The Princesses of Iowa (6 page)

Ethan grinned. “Not a one. In fact, it comes as quite a shock. You’ve cut me to the quick.”

“Okay,” I said, tiring of his game and unable to resist showing off just a little. “To answer your questions: Who? You’re looking at her. What? More than you’ll ever know. When? I’m never not. Where? None of your business. And why? Because my boyfriend made me.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Made you?”

I’d known it was the wrong thing to say the second before it came out of my mouth. Now I sounded like some pitiful girl whose boyfriend makes all her decisions for her, who can’t go against him, who will end up in some crappy marriage where she has to show up at work telling stories about running into doors. And I was
so
not that girl. The idea that the Freshman would assume such a thing about me pissed me off.

“Nobody makes me do anything,” I said coldly.

He held up his hands. “Whoa, I didn’t say that —”

In the front of the room, Mrs. Mueller clapped her hands, cutting him off. “Fifteen minutes left, everyone, and then you’ll present your partner to the class!”

“She took an entire fifty-minute period to explain what a journal is, but she’s only giving us twenty minutes for this?” the Freshman asked, with a look that was part apology, part peace offering.

I decided to be charitable. “I know, right?”

He picked up his pen. “Children, this is a pen! Can anyone tell me what you use it for?”

“Seriously,” I said.

Mrs. Mueller shrieked over the low chatter of the class; in the distance, a thousand dogs probably started barking. “If you get stuck, ask about plans for next year! Are you going to college? Where are you applying?”

The Freshman propped his chin on his hand and crossed his legs. “What are your plans for next year? Are you going to college? Where are you applying?”

“I’m going to Northwestern, just like everyone else in my family.”

“A legacy, hmm?” He nodded. “I thought about Northwestern, but during the tour this extremely haunted-looking dude grabbed my arm and told me that if I was at all interested in writing, I should stay far, far away, as they would”— he made finger quotes —“eat my soul.”

“Weird.” Across the room, I could hear Randy telling a story about turning a plastic flamingo into a bong.

“So,” the Freshman said cheerfully, “good luck with that!”

“Thanks.”

“You must get pretty good grades to get into Northwestern. Or is it one of those things where you can just sort of buy your way in?”

“Jesus,” I said, surprised into giving him my full attention.

He shrugged. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that, I suppose. Personally, I will be racking up the student loans. The good news is that once it’s in your head, they can’t come and take it back. It’s not like the bank can repossess your brain.” He feigned a worried look. “At least, I don’t think they can. . . .”

“My grades are fine.”

“Dude, it was the best thing ever. We called it the Pink Flaming-go. Get it? Like, flaming?”

“Flabongo,” the Freshman muttered.

I looked at him. “What?”

“If you’re going to build a bong out of a plastic flamingo, the proper name is Flabongo, not Pink Flaming-go,” he said.

I shrugged. “Randy’s not known for his great intellect.”

Mrs. Mueller screeched, “Ten minutes, people!”

The Freshman snapped into action. “Okay! What did you do over the summer?”

I immediately felt defensive. Every time I said anything about the summer, Lacey rolled her eyes and changed the subject as quickly as possible. “Don’t even get her started on Paris,” she’d said yesterday at lunch, lounging back against the picnic table where we always gathered. As though my stories about Paris were so glamorous — and as though she’d completely forgotten that it was her fault I’d been exiled in the first place. Well, Nikki’s fault, technically. But Lacey’s fault, too, because if she hadn’t been such a bitch about Prescott, the whole rest of the night would have been different. The whole rest of the summer would have been different.

For a second I thought about lying, about just making something up, but a tiny part of me wanted to dazzle the Freshman a little, to intimidate him. “Actually I was in Europe for most of the summer. Paris, mostly.”

He whistled. “Fancy. Must be nice to be you.”

I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. “Whatever.”

“How’d you score that?” he asked. “Wait, let me guess: you were on a Fulbright, analyzing cross-cultural movements of taxi-driving poets. Am I right?” There was a challenge in his voice.

“Actually, I didn’t have a choice. I was exiled.”

“Exiled? Wow, so you must be, what, an enemy of the state? Defending the people’s right to assemble?” One of Jake’s friends walked by and pretended to trip, kicking the Freshman in the process. A muscle in his jaw jumped. “No, don’t tell me. It was an Evita thing. Forced to live in Paris away from your adoring crowds.
Don’t Cry for Me, Willow Grove.
Am I right?”

“You don’t know anything about me,” I said.

Exile, n., expulsion from one’s home by authoritative decree.
My mother was the authoritative decree: judge, juror, and hangwoman. A week after school ended last spring — a week after the accident — my mother rolled me out of bed in the middle of the night and told me to get dressed. She’d packed her own LeSportsac luggage with my clothes and shoes, and she stood waiting in the doorway with passport and tickets in hand while I fumbled around in the dark for a sweatshirt and flip-flops. She hadn’t said a single word to me since the night of the accident, and we drove in silence through the cool June darkness, five hours to Chicago, where she enlisted the help of an airport security man to walk me to my gate and make sure I got on my plane. I was barely awake, but I heard her describe me as a “troubled youth,” and a “high flight risk.” The guard nodded seriously, accepted the handful of bills my mother shoved at him, and trailed me through O’Hare like a sheepdog until my plane took off a few hours later.

I remember staring out the airplane window as the land disappeared beneath us and we flew into the sunrise. The clouds wisped past the windows, the early light reflected off the plane’s wings, and my throat got tight with tears I wouldn’t let myself cry. I hadn’t even gotten to say goodbye. To anyone.

Suddenly, there were only five minutes before the bell, and the room was filled with the sound of shuffling papers and the heavy scratching of desks moving across the tiled floor. “Well —” Ethan said, but was interrupted by Mrs. Mueller yelling over the din. “We’ll have to do our creative presentations tomorrow!”

“Later,” I said, and hurried back to my own desk.

Randy and the guys wandered up to the front of the room, laughing and boasting. “What about that chick from Cedar Falls, dude? You could have banged her, if you weren’t such a pussy.”

“Students! I almost forgot! Students!” Mrs. Mueller called. “Boys and girls!”

The class quieted down a notch, staring at the clock, muscles tensed to leave the room the second the bell rang.

“Your assignment for this week is to go to a literary reading!” She grabbed a pile of flyers from her desk and started handing them out. “All the second-year students at the Iowa Writers’ Workshop are giving readings this weekend, all over town! You have to find one to attend! That is your homework!”

Tyler raised his hand. “What if we can’t make it?”

“Oh!” Mrs. Mueller said, sounding pleased with herself. “Well! Then you can choose a Shakespearian sonnet and write a three-page paper explaining its meaning and importance in the literary canon!”

The noise level rose again as the class started murmuring about how busy they were, it wasn’t fair, this was supposed to be a blow-off class.

Randy crossed his arms. “Fuck that, dude, I’m not writing a paper.”

“You shouldn’t have said anything,” I told Tyler. “She probably just made that assignment up right now.”

“You should ask Paige’s partner if he has a date yet,” Randy said, punching Tyler in the hip.

Chris looked back at the Freshman and laughed. “Hell yeah. Did you have fun with Barbra, Paige?”

“Whatever,” I said.

“Dude,” Tyler said. “He was probably just using Paige to get close to Jake.”

I glanced over at the Freshman, who probably considered himself to be so enlightened and high-minded and worldly and yet had no problem whatsoever immediately categorizing me as a stupid, spoiled ditz. Screw him, anyway. “Yeah, apparently the Spice Girls are getting back together with a new member,” I said. “Fairy Spice.”

The guys erupted in laughter. “Fairy Spice! That’s awesome!”

From across the room, I thought I saw the Freshman wince, but his face went blank again so quickly I wondered if I had imagined it.

Thursday morning, I was running late thanks to my mother’s morning inspection — as the weeks ticked down to the homecoming vote, she was ramping up her scrutiny of my outfits, hair, makeup, and posture — and by the time I got to our table, my usual place had been taken by some junior girl from student council. Next to her, Geneva sat in Lacey’s spot. Our group had been gathering at the same tables every morning since sophomore year, to finish up homework, catch up on any gossip that might have occurred overnight, and delay the inevitable moment when we’d have to submit ourselves to yet another day of classes. Jake patted his lap and I perched on his knee, glaring at the juniors. Who did they think they were? “Someone should tell them not to turn the spray tan setting all the way to Oompa-Loompa,” I muttered.

Jake followed my gaze and laughed. “Is someone cranky this morning?” He nibbled at my neck and I smiled in spite of myself. “Anyway, look at the bright side.”

“What’s that?” I asked suspiciously.

“If they get any oranger, Nikki will eat them, and you can have your seat back.” He pretended to chomp down on my shoulder. I laughed and bit him on the arm, and soon we were fighting and laughing like idiots.

Geneva called, “Get a room, you two!”

Just to spite her, I kissed Jake more passionately than was probably appropriate in a public setting. He didn’t seem to mind. “I really hate her,” I said when I came up for air. “Why isn’t Lacey keeping her in check? Where is she, anyway?”

Jake shrugged. “I think she had a rough night last night. Her mom —”

The bell rang, cutting him off. He stood abruptly and I slid off his lap. “What about her mom? Did you talk to her last night?”

All around us, people were yelling and laughing and shoving one another. “It’s a long story, and I have to run. I’ll tell you at lunch, okay?” He kissed me fast and hurried off toward the math wing. Sighing, I slung my bag over my shoulder and headed the other way.

My first-period class was a sleeper we called Contemptible American History. Mr. Silva wasn’t at his desk when I walked in, and I surveyed the room for signs of what the period would hold. No TV, so we weren’t watching a movie, but if we were lucky, Mr. Silva might get sidetracked by stories about his time in Vietnam, and the creepy kids who loved guns would keep asking him questions until he forgot all about his lesson plans, and the rest of us wouldn’t have to listen at all.

The class was rowdy with gossip. “I heard she had a total breakdown, freaked out, screamed at Dr. Coulter, and stormed out!”

“No, my mom knows her doctor’s sister, and she says it’s a brain tumor.”

“Dude, I heard it was, like, a broken uterus.”

“You moron, you can’t break your uterus.”

I leaned across the aisle to Elizabeth Carr, a pretty girl who was in creative writing with me. “Who has a broken uterus?”

She laughed and adjusted her glasses. “Mrs. Mueller, I guess. I’m pretty sure you can’t break your uterus, though.”

“So . . . brain tumor? Nervous breakdown?”

Elizabeth shook her head. “All of the above? I really don’t know.”

“Huh.” I leaned back in my chair. A sub was good. Maybe we’d watch more inspiring movies about people writing, and I could catch up on my sleep. I was exhausted. The night before seemed like a cruel extension of the summer, which I’d spent fitfully tossing on scratchy blankets and flipping my pillows, searching in vain for an inch of cool fabric against my sweaty face while Paris thrummed through the open windows and the baby cried in the next room and Mr. Easton tried in hushed tones to talk his wife out of throwing herself into the Seine. Sometimes in the afternoons, I’d wheel the baby’s stroller over to the Jardin du Luxembourg and park her in the sun while I stretched out along a bench or on the grass to steal a few quick minutes of precious sleep. Those afternoons were the best part of my summer, until the day one of Mrs. Easton’s expat friends, an obnoxious woman from Dallas who despite her best efforts would never pass for Parisian, found me dozing next to the peaceful baby and went into histrionics about how easy it would have been to steal the baby. I’d had an ankle hooked around the stroller, I tried to tell her, but she wouldn’t listen. There wasn’t much point in trying to convince her that Mrs. Easton would have been happier if the baby had disappeared.

Lacey didn’t get to class until a minute after the bell rang, but Mr. Silva just looked at her cane and waved her in. She used the cane to shove people’s backpacks aside, clearing a path for herself as she shuffled to her seat in front of mine. “Hey,” I whispered, leaning forward. “Where were you this morning? Geneva was being all —”