Love and Other Things I'm Bad At (33 page)

10/12

Doorbell rang this morning while I was finishing breakfast. Opened the front door and saw Grant and Kelli standing there. “We have kind of a weird question to ask you,” said Grant.

I braced myself.

“Do you think we could borrow Oscar?” Grant asked.

I narrowed my eyes. “Borrow him? For what, a walk? Because I already took him on a long walk—”

“No, it’s for Wednesday morning, actually,” Kelli added. “Do you think that would be OK?”

“Well, what for?” I asked.

“We’re sort of having a show-and-tell in vet sciences,” Grant said.

“Aren’t you a little old for show-and-tell?” asked Dara, holding DeathKitty in her arms, stroking her neck.

“The professor asked us to bring in any pets we have. Since I—uh, we—don’t have any—”

“Then why don’t they call it
pet
sciences?” I asked.

Grant laughed, but Kelli didn’t. I could tell my humor didn’t amuse her.

“That might be stressful for Oscar. Why not take DeathKitty instead?” I suggested.

“That’s a great idea,” said Dara. “She loves the spotlight. And maybe you could ask your professor why it feels like she’s gained ten pounds in the last month.”

“It’s because she’s been eating Oscar’s food,” I said. “It’s not a mystery. Add that to all the calories she gets from killing birds—hey, you could talk about her love of the kill,” I said to Grant.

“But I don’t know her. I know Oscar. I’m familiar with his issues,” said Grant.

He sounded just like a vet already. That, or a therapist.

“Fine. Take him. But if he freaks out in front of all those people, don’t blame me,” I said.

“If he has a grand mal seizure that would be so cool. A great
learning
opportunity,” said Kelli.

I just stared at her. She actually
wants
him to have a seizure. She has a cruel streak.

“Well, he won’t have one,” I said. “He’s been doing really well lately.”

I don’t know how to break it to Oscar that he’s about to be a scientific experiment.

10/13

I’m obsessing over the fact that Kelli and Grant want to take Oscar to class. I can’t say why, but that feels wrong. Grant and I bonded over Oscar. He’s, you know,
our
dog, or at least my dog, who has a very small circle of friends. Not for Kelli to interlope with.

Especially not if she’s looking forward to him seizing up and freaking out.

I called Wittenauer to talk it over. “What kind of person wants that? Is that the kind of cold, scientific personality you have to have in order to become a veterinarian? I mean, imagine if she wanted to be a doctor. She’d walk around wishing people would fall ill right in front of her so she could
learn
more. She’d be like, ‘Would you mind breaking your leg so I can learn how to set a cast? Would you skip your insulin so I can watch you go into a diabetic coma?’”

“Courtney? Courtney! I have to write a paper, so . . .”

“Yeah, OK. Bye.” He wasn’t that interested, but why would he be? Still, he could have faked it. Everyone has to fake something sometime.

10/14

Made a bit of a scene today. Am probably unbalanced and need a B-12, vitamin D, every-kind-of-vitamin smoothie boost. This is embarrassing to write down even
here
, where no one else will read it.

First, when Grant and Kelli came over to pick up Oscar this morning, I insisted on going along. Never mind that it meant I had to skip two of my own classes, and never mind that sitting in a classroom where animals are potentially . . . dissected . . . or operated on . . . at some point or other, made me feel sick to my stomach.

I told them that Oscar would freak out if I wasn’t there because he’s had so many changes lately, and he has this fear of abandonment, which he’s had since he was a puppy, and Grant nodded, saying, “That’s good, that’s good, I’ll talk about that.”

He was petting Oscar when he suddenly said, “Where’s his rabies tag?”

“I’m not sure. In Denver?”

“Don’t you have
any
tags for him?” Grant turned his collar around, checking.

“I’ll get them, OK? What’s the big deal?”

“You know what you should do? You should get him chipped,” said Kelli.

“Right,” I said, thinking it must hurt an animal or she wouldn’t have suggested it. “Well. Can we go? Because I have my own actual classes later.”

“You don’t
have
to come along,” said Grant.

“I do. I really do,” I said. “Come on, boy.” I clipped the leash to Oscar’s collar and we went outside. The 3 of us crammed into Grant’s little car, with Oscar sitting in the backseat next to Kelli.

Well. That’s just how it worked out, I mean, she got in first, and Oscar clearly can’t sit up front. Air bag and everything.

The vet buildings are on the far south side of campus. As we drove there, Grant was grilling me for details to refresh his memory of how we got Oscar (he was abandoned), and how Oscar got the way he is (he was abandoned).

So we get to class, which consists of, like, fifty people sitting around and some random pets. Everyone gets to go up on this little stage/podium thing and say something about an unusual behavior their pet has that no one has seen, heard of, or even read about.

In other words: monotonous and boring after the fifth pet. (Though I did see that student with the room to rent, the one who had a boa constrictor.)

OK, so it wasn’t that bad. But ferret behavior is just not something I’m interested in. Or Siamese cats. DeathKitty would have been the superstar. (Or, she would have taken out a couple other pets.)

Oscar cowered under my legs as we sat in the third row of long desks in the lecture hall. So. This was what it was like to be a vet science major. Sit around and watch a pet parade.

Well, and eventually cut them open.

Finally, it was Grant’s turn. I offered to go with, but Kelli said that wouldn’t be necessary. I glared at her. What does she know? Is Oscar her pet? I mean, really. They went up onstage, Oscar walking behind them, tail between legs, acting scared.

Grant had just started to talk about Oscar’s epileptic hopes and fears when someone’s cell phone rang—really loudly—and Oscar freaked and started running in circles, howling.

“Well. Like he was saying.” Kelli shrugged.

Everyone started to laugh, and although Grant looked a little uncomfortable, he didn’t do anything to stop it.

I thought: Are these the people who will be vets in the future? Since when is it vetlike to laugh at a dog’s personality flaws?

“And for my next act . . .” Kelli joked.

“It’s not funny, OK? It’s not funny!” Before I could think about it, I was on my feet and running to the front of the classroom. “He’s not even your dog, he’s my dog.” I grabbed Oscar’s leash and crouched down beside him, trying to calm him. But all he wanted to do was stand next to Grant.

“Are you sure about that?” asked someone in the front row.

I glared at him. “We didn’t laugh at your parrot. Or your stupid ferret,” I said to the student beside him. “And your pet rat? Well, that’s just disgusting. I mean, who keeps a rat anymore? This isn’t the Dark Ages.”

“Rats are very intelligent,” the rat owner shot back. “Unlike some people.”

“Oh really, and it’s intelligent to
keep
a rodent?”

“All right, all right—everyone settle down.” A professor-
looking type (in other words, he had a beard) who’d been sitting off to the side finally got up and intervened. He lowered his eyeglasses and peered at me. “And you. Where did you come from? Are you even in this class?”

“No.
They
just borrowed
my
dog,” I said. “Which is not cool, when you think about it. Besides, I’m an Environmental Studies major. Well, I haven’t declared a major yet, but I’m pretty sure, unless there’s a way to major in Journalism and then minor in the Environmental Studies thing, but there’s no way I could ever cut up an animal, I mean, I don’t know how you guys are going to handle it but I couldn’t. I don’t believe in eating meat, either.”

Everyone looked very awkward for a minute.

“OK then,” said the professor. “I think we’ve seen enough of your furry friend—”

“And of me. Understood. We’re leaving,” I said.

I marched up the steps to the exit with as much dignity as a highly insulted person who had just babbled her entire life story to a roomful of strangers could have.

After class got out, on the way home, I sat in the backseat with Oscar. None of us said a word for a while.

“Well, uh, do you want to go get a coffee or something?” asked Kelli.

“Um, no thanks. I’d better get home with Oscar. Take him for a walk. In fact, you guys could drop me right here and we’ll walk the rest of the way.”

“But don’t be silly,” said Grant. “You know we have to go right by your house to get to my house—”

“Oscar needs the exercise,” I said. “It’ll help calm him down.”

Unfortunately, Oscar was sort of asleep when I said that, tired out from all the stress, so it made no sense. Anyway, Grant pulled over and I wrestled Oscar out of the backseat onto the curb. “Well, um, thanks,” said Grant. “Hope that wasn’t too traumatic.”

“Oh, he’ll be all right,” I said.

“I meant
you
,” he said.

I wanted to jump back in the car, take the wheel, and run over him at that point. What did he know about me, about anything?

“Yeah. Thanks a million,” said Kelli, leaning out of the passenger seat.

I gave her a fake smile, a fake wave, and started to walk as they pulled away from the curb. It was then that I really paid attention to where we were.

Didn’t realize how far from home we were. What a hike.

I’d acted like such an idiot. Why did I have to act like that? How juvenile was I? What was wrong with me?

Almost started crying on the way home, it just hurt so much to see Grant with someone else for real. (Plus, I was getting blisters from my ballet flats, which are not designed for walking two miles.) That note I’d found over the visor? It was probably still there, he’d save it forever and put it in their memory book. Scrapbook. Whatever.

Why couldn’t things have stayed the same?

Why couldn’t anything ever stay the same?

I must have PMS or something. This is ridiculous.

10/15

Called Wittenauer. Didn’t tell him everything that happened yesterday as that sounded stupid, but did tell him this wasn’t my best week. He was really, really sweet. Made me wish I’d stayed in Wisconsin. Well, that and the fact I’d made a complete idiot of myself yesterday. He reminded me that he’s a mascot who once stripped down to his shorts in front of the board of trustees. He got me to laugh at myself, relax, and think about next year.

“Next year?”

“Yeah. I’ll be done with school here, and we’ll be together.”

“We will?”

He laughed. “Of course we will. Don’t worry, I have a plan.”

Well, good. At least one of us has a plan. Me, I’m more worried about
this
year. Who’s to say CSU won’t raise their tuition rates and I’ll end up transferring even somewhere else?

Is it possible to homeschool for college? Probably not if you don’t want to actually live at home. Besides, imagine the social life. Nightly dinners with Mom and man-friend.

Speaking of which, Mom’s been calling and asking me to come visit this weekend. Like I want to spend my Saturday night with her and Mr. Man-friend?

Maybe I don’t have anything better to do.

Ack!!!!! Must join a club or other extracurric ASAP. Like, “Sophomores Whose Moms Are Infatuated at an Advanced Age.” This is a big school. They’ll have
something
like that.

10/16

I’m published! Sort of. If you count student blogs, which I swore never to do again.

“Holding Court” by Courtney Von Dragen Smith is up on the web. (Debated a long time whether to use my middle name or not. Has embarrassing V. D. initials, but is more distinctive than just using “Smith.”)

My first column, “Bring Back the Silver,” is about how many places still use plastic cuttery.

That doesn’t sound right.

Cutlery. Yes, that’s the word, just went back in to edit.

Anyway. I listed several of them by name. Yes, to-go orders are challenging, but in-house orders should use mugs, not plastic cups; stainless forks, not plastic.

I was going to suggest that restaurants and coffee shops quit giving out napkins, but that seems a little impossible to achieve. What would people use?

Instead, I urged restaurants to compost all paper products, such as recycled napkins, and food waste.

Not sure where compost goes, but I’ve heard of it.

Perhaps should check into how stainless is made. Does it involve strip-mining? Is there such a thing as strip-mineless stainless steel?

Anyway, I wonder if a project like this is big enough for the Env. Activism group thing Dr. Bigelow talked about. If we took it to a slightly bigger scale, maybe? Then again, do I want to be the person spearheading any kind of protest? Look where it got me last time. Last year. Was hated by CFC sweatshirt wearers around the globe when I demanded we stop using harmful initials on college gear.

Then, somehow, lost scholarship. They claim no connection, but can’t help thinking otherwise.

10/17

K OS.

Utter total K OS.

Just when you think things won’t get worse, after you humiliate yourself in front of your ex, his girlfriend, and an entire classroom of people and animals . . . well, they do.

So on Friday night, Grant asked if I wanted a ride to Denver—he was going to visit his parents and grandmother. I said sure. Mom had asked me to visit, anyway, so I was doing the right thing. Shawna promised to walk Oscar a few times and generally keep him out of trouble while I was gone.

Besides, I thought it’d be cool to spend a little time with Grant and make up for the way I acted on Wednesday. I was glad he was still talking to me.

Of course, they probably were only taking pity on me. They. Because of course Kelli was coming along. Why wouldn’t she? They’re boyfriend and girlfriend after all.

I was minding my own business in the backseat when I heard her and Grant arguing a little outside the car, something about “why would you ask her” and Grant saying he felt sorry for me and was only trying to help. . . .

I was about to bail when they both climbed in, closed the doors, and we were off to I-25.

“So, is this the first time you’ll be meeting, uh, the Superiors?” I asked Kelli, trying to make pleasant small talk.

“Yes. How do I look?” she asked. “Is this too much?” She was wearing a dress that looked like it had come from that cool, expensive shop in Old Town . . . can’t remember the name of it. She looked like she was going to a wedding: had on heels, fancy necklace, makeup.

“No, it’s perfect,” I said, thinking: Why would you get dressed up to meet someone’s parents? They’re only . . . parents. They don’t know what’s in, or out, of style. All they care about is whether you’re a nice person or a psycho killer.

Besides, Grant’s mom’s idea of dressing up was matching her T-shirt to her Birkenstocks.

Kelli turned around and rested her chin on the headrest. “I should totally get notes from you. Tell me what they’re like.”

I just sort of smiled, feeling very, very uncomfortable. Why was I in this car again? Fool me once, shame on . . . me? “Well, they’re very nice,” I said, glancing at Grant, who was glancing at
me
in the rearview mirror. “A little bit intense, though. They’ll grill you about everything.”

“What?” asked Grant.

“Oh yeah. You don’t know because you weren’t there,” I said to him. “But they get you alone, see. They’ll find some way to get you alone and they’ll just grill you. Be ready for the third degree.”

Kelli suddenly didn’t look very confident. I think her hair literally wilted a teensy tiny bit from the fan vent in front of her. “What kind of, um, questions?” She fiddled with the vent, which was blowing right at her.

“That one doesn’t close,” Grant and I both said at the same time.

That was so awkward that I said, “Excuse me a sec. Have to check in with Wittenauer.”

I made a point of talking to him for a little bit while we rode down, just so it was clear that we’d all moved on. But he couldn’t talk long because it was a football game, so that figured. Of all times to be Corny. I kind of pretended I was on the line longer than I actually was, to be honest. Kelli was squirming with nervousness and I have to admit I was enjoying it.

They dropped me off and Grant idled at the curb, waiting to make sure I got in OK. He always did that. I always loved that he did that. Some other people would just take off, like Dave.

Anyway. Got to the front door, rang bell. No answer. Had my keys, and attempted to unlock the door.

My key didn’t fit in the lock. WHAT? I felt ridiculous. How embarrassing. Locked out by own mom. She changed the locks!?!?!? (This
was
a trick!)

But I couldn’t let them know that, so I just waved and said, “I’m in!” as they drove off and I stood there, waving and pretending to open the door.

I pounded on the door. Then I tried calling Mom, and it went straight to voice mail. “Mom! How could you not even be here?” I cried.

I called Bryan but his cell was off. I called Wittenauer to vent, but his phone was off, too. Had to rely on my own devices. I remembered that Mom usually kept a spare key under this brick on the side of the house, so I ran to get it.

Guess what? No hidden key anymore.

Trick.

I gave up and sat on the steps for a while. Somebody would have to come home soon, right?

Wrong. Instead, neighbor across the street, Mr. Novotny, came out and started talking about the Broncos with me. “Big game Monday night against the Chargers.” He had no ideas for me to get into the house, but he did tell me a lot about the strategy the Broncos would need to use, and their defensive backfield, whatever that is, and other key points of the game.

As I sat there trying to rely on my own wits, and listening to more about football than I’ve ever known or cared to know in my entire life, I suddenly remembered that we had this one window screen that was always sort of loose—Alison had started it, just in case she ever got home past curfew. It was in the back of the house, off the den.

Of course. Brilliant.

I excused myself for a minute and went around back. I found the loose screen, which didn’t seem quite as loose as it used to be. I pried it off and tried pushing at the window. It wouldn’t budge.

As I was standing there, I remembered coming home late one night last spring, senior year. . . . Grant was helping me to sneak in at about one in the morning, but we got kind of tangled up trying to open the window and ended up falling on the ground, and, well . . .

Suddenly, I heard sirens.

Getting closer and closer.

Since when was it illegal to have risqué memories?

I went around front and saw a white security company car pull up in front of the house. Two seconds later, a police car rounded the corner and stopped behind it. Next thing I knew, a male security guard and a female police officer were walking toward the house—and me.

Talk about not being welcome at home.

“May I see your identification, please?” they both asked at the same time.

“See, the thing is, I used to live here, but—”

“ID, please.”

I grabbed my bag from the front steps and desperately searched for my wallet. It had dropped into some crevice that would not release it. Or had I just forgotten to put it into my bag because I was tired?

“How are we coming on that ID?” asked the police officer.

“Not, um, good,” I said. “But can’t you look me up on your onboard computer or something?”

She glared at me.

“Ma’am?” I added as a sign of respect. “Ma’am Officer? I really do live here. Well, I used to live here.” I ran through the story of everything that had transpired lately, how it came to be that I would be standing here with the wrong key and trying to enter illegally.

Mr. Novotny had been standing there and watching the whole thing. Finally both guard and officer turned to him. “Can you vouch for her?”

“That depends. How much do you need?” Mr. Novotny regarded me with a wary expression.

“Is she who she says she is?” asked the police officer.

Mr. Novotny shrugged. “You never know with teenagers, do you?”

I rolled my eyes. I swear. Ageism.

Fortunately, Mom and Sterling finally showed up, in Sterling’s football field–size SUV. They went out to brunch.
Brunch
. Who eats brunch?

They said they turned off their cell phones so they could have some real together time with no interruptions. Stupid romantic ideas of old people. There’s nothing
wrong
with interruptions when they’re important, like your daughter is ABOUT TO BE ARRESTED.

“You got the locks changed?” I yelled at her once the law had left.

“Bryan lost his keys—”

“And since when do we have an alarm?” I asked Mom.

“Sterling worries about me living here by myself.”

“You don’t. Bryan lives here. And Oscar did, too . . .”

“Oscar’s no guard dog,” she said.

“That’s because you never believed in him. You never did!” And then I started sobbing and turned into an emotional wreck. I seem to be good at that lately. “You know what? Just take me back.”

“Courtney, don’t be ridiculous.”

“Take me back, or I’m hitching a ride. On the highway.”

She used to work hard on this mother-daughter stuff. Now she could not care less. She’s forgotten all about book clubs and Oprah. Instead of
O
magazine, she now subscribes to
Running Fanatic
.

Running Frantic is more like it.

Wait, that’s my life. Or perhaps Oscar’s.