Higher Education (27 page)

“A hot-water bottle.”

“
Whose
fucking hot-water bottle?”

“Your fucking hot-water bottle,” I say politely.

“That's right,
my
fucking hot-water bottle. Why don't you use your own fucking hot-water bottle, for Christ's sake?”

“I don't own a hot-water bottle. Or a fucking hot-water bottle, for that matter.”

“Oh, you're funny.”

“Not really.”

“Why don't you buy your own?” She drops the bag as if it's contaminated by something unspeakably foul. It lands on the floor with a soft gurgle. “They're found in any drugstore. Any idiot can buy one.”

“I'm not sure I like what you're implying.”

“Jesus, you're such a goddam hypochondriac.” She lowers herself onto the couch with conspicuous gingerness. “For such a healthy person, you're pretty goddam sick.”

“That's a compliment, right?” My stomach cramps, and secretively I slide a hand over my abdomen.

“No, it's not a fucking compliment.”

“Oh.”

“I'm sick of hearing about your goddam lymph nodes. All you do is worry about your body, do you know that? Jesus, you act like any minute it's going to goddam fall apart.”

“How do you know it won't?”

“You're twenty-one years old! You're a kid!” she screams. “Stop worrying about every single twinge, for Christ's sake.” She waves her arms in exasperation. “I swear, you're worse than my crazy old grandmother. Every time she loses a fucking
eyelash
she runs crying to her doctor, begging him to surgically glue it back on again.”

“I see.” My head droops, and I prop it up by cupping my chin in my hand.

“These are the best goddam years of our lives, and all you do is complain,” Jessica rages on. “You're always feeling so goddam sorry for yourself.”

I look at her through my eyelashes. “Somebody has to.”

After a moment she laughs disagreeably. “I haven't slept in three days, I'm living on Spaghetti Os and granola bars, I'm surrounded by three balding cats who keep trying to hump my leg, and
you're
feeling sorry for yourself?”

“Why are you living on Spaghetti Os and granola bars?”

“That's all there is in my thesis adviser's goddam apartment. That's what the goddam cats eat too.”

“Why don't you buy some groceries?”

“Because, in case you haven't noticed,” she replies icily, “I've got a thesis to write.”

“Then why are you wasting time fighting with me?”

“I came back for some clean towels. I suppose you've used them already too?”

“You're in luck.”
Goddam
. I can't take aspirin, now that I've already taken the Midol. “I haven't had a chance to sink my fangs into your washcloths yet.”

“Aren't you flip.” She gives that scathing laugh again. “Her royal highness, the queen of the fast comeback.”

There is a silence. Involuntarily I sniffle, softly.

“Don't just sit there sniffing down your nose at me, you shit.”

“I need to blow my nose.” I glance at her. “But I'm afraid you'll start calling me names again.”

“Go ahead,” she screams. “Use my Kleenex, why don't you?”

I wipe my nose with the back of my hand. “Are you through hollering? For the moment?”

“Why?” She eyes me suspiciously.

“Just asking.”

“Why? What do you want to take now?”

I stand up. “Well, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to my room.”

“That's right,” she calls after me. “Go feel sorry for yourself.”

My hand on the doorknob, I pause. “Jessica?”

“What? What the fuck is it now?”

“You probably won't take this in the right spirit, but—” I look at her for a long moment. “Good luck with your thesis.” Quietly I shut the door.

8

WEDNESDAY

Eyes closed, I lie in bed with my hands on my thighs, trying to detect the presence of new fat. Have my muscles gone slack? Have they begun to atrophy yet? I squeeze my quadriceps, recalling a magazine article I read somewhere about how inactivity reduces fitness at a geometric rate more or less approximating the speed of light.

Wincing, I pull the covers closer around my shoulders. I hear my next-door neighbor in C-41 laughing shrilly.
How long have I been in bed
?

I open my eyes and look over at the clock. It's four-thirty. I've been lying here for almost fifteen hours. Folding my arms behind my head, I gaze up at the light fixture. Taking twice the recommended dosage of Nyquil, it seems, results in a proportionate amount of sleep.

A quavering scream comes skewering through the wall, and I pinch at my waist for excess flesh. Then, sighing, I slope upward against the pillows and blow my nose. The Nyquil doesn't seem to have helped much with my congestion, I think crossly, flicking the Kleenex onto the floor, and suddenly I sit up straight. It's Wednesday. Late Wednesday afternoon, to be precise. Another Soc Sci 33 class missed. I start to yawn, and then into my mind comes the image of Jessica pacing a distraught little figure-eight in front of me.
That's right. You're just the girl who cain't say no
.

There's the sound of something smashing next door, and I look away from the wall, gazing at the gray attenuated shadows slanting in under the half-drawn blind. They look like trees, I tell myself, mutant trees. Or like those weird deep-sea creatures that never see the sun.
No, dope, they look like lettuce leaves
.

My stomach gives a long, hollow-sounding gurgle. I look over at the clock again. It's been nearly twenty-four hours since I've last eaten. Slouching down against the pillows, dreamily I contemplate what I'll have for breakfast. A big plate of waffles swimming in maple syrup? A mushroom-and-cheese omelette with heaps of toast and freshly squeezed orange juice? Or maybe I'll skip straight to dinner and have a hamburger and french fries, with lots of ketchup. And Tab. And maybe some frozen yogurt from Baby Watson's for dessert.

Humming, I throw off the covers and stand up. But when I lean forward to do a few toe touches, I find myself staring at my knees. When was the last time I went running?
No pain, no gain
, I hear Walt's voice echoing thinly in my ears.
You're not going to let a little cold stop you from jogging, are you
? Exhaling deeply, I touch my palms flat to the floor, ignoring another despairing gurgle from my stomach. Then I straighten up, trying to shake the tinny little voice snaking through my head.
No run, no fun. Go ahead and feel sorry for yourself, why doncha
.

“Sister,” I say aloud, bouncing on my toes, “you can kiss that mushroom-and-cheese omelette goodbye.”

I do a few dilatory waist twists. The way the day is going, I reflect bitterly, I may as well drag myself downstairs to the Adams House library and check out some Soc Sci 33 readings. I sigh again and then start scrounging around for some clean clothes.

Dressed in sweatpants, sneakers, and my ancient Minnie Mouse sweatshirt with the ripped sleeve, I pass the mailboxes, forbidding myself even a fast peep, and stalk along the entryway. From the Gold Room come sounds of raised voices, laughter, and off-key piano tinkling. As I'm passing by, eyes fixed upon the curving staircase that leads up to the library, through the massive gold-leafed double doors I hear someone squeaking out:

“Look who's here!”

“
Mee
riam!”

The Bicknell twins dart out, each of them taking one of my wrists in a surprisingly strong grip.

“Come on in!”

“Join the party!”

I look left and right at them, both wearing identical pale-blue dresses with dainty lace collars, and finally I concede that I'll never be able to tell the two of them apart. “What's up, girls?”

“First Boston's throwing a cocktail party.”

“For prospective job applicants.”

“Why don't you come in?”

“We're having lots of fun.”

“Well, I've really got a lot of studying to do—”

“They're giving away the cutest little miniature briefcases.”

“There's going to be a slide show later on.”

“Some of the guys are really cute.”

“And the buffet is fantastic.”

“Buffet?” I look over at Stacey or Beth, whichever. “I don't suppose they have cheese balls, do they? Those mushy little orange things all studded with nuts?”

“Sure they do!”

“Trays and trays!”

“Well, I don't know. It's just that I'm way behind in my Soc Sci 33—”

“They're giving away door prizes.”

“A gift certificate to the Coop.”

“Tickets to a Red Sox game.”

“Plus there's an open bar.”

“A Red Sox game? No kidding?”

“Cross my heart!”

“Hope to die!”

“Well, maybe I'll pop in for a minute or two.”

“Yay!”

“Hurrah!”

“But there's just one thing.”

“What?” they say in unison.

“Maybe you could let go of my wrists before we go in.”

“Oh, bad luck!”

“Your turn, Marlene.”

“My turn already?” I lean against the piano, blinking.
What am I doing here? Who are these guys? And why am I wearing a tie over my Minnie Mouse sweatshirt
? I hear another soft
ptui
on my right and then I remember I'm in the middle of an orange-seed spitting contest with two young associates from First Boston, using orange slices we've stolen from the bar and martini glasses for targets. They've taken off their jackets and have rolled up their sleeves to the elbow. It's Ned's tie I'm wearing, a handsome silk paisley, loosely knotted around my neck. “Wait a minute. I thought it was Peter's turn.”

“No, no. He just spit on somebody's back.”

“Forgot the seed.” Peter grins.

I look over to where Ned is pointing. “Hey, that's our house master.”

“Well, that's Peter for you,” Ned says proudly. “Always aiming for the top.”

Peter slings his arm around my shoulder. “That's the way we do things at First Boston, Marlene.” His breath smells of gin and oranges.

“Spitting on people's clothing?”

“No, no. Aiming for the top.”

“And succeeding,” Ned adds. “You can bet your bottom dollar on that.” They both laugh.

“That's right, little lady.” Peter's arm tightens around me. “We don't know the meaning of the word failure.”

“Is that so?” I look over at him, noticing dimly that I'm slurring my words. “Then how come I'm the one winning the contest?”

Ned laughs loudly. “You Radcliffe girls. Cute
and
smart.” He throws his arm around my shoulder, getting tangled up with Peter's arm in the process.

“Oh, Ned!” Peter coos. “I didn't know you
cared.
”

“You pussy-faced dick.” Ned pulls his arm away, nodding at me. “None of that stuff at First Boston, Marlene. You can rest easy on that score.”

“We don't go in for that kind of shit,” Peter agrees. “No way. Nothing but real men at First Boston, Marlene.”

“That's good to know.”

“Say, Marlene.” Ned leans close again.

“What.” I take a big swallow of my drink.

“You're a Radcliffe girl, right?”

“Woman.” Peter squeezes my shoulder.

“I guess so.” I take another swig. “Who cares?”

Ned looks around, then whispers, “Is it true what they say about intelligence being an aphrodisiac?”

I blink at him. “I don't know. What do you mean?”

“Well, I hear—” He lowers his voice even more. “I hear there's a correlation between your IQ and how good you are in bed.”

“Oh, I see. Well, I sleep pretty soundly, I guess. But maybe that's because I always leave my window open.”

“No, what I think they mean is—”

“Maybe it's the fresh air.”

“No, I—”

“Just a tiny bit, even in winter.” I blow my nose in a cocktail napkin.

“Yuck,” Peter says, wrinkling his nose. “That's what you get for sleeping with the windows open.”

I crumple up the napkin and pitch it into one of the martini glasses. “Two points,” I say lightly, fighting down an oncoming sensation of
déjà vu
.

“Just a minute here.” Ned clears his throat. “Who says it's two points?”

“A napkin is lots bigger than an orange seed. It should be worth twice as much.”

“But you blew your nose in it.”

“Then make it four points.”

Ned starts to think it over, and I grin at him, showing all my teeth. No one speaks for a moment.

“Heard a great joke today,” Peter says brightly. “An investment banker meets a commodities trader in a bar, see—”

I look across the room, where Stacey and Beth are gleefully waving their Red Sox tickets in front of the slide projector. Standing by the bar Master Ackerman watches them without expression, paying only nominal attention to the two enthusiastically gesticulating juniors in sports coats who flank him, their mouths moving almost as rapidly as their arms. Then I see the pear-shaped Larson in earnest conversation with a First Boston representative, who wears an expensive-looking navy-blue suit with an equally expensive-looking paisley tie. I can't help noticing that both he and Larson are eating cheese balls. Behind me at the piano somebody is playing “Moon River” badly.

“—and so the trader says to him, ‘Pork bellies? Well, pal, I guess that means you're overdrawn!'”

Ned and Peter erupt with laughter, jostling me merrily with what seems like a disproportionate number of elbows. I laugh too, jabbing them back, although in the middle of a particularly high-pitched peal it occurs to me that I have no idea what I'm laughing about. Mid-giggle I look out into the foyer and see Michael going toward the dining hall.