Higher Education (19 page)

“Excuse me.”

Warily I open my eyes. It's my neighbor, the skinny kid. I blink at him. “What.”

“Sorry to bother you.” We're lodged so closely together that he doesn't have to raise his voice much above a whisper. “Do you want to dance?”

He looks so miserable that I'm not even tempted to smile. “Uh, do I know you?”

“Well, no.” Nervously he brushes a lock of dark hair off his brow. “But my girlfriend's dancing with somebody else, so I thought I'd ask you.”

“Kid,” I say, “they're playing a slow song. You just don't ask a total stranger to dance with you to a slow song.”

“I know.” He swallows. “But you seem like a nice person.”

“What?” I look harder at him. “Oh, no. Don't tell me. This isn't your first Advocate party, is it?”

“I'm sorry,” he whispers.

“It's not your fault, kid. Look, what's your name?”

“Victor.”

“Victor, tell me a little something about your girlfriend.”

“Well, let's see. She's a champion gymnast and she speaks four languages fluently. She plans to study international politics and—”

“Just the facts, Victor.”

“She listed Adams House as her first choice in the housing lottery.”

“Say no more.” I lower my face right up close to his. “If I were you, I'd dump that bimbo and find myself a nice social-studies major from Mather House.”

“Okay,” he agrees. “Now will you dance with me?”

My stomach cramps and I give a little moan, closing my eyes again.

“I'm sorry,” Victor says anxiously into my ear. “I didn't mean to be so pushy.”

“It's okay.” I keep my eyes shut. “Aggressive guys overwhelm me a little, that's all.”

“Really?” He sounds pleased.

Mick Jagger's caterwauling soulfully over the sound system, his ragged, sensual voice suffusing the room. Dimly I wonder how many times I've heard this tape before.

“Miranda.” Now somebody's whispering into my other ear.

“What,” I mumble, not opening my eyes.

“Will you dance with me?”

At this my eyes start open. It's Dean, standing so close that his belt buckle presses against my hip. “Hi there,” he says, smiling.

“Hi.”

“Fancy meeting you here.”

“Small world, isn't it?”

“You're admiring my shirt, aren't you?”

“Not really. I liked your pajamas better.” I pinch myself closer against the wall.

“Did you?” He's still smiling. “Personally, I thought it was time for a change.” His breath, warm and limpid, brushes over my face. He reeks of Scotch. “Let's dance, baby.” He takes me by the wrists and draws me into the swaying press of dancers, his arms sliding around me as he begins to undulate us back and forth in a tiny seesawing shuffle, slowly circumnavigating an area the size of a large coffee filter.

I'm so taken aback that I allow myself to be thus oscillated for several shambling rounds before I finally address the side of his head which he has so intimately nestled against my jaw. “Hey.”

“Hey what.”

“I don't mean to be pushy, but—”

“You? Never.” His embrace tightens.

“—but is Jennifer around, by any chance?”

“She went home.”

“Ah.”

“She wasn't feeling well.”

“I'm sorry to hear that.”

“Me too.” His fingers are gently massaging my rib cage.

“When the cat's away.”

“Yep.” He laughs breathily into my neck.

I'm about to ask him to stop mauling my scapula when suddenly I sense that I'm being watched. I lift my head from Dean's shoulder to meet the bright unwavering gaze of Alicia, who holds Beatrice in a possessive grip as they gyrate together in the semidarkness. Pouting her mouth at me in a silent smiling kiss, Alicia runs the tip of her tongue over her upper lip.

I stare blankly at her for a moment, and as our respective convolutions rotate us apart I look up from an enthusiastic little dip on Dean's part to see Jackson and Stephanie over by the fireplace. Her arms are clasped around his neck and he is kissing her, her throat a pale arch meeting the bended curve of his head.

Wait. What's wrong with this picture
. She must be standing on tiptoe, I reason dully, or is perhaps wearing high-heeled shoes. Dean starts nuzzling my neck as we lurch about, and twitching my head I catch sight of Gerard up on the oak table, dancing with a huge inflated plastic shark, which he is clutching familiarly just underneath the fin.

Mick Jagger finally fades away but Dean still holds me to him as the guitars to “Walk This Way” begin. People unglue themselves from each other and commence their solitary jiggling and writhing about. I struggle to lean away. “Hey.”

“Hay is for horses.” He gives me a flirtatious little squeeze. “Let's get a drink.” He takes my hand and is hauling me toward the bar when all at once I feel a warm dampness in the back of my jeans.

“Goddam it.” I stop, so abruptly that Dean, still grasping my hand, executes a loose-limbed boomerang that brings him swirling up close to me again.

“What's up?” He's still listing avidly toward the bar.

“Somebody spilled a drink down my back.”

“Well, it's too late to cry about it now.” He tugs at me. “Come on, let's get over there before they run out of booze.”

“I'm going to look at myself in the mirror downstairs.”

“Vanity, vanity.” Fondly he clicks his tongue at me. “Go on then. I'll try to save you a cup.”

“Thanks loads.” I snatch my hand away, and without a second glance I set off, using my elbows for leverage. Dourly I keep my gaze fastened on the floorboards as I thread my way downstairs, where I find that the door to the bathroom is locked. I lean against the wall, listening to three contralto female voices talking inside.

“—and then I said, ‘I can't believe you've never read Emily Dickinson'—”

“—lobbying for a theme issue devoted to Lapp authors—”

“—‘You mean Angie?' he says to me—”

“—not a single uppercase letter in the entire—”

“—of the nineteenth-century resistance movement—”

“—I mean, how on earth did he get into Harvard?”

“—manuscript. ‘This is
not
poetry,' I told them—”

“—and he starts telling me he knows William Dean Howells personally—”

“—
female
nineteenth-century Lapp authors—”

“Hey, girls.” I pound on the door. “You're boring the hell out of me. Get out already.”

The voices skid into silence. After a brief interval the door is unlocked and thrown open, and storming out in an eddy of dark skirts and tasseled boots is the big-nosed trio from Dunster House.

One of the girls rams a shoulder at me as she bowls past. “How did you get in, anyway?”

“Ow. What?”

“Into the Advocate, I mean.”

One of the other girls taps my arm. “Did you have to bribe Gino, honey?”

I frown at her. “What did you say?”

“I didn't know he liked older women.”

“Does she go to Harvard, d'you think? I haven't seen her around before.”

“D'you like her haircut?”

“Her mascara's running.”

“I wonder how much she paid Gino?”

“Dunster House sluts!” I scream, careening into the bathroom and turning the lock. Breathlessly I slope against the door, watching the mottled, water-stained ceiling throbbing from the tumult of dancers above. Then as I stare open-mouthed into the mirror it takes me a while before I realize that the pale, wild-haired girl I'm eyeing so suspiciously is actually my own reflection.

Somebody knocks on the door. “Just a minute,” I say, twisting around trying to get a look at my behind in the mirror. It doesn't work. The most I can see is a painfully hunched shoulder blade. Grumbling, I go into the stall and unzip my jeans. The knocking on the door continues, more forcefully. “Okay, okay,” I say irritably, and it's then that I discover that I've started my period.

Biting my lip, I peep out of the stall and nod. No more paper towels. I improvise a flimsy little pad out of toilet paper, maliciously pleased to be using up the last of the roll, zip up my jeans, and emerge from the stall. Meanwhile, the rapping on the door has become still more insistent, and now I can hear someone saying, “Candygram. Special delivery. Candygram.”

I unlock the door and open it a crack. Instantly a huge soft bluish thing plunges at me and I'm mashed up against the mirror, face to face with a giant grinning mouth bristling with sharp white teeth. I let out a little bleat of horror.

Next I hear laughter, and slowly my assailant pulls away. Then as I wilt against the basin wheezing softly I see Gerard standing in the doorway with his arms around the plastic shark, both of them rocking with mirth.

“Land shark, Miranda.” Gerard giggles. “Land shark.”

I straighten up. “You know, Gerard,” I say, brushing a strand of hair from my forehead, “sometimes you really get on my nerves.” Head held high, I sweep past the two of them and march to the door, which Gino opens wide for me.

“Leaving so soon?” he says affably.

“I'm afraid so.” I pause on the steps. “I didn't find the person I was looking for.”

“Oh, really? Who is it? If he's in there, I would've seen him come in.”

“Yeah?”

“Of course. I'm the doorman. Nobody gets in without my okay first.”

“Right.”

“So who were you looking for?”

“I was—I was—oh, mind your own beeswax.”

“Listen.” Gino comes so close that I can't even smell his leather jacket over the scent of hair pomade. “Can I tell you something?”

“What.”

“I'm really sorry.”

“About what.” I'm trying desperately to keep my lips from quivering.

“About not letting you in tonight. I didn't know.”

“Know what.”

He leans even closer. “About you and Jackson.”

I tilt backward. “What about us?”

“I didn't know the whole story. I'm really sorry.”

“Great,” I snap. “At least one of us does.” And then, before I can turn away quickly enough, two large tears slide down my face.

“I'm really sorry, Miranda,” Gino calls after me. “Anytime you want in at the Advo, honey, you just come to me. I'll take care of you.”

“
Bryan? I didn't wake you up, did I
?”

He grunts. “Just a minute.” There's the sound of a lamp being switched on. “What's wrong
?”

“
Oh god. You were asleep, weren't you
?”

“
It's three o'clock in the morning. Why would I be asleep
?”

“
Oh god. I'm sorry. I'll call you tomorrow.
”

“
If you hang up on me now I'll kill you. What's wrong
?”

“
I can't sleep.
”

“
Jackson
?”

“
Yes.
”

“
What happened
?”

“
We ended up sitting at the same table at dinner tonight.
”

“
And
?”

“
We talked about the weather.
”

“
Jesus.
”

“
I didn't have much fun.
”

“
I'll bet you didn't.
”

“
And when we started comparing the weather this winter with the weather from last winter I spilled my coffee all over the table.
”

“
Spill any on him
?”

“
No, he wasn't sitting close enough.
”

“
That's too bad.
”

“
That's what I thought too.” My voice trembles
.

“
Then what happened
?”

“
I made a joke about crying over spilled milk and got up.
”

He sighs. “That's my girl.
”

“
And then Anthony comes running over and wants to know why I don't want to go out with him. Like I want to discuss this standing next to the salad bar.
”

“
Right.
”

“
Then Master Ackerman sashays over to congratulate me on winning the Boylston Prize, puts his arm around me, and exhales baked scrod all over my hair while he's telling Anthony how proud he is that Adams House got me.
”

“
Badly put.
”

“
Yeah. And then his wife comes along and starts telling us all about little Jim's latest bout of diarrhea, looking at me like it's
my
goddam fault the kid's got problems with his lower
—”

“
I get the picture.
”

“
Exactly. And then Gerard walks by with his little sister, who's visiting for the weekend.
”

“
Great.
”

“
He says something to her and they both wave at me.
”

“
Oh lord.
”

“
Bryan, she's five feet tall and she was wearing pink pants, pink shoes, and a pink blouse.
”

“
What color were her socks
?”

“
Guess.
”

“
No thanks. So what did you end up doing
?”

“
After I peeled Master Ackerman off me? And outran Anthony? I went to the Widener stacks till closing time. Then I came back here and I've been doing some reading. And how was your day
?”

“
Never mind. Look, I want you to get some sleep. Will you try closing your eyes and just not thinking about all this
?”

“
Got any Valium
?”

“
Forget it. Get into bed and start thinking about ways we can get into the black-tie party at the Fogg this weekend.
”