Higher Education (31 page)

Anthony looks back and forth between Dean and me. “Why should Dean come in a mouse outfit?” he says suspiciously. “I don't understand.”

“Don't let it bother you.”

“That's right.” Sniggering, Pablo rattles the ice in his cup. “Ignorance is bliss, huh, Miranda?”

“Oh, I don't know.” I look over at the pinball machines and see the three big-nosed Dunster House girls from Saturday night standing in front of Jungle Lord. “You're such a bright boy,” I say to Pablo. “Help him figure it out. Would you excuse me, please?”

As I'm sliding out of the booth, Roald says, “You're coming to the party, aren't you?” He looks up at me, a tiny trickle of blood running down his cheek. “Huh, Miranda?”

“I've got a lot of work to do.”

“Please? It won't be a party if you're not there.”

“You might have to struggle along without me.”

Pablo slides back in next to Roald. “How about if Dean brings the cheese?” he says with a malicious smile.

I look at him. “Such a bright boy.” I turn and walk over to the pinball machines and tap one of the girls on the arm. “Excuse me.”

She turns. “Oh, hi.” The other two swing around also. “Hi,” they chorus.

“Hi. Listen, I just wanted to apologize for calling you guys Dunster House sluts the other night.”

They look at each other, then at me. “That's okay.”

“We'd forgotten all about it.”

“Besides, we're not from Dunster House.”

“Ah.”

We all nod pleasantly, and I turn away. When I'm at the door, Roald calls out:

“Miranda!”

I pull the door open and gaze over at him.

“Help me figure what out?”

So that's why it's called higher education
. “Never mind, sweetheart,” I say loudly, holding the door open to let some people in. Then I release the handle and step outside.

10

FRIDAY

Even with a quick detour into Lamont to flip through the latest issue of
Rolling Stone
, I'm still ten minutes early when I get to Soc Sci 33. Taking a seat in the center of the lecture hall, I open up my notebook and uncap a pen, then sit quietly as the room fills up.

At five after eleven Professor Nimitz arrives, teaching fellows in tow, and strides up to the podium, where he takes his notes from his briefcase and removes his pipe from his mouth. Then he nods at us and begins to speak, his voice deep and measured.

“As I walk along the familiar streets of Cambridge, with their stately homes, their historic buildings, yes, with their busy restaurants, their bustling shops, the crowded movie houses, well, ladies and gentlemen, the issues of social responsibility are never far from my mind. This morning at breakfast I said to my wife Sheila, ‘How in good conscience can we justify these blueberry pancakes, no matter how delicious they might be, when
everybody
doesn't have blueberry pancakes for breakfast?' Now as you can imagine, Sheila, who makes what are quite possibly the best blueberry pancakes in New England—”

I must have fallen asleep, for when I jerk my chin upright I realize that I'm just about to start drooling all over my notebook. Swallowing hastily, I shift my head and find myself being scrutinized by my section leader, Stu, a dead ringer for Chagall. He's sitting across the aisle and a few rows up, so close that he doesn't even bother to put on his glasses. I give him a little wave and turn my attention back to Professor Nimitz, who is, as I surmise from a peep at my neighbor's wristwatch, wrapping up today's lecture. I wait for him to tie it all together with a remark about breakfast foods, or about lunch perhaps, since it's now twelve o'clock, but instead he closes by reciting a passage from this week's reading assignment. I listen appreciatively, and join in with the applause that follows his final dramatic pause, clapping till my palms hurt. Looking gratified, Professor Nimitz sticks his pipe back into his mouth and his papers back into his briefcase, and hustles down off the proscenium and out the fire exit before anyone can catch up to him.

When the crowds have thinned out I make my way over to Stu, who stands in the aisle listening to a reedy-looking kid I remember seeing sitting in the front row directly in line with the podium.

“I've got it all on floppy disk, right? Chapters one through five. Bibliography, title page, table of contents, the works. So I run out to the Coop to get a new ribbon so the print will look nice, right? I come running back to my room, I've been gone ten minutes tops, okay, and I'm ready to stick the disk back into my PC and start printing it out, right? And then I look underneath my desk and there's Edgar, chowing down on my floppy. I couldn't
believe
it. I almost started crying all over my disk drive.”

“Edgar? Who's Edgar?”

“My dog.”

“Let me get this straight. Your dog ate your computer disk.”

The kid nods. “Appendix, photo captions, suggestions for further reading, everything.”

“So what do you want from me?”

“An extension.”

“Well,” Stu says slowly, “the final paper, as you know, is due a week from today. Can I make a suggestion?”

“Yes, absolutely.”

“Get your dog's stomach pumped.” Stu looks over at me and sighs. “Hello, Miss Walker. Did you have a good nap?”

The computer whiz swings around, snickering balefully. “Refreshing, huh?”

“Just remember one thing,” I say to him. “Garbage in, garbage out.”

He stops snickering. “What's that supposed to mean?”

“Think about it the next time Edgar wants to go outside.”

“What?”

“Stu, can I speak with you privately?”

“Certainly, Miss Walker. I assume it's a matter of some delicacy?”

“Rather.”

We're moving toward the exit when the computer kid says: “Now wait a minute.”

I look at Stu. “Now he'll be forced out of pride to tell you he doesn't have a dog.”

“Stu, can I see you afterwards? About that extension?”

When Stu and I are outside in Mem Yard standing in the leafy green shade of a tree, I lean against the tree trunk and clear my throat. “I guess you know why I wanted to talk to you.”

“It's about your final paper, perhaps?”

“Yes, exactly.”

“And you want an extension.”

“Oh, no, no, no.”

“You don't want an extension?”

“No, why should I?”

“You tell me.”

“I just wanted to let you know that it'll be in on time. In case you were worrying about it.”

“Well, that's thoughtful of you.” He runs a stubby-fingered hand down his beard. “Perhaps I was jumping to conclusions based upon your attendance record.”

“If I'm not mistaken, my running average in the class is an A.”

“That's correct.”

“I think it's safe to say my grasp of the material is strong.”

“Undoubtedly.”

I'm shaking my head. “It's just that this damn combat training has absolutely shot my schedule to hell.”

“Combat training?”

“Sure. Didn't you know?” I widen my eyes a little. “Didn't I tell you at the beginning of the semester?”

“Tell me what?”

“I'm ROTC.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You know, be all you can be and all that.”

Stu looks at me blandly. “If I might say so, Miss Walker, you don't quite seem the type.”

“Army intelligence.” I nod, once. “Undercover work.”

“Ah.”

“Yep. What with karate classes, pharmacology research, and my work in miniaturization technology, I'm lucky if I can grab a few minutes to read my mail.”

“Miniaturization technology?”

“You know, little briefcases with video cameras in the handle.”

“I see.”

“And then of course there's my fieldwork, which takes up about twenty hours a week.”

“Fieldwork?”

“Pistol practice, skydiving, high-speed chase simulations. You know.”

“It sounds a little dangerous.”

“Not really. You just need a steady eye and a firm hand.”

“Ah.”

“Either that or a firm eye and a steady hand. Either one will do.”

“Of course.” Stu's stroking his beard again.

“Anyway, that's why I've been a little erratic in my class attendance.”

“Are you sure you don't want an extension? I wouldn't want to interfere with pistol practice.”

“Oh, no, no, no. I just wanted to let you know that you'll definitely get the paper in on time.”

“Well, I certainly appreciate your letting me know.”

“You'll understand if there are a few bullet holes in it.”

“Of course.”

“Thanks, Stu.” I square my shoulders. “And thanks from Uncle Sam too.”

“You're both very welcome.” Stu lets go of his beard. “Very good, Miss Walker. If I don't see you in class next week, you can just drop your paper off at my office.”

“Thanks again, Stu.”

“Certainly.”

“Stu?”

“Yes, Miss Walker?”

“Can I interest you in a good used parachute?”

“No, thank you.”

“Are you sure? A little old lady from Framingham only used it to go skydiving on Sundays.”

“I'm afraid I'll have to decline. But I appreciate the offer.” Nodding, Stu walks briskly off along the path toward the Science Center. But not briskly enough, for just as he's about to pass the azalea bushes by Mem Church, a wiry little form trots up behind him.

“Stu! Can I see you for a minute? It's about my dog.”

Legs crossed, I'm sitting on the steps of Sever Hall putting on nail polish. I've just finished the second coat and am holding out my hands to admire them when the bells in Mem Church ring two o'clock. Standing up, I blow on each of my nails in succession. When Bryan finally comes through the massive double doors, I push my sunglasses to the top of my head and wait for him at the foot of the stairs.

When we are level with each other I give him a little poke. “Hi.”

“What's that all over your nails? Bubble gum?”

“Cutex. A Rose Is a Rose Pink. Whose stupid idea was it to stop talking, anyway?”

“I thought it was yours.”

“I thought it was yours.”

“Do my eyes deceive me,” he says, “or have you gotten taller? Or is it just that you're standing up straight for once?”

“When are you going to throw out those awful jeans? They don't flatter you at all.”

“When you finally get a decent haircut.”

“I'll think about it.”

“About time. Listen, I'm starving. Coming to lunch?”

“Sure. Then I've got a few errands to run.”

“Like trying to bamboozle the Coop into giving you a free cap and gown?”

“I already got my yearbook pictures free.”

“No shit. How?”

“I told them Eileen Ford was paying for the prints.”

“That's my girl.”

We start walking through Mem Yard, and then I pause and tuck my arm through his.

“I just have one thing to add.”

“Yeah?”

“Love,” I say, batting my eyelashes at him, “means never having to—”

“Keep moving, girlie,” he says, and tugs me forward.

On my way out of the Coop I take a last look at the class-ring display, my mind spinning busily, and bump into somebody by the postcard display. “Oh, sorry.”

Gerard picks up a couple of postcards from the floor and puts them back in the rack. “Hi, Miranda.”

“Hi. Is your shoulder okay? You really slammed into that rack.”

“It's fine. Are you leaving?”

“The Coop, you mean?”

“Yes, are you leaving the Coop?”

“Yes, I was just stopping to glance at those class rings.”

“Aren't they hideous? My father insisted that I let him buy me one.”

“You mean he actually paid for it?”

“Of course he paid for it. How else would he be able to get it for me?” Gerard holds the door open and lets me pass. “Can I help you with that bag? It looks a little heavy.”

“No, that's okay. You seem a little burdened down yourself.”

“This?” He waves a small white Coop bag. “It's just a book.”

“What'd you buy?”

“Kafka. I'm trying to cheer myself up.”

We dart across the Harvard Square intersection onto Mass Ave and start walking toward Adams House.

“Why do you need cheering up?”

“I just accepted a job.”

“Congratulations.”

“Try condolences.”

“Let me guess. You got a job at Burger King.”

“I wish.”

“Gerard.” I shift my Coop bag to the other arm so that I can lightly tap his shoulder. “What kind of job is it?”

“Editorial assistant.”

“That doesn't sound so bad.”

“At
Cosmopolitan.
”

“Oh my.”

“Helping their fiction editor,” he says gloomily.

“Well, the Advocate got you somewhere after all.”

“No, my father got me the job. He's a VP at Hearst.”

“Oh.”

“The only good thing about it is that I'll be subletting my aunt's apartment in Morningside Heights.”

“That's up by Columbia, isn't it?”

“Yep. It's one of those huge university apartments with high ceilings and bathtubs with claws on 'em. It's been in the family for generations.”

“I see.”

“Guess how much rent I'll be paying.”

“Tell me and I'll hit you with my shopping bag.”

“What's in there, anyway?”

“Presents for Jessica.”

He peers over the edge. “Shampoo? Hair conditioner?”

“You think she'll like 'em?”

“I don't know. But I love the wrapping paper.”