Higher Education (23 page)

Straightening up, I blow my nose, drop the tissue on the floor, and punt it under my bed. Frowning, I clamp my hands around my left hamstring. Is it my imagination, or does the muscle already seem a little flabby? My eye lights upon the big garbage bag next to my bureau and I poke my foot at it, trying to remember what I shoved inside last night.
My, aren't you just the cutest couple. Maybe you two'll win the prize for best costumes
. I give the bag a vicious kick and go back into the living room.

Restlessly I do a few arm windmills and then stand by the window, looking down at the brightly lit stretch of sidewalk in front of Harvard Pizza. There's Anthony and Skip sauntering out, each carrying a big flat white cardboard box, and crossing the street without looking for cars. Five or six football players pass through the narrow doorway, jostling one another and nearly trampling the Adams House English tutor, who's got his arm around a blonde girl who looks vaguely familiar. Then I think I catch sight of Henry walking along Plympton Street toward the Charles.

“Dear god,” I say aloud, my breath misting the windowpane. The tall dark-headed figure in the dark jacket vanishes past the Lampoon, and frantically I scramble for my shoes.

I bolt down the stairs and out of Adams House and start racing down Plympton Street. When I come to the comer at Mount Auburn Street I plunge across the intersection against the light, and head for the river. My legs are stiff and cold but I force myself to keep lengthening my stride as I lope along scanning the sidewalks and streets.

Crossing Mem Drive, I come to a halt on a gravelly path near the garbage-ridden bank of the Charles. I look around, panting a little. This isn't exactly a terrific place to be alone, I remind myself, particularly at night. Yet I remain until my breath evens out and the abrupt urge to cry has subsided, and then I turn back toward Adams House. Though I'm now feeling less than energetic and I hate running in Keds which have no arch support whatsoever, I launch into a fast jog up Plympton Street. As I'm crossing Mount Auburn Street my nose starts tickling; I put up a hand to swipe at my nostrils and collide with a strange bouncy resiliency into an Arpege-scented form barreling out of Harvard Pizza.

“Oh, shit!” It's Jeanne, my freshman roommate, reeling with laughter as she points at the slice of pizza lying on the ground between us, its mangled tip pointing at me in a cheesy
Je t'accuse
.

“No, pussycat, it's mozzarella.” Her companion, his plump round chest swathed in a
HARVARD MODEL U.N
. t-shirt, laughs too. “Not shit. Mozzarella.”

“You must be Carl,” I say sourly.

“That's right.” His lips glint in a grease-smeared smile. “And you must be Miranda. I've heard all about you.”

“Oh?”

“Same old impetuous Miranda,” Jeanne says indulgently. “Still running around like she's got a lampshade on her head.”

“What?” I take a step closer, towering over her.

Her eyes twinkle up into mine. “I just wish you'd watch where you're going, sweetie. That slice had extra cheese and mushrooms.”

I just wish you'd shove it up your ass
. I wipe my nose with the back of my hand and notice that they're goggling at me, their smiles fading. Dear god, did I actually say that aloud? Folding my arms across my chest, I stare right back. “And furthermore—”

“How about another slice, pussycat?” Carl wheels around and hustles back into the pizza shop, the thighs of his blue jeans hissing as they rub together.

“And furthermore—” I hesitate, sniffling.
I wish I had a dollar for every time I've seen you talking on the phone wearing a big white Jolene mustache
. “You know, Jeanne, I really hated the way you'd leave your pubic hairs all over the soap.”

“I—what?”

“Frankly, it really grossed me out.” I nod and stalk away. As I'm crossing Bow Street I hear Carl sing out behind me: “Here you go, buttercup! Extra cheese and mushrooms.”

Buttercup
, I say to myself as I'm climbing the C-entry stairs.
How unutterably perfect
. It's not until I'm back in C-45, taking off my jacket, that I recollect what took me whirling outside in the first place. I go back to the window, dragging my jacket on the floor behind me. The sidewalk in front of Harvard Pizza is deserted.

Henry
. I'm leaning my shoulder against the window frame, remembering Henry's gleeful predilection for hugely oversized thrift-store blazers, his unfailing interest in whatever shade of lipstick I happened to be wearing, which he would affably compliment and then gently dab off with one of my tissues.
Do you mind
? he'd say.
It looks wonderful, but I don't like the taste
.

There's a tiny cool breeze coming in through the window. I look down at the street one last time, and then I turn and throw my jacket, hard, onto the couch. It lands with a sharp little
plop
and I go into my room and start taking off my clothes.

6

MONDAY

I slam the little door to the C-45 mailbox shut, clutching a stiff white envelope in my hand. My head is pounding. I go around the corner into the ladies' lounge, where I lie down on the slippery flowered divan and rip open the envelope.
Seniors graduating with a job that pays over fifteen thousand dollars a year are cordially invited to apply for an American Express card
.

“Right,” I mutter aloud. “Don't goddam leave home without it.”

“
Look, honey,” my father is saying, “he's
your
son.
”

Hunching lower over the kitchen table, I turn another page in my algebra book. Through the open windows their voices float in from the backyard, where they are sitting in lawn chairs facing into the last of the afternoon sun
.

“
I just can't believe Andy doesn't want to spend the summer with us.
”

“
Is that what he said
?”

“
He said he'd rather stay out in Denver.
”

“
Maybe he's going to summer school,” my father says tentatively. “Or maybe he's got a girlfriend out there.
”

“
I'm sure
he
put Andy up to it.” I hear ice cubes rattling against glass. “It's just the kind of thing he'd do.
”

“
Now, Annie
—”

“
If he knows I want something, he's just got to do the opposite.
”

“
I'm sure he's
—”

“
Divorced fifteen years and he's still trying to make me miserable.
”

“
I don't think
—”

“
Fifteen years of gloating about what a terrific father he is. Haven't I insisted that Andy spend his summers with us, even if it's screwed up our own vacation plans
?”

“
Now look
—”

“
I'll tell you one thing.” My mother lowers her voice. “I sure as hell wish I'd gotten my tubes tied before I met you.
”

There is a long silence, punctuated by the soft whooshing cadence of the sprinkler jerking around and around over by the honeysuckle trellis
.

My father sighs. “You want another drink
?”

“
No, I want you to talk to Andy.
”

“
Why do you want
me
to talk to
your
son
?”

“
I just want you to talk to him. Man to man.
”

“
He's sixteen years old.
”

“
Just talk to him. Is that so much to ask? Tell him how much we're looking forward to seeing him. Tell him he can use your car.
”

“
Hey, hey, let's not get carried away here.
”

“
Tell him we'll pay for his guitar lessons.
”

I close my algebra book and gather up my papers into a neat little stack and go upstairs to my room, where I put on socks and sneakers. Then I go back downstairs, slipping through the kitchen and into the garage, and get my bicycle where it leans against an old rickety bookcase my mother keeps insisting she's going to give to Goodwill the first chance she gets. I'm not too worried about the algebra test on Monday anyway. I haven't dropped below a 95 yet
.

The toilet flushes in the adjacent bathroom. I turn my eyes to the top of the application, where, I note, the
NAME OF APPLICANT
line has already been filled in with neat computer type:
Mrs. Mirinda Walker
.

There's the sound of water running in the next room and then somebody's nose being blown in soft vigorous puffs. Involuntarily I give a little sniff of my own.
Please describe your employment history, including summer job(s), listing most recent first
. Video games, I muse, does that count as full-time employment?

“Wanda!”

I look up from the section describing the billing agreement in print so minute it makes my head throb even more violently. Angela stands there, a brush in one hand and a large handbag in the other. Her eyes are red, or maybe it's just a reflection from her maroon sweatshirt with
RADCLIFFE
embroidered over the heart. “Hi, Angela. How's everything?”

“Awful.”

“Oh?”

“Guess what I've been doing.”

“Smoking pot in the loo?”

“No, I've been crying.” She sits on a stool in front of the mirrored vanity. “Philip and I are having an argument.”

“What, again?”

“In the dining hall.” Her voice is low and excited. “I just stormed out on him in the middle of dessert.”

“My.” I realize that I need to blow my nose, and start poking around in my bag for a tissue.

“Wanda?”

“Mmm?”

“Do you think I'm wrong to want breast implants?”

“Well—” I blow my nose and stick the Kleenex back into my bag. “I'm not really sure if it's a question of right or wrong.”

“That's what I keep telling Philip.” Her lower lip starts to tremble. “Will you come help me, Wanda?”

“I don't see how—”

“Come and help me talk to Philip.”

“I'm sure you're doing a perfectly good job already.”

“I just want you to—”

“After all, isn't that what a liberal-arts education is all about?”

“I really need you to—”

“Improved communication skills, right?”

“Wanda, please. He likes you. He respects your opinion.”

“Really?” I say dubiously.

She gives a little sob. “Please.”

“Okay, okay. Just don't cry, all right?”

“Thanks, Wanda. I knew you'd come through.” Then her look of relief is displaced by an anxious pucker. “Oh my god.”

“What's wrong?”

“I hope he hasn't left the dining hall already.”

“We'd better hurry then.” Slowly I fold up the letter from American Express and put it into my bag.

“If Mariel Hemingway can do it, why can't I?” Angela says for the third time.

Philip sighs and stands up, empty coffee cup in hand.

As soon as he's out of earshot Angela turns to me and whispers, “How do I look?” She gropes in her bag and pulls out a hand mirror.

“Fine, fine,” I mumble through a mouthful of split-pea soup and smushed-up cracker.

“My hair looks awful.”

“No, no—”

“I look like I've been dead for two days.”

“No, no.” I swallow laboriously.

“And he doesn't even offer to bring me more coffee, the selfish creep.”

“Does he always drink this much coffee?”

“Only when he's upset.”

“Calms his nerves, does it?”

“Will you look at these pores? God, I hate my complexion.”

“Angela, your skin is beautiful.” I crumble another saltine into my bowl.

“You won't
believe
what he said to me the other night.”

Oh shit
. “Have you had a facial lately?”

“He's lying right on top of me and he looks at me and says—”

“I hear oatmeal soap is marvelous.”

“I mean, the bed is
dripping
wet and he has the gall to tell me—”

“Benzoyl peroxide,” I say loudly. “Jessica swears by it.”

“And then he says, ‘I've been meaning to tell you something—'” She breaks off as Philip returns and sets his cup on the table in precisely the same spot it was before. Without looking at us he sits down again, adds sugar to his coffee, and stirs, his spoon making little rhythmic clinks against the inside of the cup. Angela puts the mirror back into her handbag, closing the snap with a sharp twist of her fingers. I'm staring down into my bowl, bent on mashing the cracker around until I've achieved the perfect sodden green consistency.

“You'd have dissolved granite in there by now.” I glance up, but she is addressing him.

“I like to stir my coffee.” He doesn't stop. “Is that okay with you?”

“Listen,” Angela begins.

“If you mention Mariel Hemingway one more time—”

“All I was going to say was—”

“All you've done for the last week is talk about your breasts,” he says wearily. “How do you expect me to get any work done when you're running around the room without a shirt on?”

“If you cared about me—”

“Angela.” Philip sighs again. “I just don't think getting breast implants is such a good idea.”

There is a leaden silence, and then Angela pinches my thigh under the table. “Ow!” I exclaim. “Don't do that.”

“Go on,” she hisses. “Talk to him.”

“Oh.” I look across the table to where Philip is still stirring his coffee. “Well, gang, let's just approach this thing rationally, shall we?”

“Good,” Angela whispers, nodding.

“Thanks.” I nod back, and fall silent.