth squeaks.

“Cute hairdo,” Stacey adds enthusiastically. They bubble on downstairs, dressed in matching floaty off-the-shoulder gowns.
Is there a prom tonight
, I wonder sleepily.
Why aren't they wearing corsages
?

Richard pulls me to him. “Miriam.”

“What.”

“We're playing at the Spee tonight.”

“Yeah?” Closing my eyes, I let my head droop onto his fragrant leather-covered shoulder.

“I want you to be there.”

“I'm so tired,” I whisper into his jacket. “I should get some sleep.”

“But don't you want to come see me?”

“Of course I do. But I'm so tired, Richie.”

“Let's go upstairs.”

“I'm waiting for the elevator.”

“You'll wait a long time, baby.”

A strain from “Stairway to Heaven” drifts through my head, and I look up at him. “Isn't that why they call it higher education?”

He smiles. “Let's go on up.”

I let him take my hand and lead me up the remaining two flights of stairs to C-45 and into my bedroom, where he sits at my desk and waits while I dig my Estée Lauder mirror out from under a pile of clothes next to my bureau. Then I sit on my bed, propped up on pillows, watching him. His lips are parted in concentration as he bends expertly over the mirror.

“Looks a little messy in here,” he remarks without looking up. “Haven't had time to do your spring cleaning yet?”

“I've been busy.” I sink lower against the pillows. “My workload's unbelievable this semester.”

“Yeah, mine too.” He hums to himself for a while, then rises and comes over to the bed, mirror balanced on the palm of his hand. “Miriam?”

“Richie?”

“The elevator's here.” He looks at me, his dark eyes shining. “Which floor did you want?”

“I don't know.” I sit up, making room for him next to me. “You decide.”

Now the mirror is on the floor somewhere, as are my shoes and one of my socks. Richard is kissing my neck. It's tickling me, and I squirm and sit up.

Richard gives me a heavy-lidded look. “You okay?”

“Be right back,” I say, sliding off the bed. In the bathroom I stare at myself in the mirror for a minute or two, noting with perverse interest the traces of last night's makeup rimming my eyes.

Back in my room Richard is lying on his back, legs crossed at the ankle, eyes closed and humming to himself. One of his feet jiggles back and forth.

“Hi.” I sit on the edge of the bed. “Miss me?”

He doesn't open his eyes. “Miranda blue,” he sings softly, experimentally. “Miranda blue, Miranda blue.” He keeps trying out different combinations of notes, all of them in a minor key, until finally I lean over him and take him by the shoulders.

“Call me Miriam.”

At last he opens his eyes. “Miranda blue,” he says, sliding his arms around me and pulling me close.

“Richie?”

“Relax,” he whispers.

“I hate blue,” I whisper back.

“No you don't.” He's giving me that heavy-lidded look again. “Color of your eyes.”

“Is it?”

“Blue like the sky.”

“Really?” I touch my lips to his throat.

“Yeah,” he whispers. “Yeah.”

“Richie?”

“Miriam?”

“I just—will you—” I notice that his foot is still jiggling. “Just kiss me, will you?”

It's a little past nine and here I am by the Charles, running swiftly even though my legs are a little numb and my skull feels oddly hollow and silvery. My breath comes rapidly, synchronizing itself to the rhythm of my stride.

Left, right. Left, right.

The river glistens black and sinister, reflecting the yellow pinprick lights of the Harvard Business School twinkling from the opposite shore. I find myself wondering if it's true that they dredged up the body of a young woman in a business suit last weekend. They say she was still clutching her briefcase.

“Hey, Legs!” A bottle-green Plymouth cruising by on Mem Drive slows alongside me, and a grinning dark-haired head emerges from the window. “Run over here, why doncha?”

“Hey!” I call back without breaking stride. “Drop dead, why doncha?”

The head looks surprised and retreats inside the Plymouth, which picks up speed and roars off into the darkness, red taillights gleaming.

One, two, three, four.

My head is pounding. Or is that my heart?

I'm trying to remember what it feels like to be tired. Instead I keep seeing Richard's face smiling at me in the dim light of the desk lamp he's covered with his jacket.

Already I've reached the Weld Boathouse, which overhangs dark and foreboding above the river, reminding me as ever of the Haunted Mansion at Disneyland. I turn around and begin running back toward Weeks Bridge. A double circuit tonight.

One, two, three, four.

One, two, three, four.

Wait a minute
, I tell myself.
Is this an E-ticket ride
?

I lope past Winthrop House and then turn up Plympton Street, passing Leverett, then Lowell and Quincy House, dodging the usual clumps of people hurrying about with that loud, boisterous Saturday-night intensity that ordinarily tends to drive me into the library right after dinner. Better to tuck myself in a solitary comer of the Widener reading room where I needn't be forced to witness these vivacious, back-slapping, bug-eyed pursuits that always leave me feeling like I'm a hundred years old.
C'mon, Miranda, let's go out and have some fun
.

Fun
. I hawk up a little phlegm and spit it into the gutter.

I've just negotiated crossing Mount Auburn Street against the light when a blood-rattling scream comes pouring down from the open windows of the Lampoon building across Plympton Street. Leaping over an empty beer bottle, I turn my head to sneer up at the party and jog straight into somebody standing in front of Harvard Pizza.

“Oh, shit!” a voice wails, and I look down to see a large slice of pizza lying at my feet, cheese side down.

“Gross,” I exclaim, inspecting my sneakers to see if there's any tomato sauce on them. Or worse, some kind of animal matter. Sausage, say, or pepperoni.

“I didn't even get a bite of it,” the voice goes on.

I lift my head, brushing the hair out of my eyes. “Hi, guys.” Billy Collins lists against a street sign smiling loopily at me with an enormous hero sandwich jammed into his mouth. Lounging next to him, the collar of his Levi jacket turned up, Skip Peterson dangles two teeth-marked crusts and a half-eaten slice in one tanned hand. Anthony lurks at the edge of the group, staring disconsolately at the doomed slice lying inert on the ground between us.

“Sorry about that,” I tell him, restlessly shifting my weight from one foot to the other. “Extra cheese, wasn't it?”

He's shaking his head in sorrow. “Extra mushrooms too.”

“Bummer.”

“Hi, Miranda,” Billy says, leering to the extent that he can through half a hero sandwich. “You're looking great tonight.”

“Thanks.”

“Yeah, nice legs.” Skip grins at me.