Long May She Reign (27 page)

Juliana nodded. “Okay.”

Neither of them spoke for a minute.

“I know I'd have bad dreams,” Juliana said. “Anyone would. I mean—”

“I
really
don't talk about it,” Meg said through her teeth, “okay?”

“Fine.” Juliana flipped what was left of her Oreo up in the air and caught it in her mouth. “But not even Mary Elizabeth thinks you're a jerk for having nightmares.”

Meg flushed. Christ, she knew they'd all been talking about her behind her back, but it wasn't much fun to get verbal proof.

“They'll probably go away,” Juliana said. “Once you're used to being here. I mean, I was like, crying and calling my mother every other minute during First Days, and everything.”

This, from one of the most seemingly imperturbable people she'd ever met? Meg looked at her. “
You
were?”

“Sure,” Juliana said, with a shrug. “I mean, you're living with like, strangers, and they never seem to shut up, and it's far away, and the food's all different—I was totally not into it.”

Meg thought about that. “You seem extremely well-adjusted.”

“So do you,” Juliana said.

Yeah. Right.

“What are the dreams about, anyway?” Juliana asked. “If that's not too personal.”

“Too personal,” Meg said without hesitating.

Juliana shrugged again. “Okay. Want another Oreo?”

Why not?

*   *   *

LATER, AFTER EVEN
Juliana had conceded that academic requirements were an inherent aspect of the college experience, and slogged off to work on her
Agamemnon
translation, Meg slouched against her pillows and tried to get through the next chapter in her psychology book without falling asleep.

“Studying?” Susan asked from the door.

Theoretically. Meg shrugged and underlined a sentence without bothering to read it, first.

Susan nodded, and stood in the hallway, looking indecisive.

She was going to have to stop leaving her god-damn door ajar, even though open doors were the dorm norm. “About to tell me it's very late, and I have to turn my light off now?” Meg asked.

Susan shook her head.

Good.

“I'm sorry about what happened before,” Susan said. “I'm not supposed to lose my temper with any of you guys, and—well, it's the first time I've ever—I'm really sorry.”

Making her, what, the exception to prove the rule? Except that that wasn't going to get them anywhere. “Well.” Meg moved her jaw. “I, um, maybe have a little bit of a temper myself.”

Susan grinned, for a second. “You don't say.”

Meg was damned if she was going to blush—but had a feeling that she might be doing so, anyway. “My really mean look was supposed to completely intimidate you.”

Susan nodded. “It was pretty scary, yeah.”

Was she being serious—or sarcastic? Susan Dowd was very god-damned hard to read.

“It actually made me feel a little more comfortable with you,” Susan said. “It was very human.”

But not, perhaps, engaging, or appealing.

She realized that the half of the peanut butter sandwich she'd never finished was still on her desk—just as Susan noticed it, too.

Fuck.

Talk about a conversation killer.

“If we even
suspect
someone might have an eating disorder, we're supposed to be very proactive,” Susan said.

Oh, for Christ's sakes. As it happened, she already had a headache, but increasingly, it was getting worse. “And if you suspect someone's just having a normal, rocky adjustment period?” Meg asked.

“Then, we try to be proactive about
that
,” Susan said.

With stellar results, no doubt.

Susan sighed. “I'm trying to figure out the boundaries here, Meg, but you're going to have to help me out.”

Like it wasn't already abundantly clear? “Well, it's pretty easy,” Meg said, gripping her pen so hard that she felt it start to bend. “There are people who like having their hands held—and there are people who
don't
.”

Susan nodded. “And you're one of the clingy ones, right?”

Something like that, yeah.

“Put it this way,” Susan said. “The better you seem to be doing, the more space we'll be able to give you.”

Then she was damned well going to have to start doing better.

*   *   *

THE NEXT MORNING
, she woke up much too late to make it to breakfast, and when she got downstairs—agents in tow—to go to her political science class, the only people waiting outside on Park Street, behind the dorm, were a New England–based print person, and a local wire service photographer, plus the usual smattering of tabloid types. Even her old buddy from Steven's basketball game, the ever-persistent Hannah Goldman, hadn't been around at all for a week or two.

Oddly enough, Mary Elizabeth was there, too, by a weathered wooden bench, all bundled up in her peacoat and scarf and a light blue knitted hat. She saw Meg coming, and frowned at her watch. “Cut it pretty close, don't you?”

Meg frowned back. “What's it to you, if I cut it close?”

Mary Elizabeth didn't answer, checking through a battered olive green army surplus shoulder bag.

Very strange. It was almost time for class, and Meg started picking her way across the ice, Mary Elizabeth falling into step with her.

“Griffin?” Mary Elizabeth asked.

Extremely strange. Meg shook her head. “Hopkins, actually.”

They crossed the quad in front of Chapin without speaking, Meg not sure if she should be amused, or unnerved. When they got to the front of the building, Mary Elizabeth stopped.

“Nice talking to you,” Meg said.

Mary Elizabeth glanced behind them, and over at Spring Street, where one of the more industrious freelance photographers was already standing, and then lowered her voice. “Don't
ever
accuse me of being afraid to walk near you.”

Meg laughed. So that's what this was all about. “Well, I'd love to see your expression if a firecracker went off right about now.”

“I bet you'd be more scared,” Mary Elizabeth said, unsmiling.

Meg laughed again. “I bet you're right.” Bulletproof jacket or no bulletproof jacket.

Mary Elizabeth's face softened slightly. “I don't know. Maybe I'd be more scared.”

“Maybe,” Meg said.

“Maybe,” Mary Elizabeth said, and walked away towards wherever her class was.

*   *   *

THE NEXT DAY
was Friday, and Meg knew that everyone else in her dorm probably had plans. Everyone else at the
school
. The campus seemed—energized. Lots of people shouting to one another, music blaring, paper signs announcing various parties and films and performances tacked up on trees and telephone poles and bulletin boards.

The loudest music in the entry was coming from Juliana's room, and when Meg glanced through the open door, she saw her sitting at her desk, drumming on a textbook with two pens.

It
was
an open door. Meg stuck her head in. “Um, hi. I was just—what's happening around here tonight?”

“All kinds of good stuff,” Juliana said, drumming away. “Don't tell me you're going to be
social
?”

Tough call. “Depends on what's going on,” Meg said.

Juliana shrugged, picking up a can of cheese spread and spraying some into her mouth. “There's a whole bunch of parties. You going to go out?”

Safety in numbers. “Are you?” Meg asked.

“Yeah. Only, Mark's taking me out to dinner, first. Spending
money
, if you can believe it. But, that doesn't help you any.” She put down the aerosol cheese and got up. “Come on.”

Meg followed her, it developed, downstairs to Susan's room, where the music of choice was John Coltrane. This, in direct competition, with the predictable video game two of the guys were playing in the common room.

“Hey, JA!” Juliana said. “Are you going to rock and roll tonight?”

Susan, who was on the floor doing abdominal crunches, looked up. “Yeah. I know some people who are having a party over at Greylock. You guys want to go?”

“Well, I'm going to come late,” Juliana said, “but I think Bucko here'll tag along with you.”

Wait, that sounded like a really bad idea. Meg shook her head. “No, I—”

“Sure.” Susan very slowly lowered herself with near-perfect form. “I think I'm going over around nine, nine-thirty.”

“Okay, good,” Juliana said, before Meg could think of a sufficiently plausible reason to decline. “That's a plan, then.”

A terrible plan.

“Great.” Susan raised herself, slowly. “Now, go away before I completely lose count.”

One of the last things she felt like doing was heading off someplace alone with Susan. They didn't seem to get along that well, anyway, but even though she was almost always friendly and approachable, there was also something about Susan that—Meg couldn't quite put her finger on it. An alone-in-a-crowd quality. It was probably just garden variety New England reserve—but, still. It was there.

And she hadn't been to a party since—Christ—last May. A real party, with people her age, as opposed to official White House stuff. She assumed most people would be wearing jeans, and she also put on a blue silk shirt Josh had always liked, along with a pair of big, clunky, supposedly very hip earrings Beth had given her.

To her relief, when Susan showed up at her door, she was dressed pretty much the same way.

“We ready to go?” Susan asked.

Meg nodded, hoping she couldn't tell that she was nervous to the point of nausea. The arrangement she had made with her agents was that—after a fast walk-through—one of them would be posted outside the suite where the party was being held, while the others stationed themselves in and around various dorm entrances. She decided to leave her cane behind, in order to look less crippled—and hoped she wouldn't regret the impulse.

“I think it'll be mostly juniors and seniors,” Susan said, “but I'm pretty sure Tammy's coming.”

Meg nodded. At least she'd know one other person, then. “I'm not going to—well, cramp your style, am I?”

Susan shook her head. “No. But, if a guy named Keith comes over to talk to me, you can tactfully drift away.”

Meg grinned. Keith. Fair enough.

The party was hot, noisy, crowded, and dark. Like most parties. The school policy seemed to be that if people were at an officially sanctioned party, they weren't supposed to drink if they were underage, but if it was more informal, it didn't seem to be an issue, unless campus security decided to do an unannounced inspection. Or, anyway, that was her best guess, judging from the amount of casual drinking she'd noticed around the entry, especially among the guys who lived downstairs—at least half of whom seemed to have huge crushes on Juliana and came up to flirt with her constantly.

This particular party was being thrown by a bunch of juniors, and the music was mostly Sixties standards, with a little rap thrown in. Almost everyone seemed to notice her come in, even if none of them acknowledged it, and once she was standing with Susan, holding a cup of beer, she wanted nothing more than to go back to her room.

Susan introduced her to a lot of people, and Meg smiled and nodded and sipped her beer. After a while, she was uncomfortable enough to detach herself from the group—mostly Drama and English majors—and walked around aimlessly, before stopping to lean against a wall.

She hated this. She hated this a lot.

Susan came over, about two minutes later. As ever, the mother hen. “You having an okay time?”

No
. “Yes,” Meg said, the beer cup clenched in her hand. It was better than—arthroscopic surgery, say.

Susan looked at her closely. “You want to come over here, and meet a bunch of rowdy rugby players?”

Meg shook her head. “Maybe later.”

“Okay,” Susan said. “Well, what about—”

Meg shook her head harder, beginning to feel panicky. “Later, okay?”

Susan hesitated, and then nodded. “Okay. Sure.”

Meg nodded, too, and drank some of her beer. She should probably just leave. She'd made a good-faith effort to fit in; no need to prolong the agony.

Most of the people who walked by said hello to her—oh, yeah, like they didn't have ulterior motives—and she would nod back, careful not to make eye contact or initiate anything. Eerie to have stared into
gun
barrels before—and find this almost as scary. Different scary, but still scary.

What's it like living in the White House? What's your mother
really
like? Is it true you broke your own hand? Did it hurt? What about your leg?

She was almost finished with her beer, and she looked down at the cup, wondering if she should go get another one, or just take off.

A guy was heading in her direction, and she recognized him. Frisbee Boy. Swell. He was drop-dead good-looking, if one liked blond California boys; as it happened, she did not.

“So.” He slouched against the wall, maybe a foot away from her. “Waiting for a bus?”

“Yeah,” Meg said, and pointed. “There it is now. Excuse me.”

He gave her a big grin that was probably supposed to be irresistible. Devastating, even. “What's your hurry? Hang out for a while.”

Not bloody likely. “I'm sorry, I—” She gestured vaguely, and moved past him. “Someone's waiting for me over there.”

“Yeah, well, fuck you, too,” he said, and went over to a group of guys, who were all watching—and laughing. Maybe at him, maybe at her. She didn't really care, either way.

She limped over to the keg, where a guy who looked like a rowdy rugby player was sloppily filling plastic cups.