by Jill Cox
Peter Beckett lived a full life. He served in Vietnam, then flew all over the world for his job with the airlines. He loved fly fishing and camping with his grandson. He loved his daughter so much that when she died, it shaved twenty years off his own life.
I think about him often, especially in Paris. I never asked him what it was like to come here after the Naval Academy to study at Addison. And more importantly, I wish I knew his side of the Gigi + Pops epic Parisian love story. That’s not the sort of question a teenage boy would ask his granddad. Lucky for me, Gigi told me her version of things before she died.
To be honest, I don’t remember much about the months following Pops’ sudden death. Sophomore year, I lived at Gigi’s and spent as little time on campus as possible, which basically meant I showed up for class and fraternity duties and then disappeared before anyone detected my presence.
Because of my family situation and the years I’d spent living in Paris as a kid, Dr. Sweeney kindly waived my credits for our next French course – Communication 3601. Maybe you didn’t notice my absence that semester, but trust me, I wasn’t there. I bet we didn’t see each other more than a couple of times that fall.
You’ve always walked with what Dan calls the Sully Swagger – head high, shoulders back, hips swaying ever so slightly like you own the ground you walk on. I used to think you did it on purpose – that you strutted like that to drive us menfolk mad. But after spending time with you in Paris, I realized you’re unaware of this secret weapon. Totally and completely oblivious.
That first day back in January, I was fifty feet behind you on the path to Hatley Hall. You’d pulled your hair into a messy knot and your shoulders were hunched forward. Your gait was so slow that I could’ve easily overtaken you, but I hung back and observed. Because something about your energy felt… off. The Sully Swagger had morphed into a leave-me-alone lope.
The sun was shining that day, and the air was unseasonably warm. So when you reached the steps leading up to building, you stopped to peel off your coat and scarf. For a long moment, you stood tall, eyes closed, breathing in the abnormally spring-like air.
I could not take my eyes off you. Not because you’d just sent my hormones flying. No, the sight of your ribs poking through the thin cotton sweater you were wearing stopped me dead in my tracks. My first instinct was to sprint over, wrap my arms around your waist, and hug you tight.
Instead, I trotted past you to open the door. After the briefest of side-eyes, you grabbed your stuff and scurried past me, head down, eyes on the floor.
It freaked me the whole way out.
In the years since, I’ve filled in the blanks on your life sophomore year. I know you and Lindsay Foster were super tight freshman year, so it must have been double the punch when she started dating your childhood best friend. And look, I know Sutton has turned the corner now that he’s on his way to legal fame and fortune, but back in the day? He had the self-awareness of a gnat. The Sutton I knew back then paraded his on-again-off-again love life right in front of you, all day every day. And I, for one, don’t understand how you forgave him.
No wonder you moved into the singleton dorms that year. And no wonder you dropped twenty pounds without trying. Maybe you should take up my Chubby Hubby and Samoa Frappuccino addiction the next time some loser distracts you from your dreams.
(You can’t see me, but I’m pointing at myself right now.)
That spring semester, you were a woman obsessed. We all knew the stakes: we either won a Beckett Scholarship for Paris, or we spent the summer in Tours. And even though Tours is the opposite of shabby, that summer program didn’t seem to be an option for you. Paris or bust.
On the Friday of our qualifying exam, I picked Dan up from the Sigma Phi Beta house two hours before the test started. All week, we’d planned to eat a full breakfast at Ruby’s Diner, and to be honest, it was the best decision I made all year.
Maybe it was nerves, or maybe it was just being at a place I knew so well, but Dan and I laughed so hard that morning that my lungs felt clean.
And then you and Sutton walked in for your standing Friday morning breakfast date.
The two of you took a seat in a booth close enough that I could hear you, but neither you nor Sutton noticed us sitting in the corner. From the moment you walked in, Sutton never shut up, shoveling his mouth full of food and chirping so loudly that I didn’t even have to strain to hear the subject: Lindsay Foster. She’d just broken up with him again the night before, and he was telling you in no uncertain terms that this was it. “I’m done playing her games,” he barked, stretching himself wide across the booth. “Hold me accountable, Fee. And not just for the rest of the semester – I’m talking all summer, all next year, and forevermore. You’re the only person I’ll obey.”
On and on, he droned. And while he chattered away, your fingers clutched a notebook. For every three seconds you looked at Drew, you spent four staring hard at the notes on the page. One last review, your eyes seemed to say. If I could only read these once more, I’d be grand.
You were a bird inside a cage, trapped between hope and despair, wishing someone would set you free from the overgrown toddler heckling you nearby.
Later that morning in the exam room, the desks filled up steadily until only one seat remained – in the very back, off to the side. When you walked in the room, you’d somehow transformed into a ginger Audrey Hepburn – black jacket, black pants, hair pulled back in a high ponytail like this test was just a pit stop on your way to the Sabrina movie set. Watch out, Humphrey Bogart. Sabrina Fairchild 2.0 is ready to rumble.
But after scanning the room, your face fell. You hate the back row.
I couldn’t take it, Sully. I stood up. “Here you go, McMeredith,” I smiled and bowed. “I was just keeping this seat warm for you.”
“Are you trying to psych me out, Russell?” You narrowed your eyes. “Because it’s not going to work, you know. Not this time. I’m getting one of these scholarships today. You and your little mind games won’t stop me.”
Dan shot me a look from behind you, shaking his head slightly in warning. So I slinked back into my desk and willed myself not to turn around as you skulked to the back row with only seconds to spare before Dr. Sweeney took his place at the lectern.
For whatever reason that day, I had no problem filling out the exam – grammar questions, syntax problems, whatever. Blowing off steam with Dan that morning had cleared my brain. For once, I wasn’t burdened by the wreckage in my life.
For once, it was just me against the Blue Book.
You blitzed out of Room 207 before time was called, which might not have seemed like a big deal to anyone else, except you sniffled as you walked by my desk. My eyes followed you up to Dr. Sweeney’s desk, which means I saw your hands trembling as you handed in your work. I also saw you stumble on your high heels as you hurried into the hallway.
A few moments later, Dr. Sweeney called time. I was the first guy out the door, immediately followed by Dan. The two of us stood there together, staring down the hallway at you huddled on the floor, arms around your knees, attempting to hide behind a bench.
You were crying, Sully – sobbing so hard that I could see your body heaving from fifty yards away.
I guess we stood there too long, because you lifted your head and turned your face toward us, dark mascara lines blazing trails down your cheeks. And because I was the very last person on the planet you wanted to see, you lowered your forehead back to your knees.
Dan gave me a pointed look. Then he turn left and walked to the nearest exit while I sped down the hallway toward you. It wasn’t that I wanted to speak to you – I’d read your raccoon eyes loud and clear, after all. But our classmates had begun spilling out into the hallway. If I didn’t hurry, someone else might disturb your privacy.
Without a sound, I sauntered toward you, picking up one of the recycling bins from the center of the hallway. Once I reached your hiding place, I lowered the bin silently to the ground on
the far side of the bench so that no one would spot you from the exam room.
Dan had circled around the building, so when I stepped through the side doors, he was waiting. We walked to the frat house in silence, like a tiny squadron on a mission. Once inside, we found Drew shooting pool in the game room, as blithe and carefree as ever.
“Hey, Sutton,” I barked from the doorway.
He glanced up. “Yeah?”
“I need to talk to you.”
Drew looked at Dan, then at me, and back at Dan. But time was ticking, so I stormed outside and waited on the steps. A couple of minutes later, he finally moseyed through the door.
“What’s up, Russell?”
“A lot, actually. Are you still friends with Meredith Sullivan?”
I scoured his expression for any sign he’d seen Dan and me that morning at Ruby’s, but his face was as neutral as ever. “Of course I am,” he said with a glib smile. “What’s it to you?”
“Nothing. I just thought you should know she seemed a little… upset after our test.”
“Test?” He lifted both eyebrows. “What test?”
“Dude, does it matter? My point is that your friend looked visibly shaken. Shouldn’t you go check on her?”
Sutton pulled his phone out of his pocket and pressed the button to light up the home screen. “She hasn’t texted,” he shrugged. “She’s probably in the library. She’s always in the library.”
I took a step toward him. “You’re not hearing me, man. Your girl was a wreck.”
“She’s not my girl,” he retorted. “Well, not yet anyway. Besides, you obviously don’t know her very well if you think a test would rattle her nerves. Meredith handles stress better than Congress, the Supreme Court, and the President combined. Trust me. She’s fine.”
How I kept from decking him in the jaw, I have no idea, because in that moment, I wanted to wipe that self-satisfied grin right off his face. Instead, I took a deep breath, lifted my hands in surrender, and walked away.
All the way back to Hatley Hall.
You weren’t there, of course. So I hurried over to the sophomore quad. Then to the library and even the cafeteria. No, no, and no.
And then, because I had no idea what else to do, I swung back by Hatley Hall again, circling around it until I found you hiding in that tiny alcove on the north side. There you were, still hugging your knees, only this time, you were sitting on a bench instead of beside it.
So maybe now you understand why I freaked out when Dr. Sweeney called me to his office later that afternoon to announce that I’d placed third on the Centre Lafayette placement exam, right behind Dan Thomas and Marshall Freeman. Because as much as I wanted to spend junior year in Paris, I had this sickening sense that if you didn’t go, your entire world might implode.
I spent all weekend asking myself how those rankings might be different if Drew hadn’t shanghaied you beforehand. Every time, the answer came back the same: you would have beaten me, fair and square. In fact, you might have outranked both Marshall and Dan. Because on a good day, your brain is a beautiful sight to behold, Miss Sullivan. And on a bad day, on arguably the worst day of that semester, you still got a 94.5.
You deserved the Beckett Scholarship, Sully. Never question that again. I mean it.
Chalk up that one-point difference between our scores to your clueless breakfast companion, and let it slip into the ether like it never happened at all.
Begin Again
You know that Taylor Swift song about the tall girl who’s reflecting back on some guy who didn’t appreciate all the little details about her that she happens to love about herself? Taylor called it Begin Again, and if I didn’t know better, I would swear she wrote that song about the Russell-Sullivan-Sutton love triangle of junior year.
She did set her video in all of our favorite parts of Paris and dressed all retro like a certain redhead I know. I’m just saying.
I was all set to spend my summer in Tours with the rest of the Beckett Scholarship rejects when Gigi told me about her cancer later that spring. And even though she severely downplayed her prognosis, I still refused – flat out refused – to go to Tours.
“I don’t need the practice and I definitely don’t need the credits,” I argued, my eyes flooding with tears. “Please, Gigi. Don’t make me leave you here alone. I don’t want to regret missing time with you.”
And because my grandmother could never stand to see me cry, she caved. Temporarily.
Here’s a little tidbit I bet you never realized about the free flights included in the Beckett Endowment scholarship: you can thank Pops’ never-ending cache of air miles from his piloting days. Every year, we booked the scholarship students’ airfare out of those miles, but that summer, the usual ticketing agent – a.k.a. Gigi – was in a fight for her life. So her dashingly handsome grandson booked the flights for Marshall Freeman, Meredith Sullivan, and Dan Thomas.
Your original seatmate was Dan, by the way. You can thank Marshall’s kale obsession for my humanitarian benevolence there.
The thing is, helping Gigi sent me down a Meredith-shaped rabbit hole of personal information which led to no good. For example, the résumé you’d provided to the scholarship committee listed a place called Treble Jig as your longtime dance studio. Which helped me find about thirty competition videos on YouTube, including your Oregon state championship dance to Gangnam Style.
That’s right. I only pretended to be surprised that night you danced for me in Doolin.
Anyway, I could terrify you for several more pages with all the ways I stalked you that summer, but here’s the real point: Gigi was onto me. Over and over again.
Now look, I realize there are more humiliating things that a grandmother could catch you looking at on the internet than Irish dance competitions, but I swear, every time I typed your name into Google, Gigi would walk into my room. And every time, I would jump sky high, eyes wide, looking guilty as a raccoon caught digging through a restaurant trash can.
I don’t know when exactly that summer she decided to force Dr. Sweeney to bend the rules, but force him she did. Like, whoa.
On the first Friday of the school year, after a full day of fraternity recruitment, I was sitting in the kitchen, eating cereal in my Sigma Phi Beta jersey when Gigi walked in and sat down beside me.
“Why are you wearing a suit?” I asked.
“Don’t speak with your mouth full of food, Peter.” She undid the top button on her jacket and began to fan herself. “Where is your passport?”
“I don’t know. In the safe upstairs, I guess? I haven’t used it in a couple of years.”
She took out a piece of paper and a pen from her pocket and began scribbling down notes. “I spoke to your friend Daniel today. He’s agreed to leave for Paris tomorrow so you can take his spot on the flight this Sunday.”
“What? Hold on a second –”
“Luckily, my contact in the rewards department was able to find a first-class seat for him from Portland to LAX and then another first-class seat to Paris. I figured it was the least I could do on such short notice. But… oh, dear. I’ll need to e-mail the concierge at the Guénégaud apartment to let her know Dan will arrive early. I hope she’s available to let him in.”
“Gigi! Rewind ten sentences. Did you just say I’m moving to Paris?”
“Yes, I did. I went to Dr. Sweeney’s office yesterday afternoon and accused him of subverting my authority by giving away your scholarship to that Sullivan girl. Today I spoke to the registrar, who has removed you from all of your classes on the Highgate campus. You will spend this year in Paris, no arguments allowed.”
“But you can’t punish Meredith like that!” Sweat slid down the small of my back. “Dr. Sweeney didn’t give anything away. That was my decision, not his!”
“I know that, darling, and I agree: Meredith deserves her scholarship. But so do you, which is why four of you will go to Paris instead of three. So you can stop running your fingers through those messy curls like
I’ve just stolen your puppy or something. Oh, and speaking of your curls, you will visit the barber first thing tomorrow morning. And not just for a haircut. Your beard collects crumbs, and I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but the average woman doesn’t find unkempt facial hair attractive.”
I touched my beard, and she was right – some cornflakes fell onto my jersey. “What’s this all about, Geeg?”
“It’s not what, it’s who. You, my darling boy, are in love with a lovely redhead named Meredith, and I insist that you spend this year exploring Paris by her side.”
“What? I’m not in –”
“Yes, you are, and I will not allow you stay in Portland pining for her while you watch from afar. You’ve suffered enough in your young life already, and now it’s time for you to live.”
I could feel the tears lining my eyes, but I couldn’t say a word, Sully. I just sat there, staring at Gigi, hoping she’d somehow developed ESP during chemo.
And maybe she had, because she said, “You’re welcome, darling. Now then, let’s make a list of all the things you will need this year because you’re not coming home any time soon. I fully plan to spend Christmas in Paris this year, and I’m not hauling a second suitcase over the ocean for you simply because you failed to be organized on the front end.”
And that, dear Sully, is the real reason Gigi forced me to Paris. I’m sure there were other factors, like the fact that she didn’t want me to watch her die. But the truth is, Gigi got tired of me mooning around over you all summer, so she kickstarted my life into gear.
Saturday morning first thing, I drove to the barber. The bottom half of my face looked so pale after he shaved me that I looked like I’d gone skiing across Antarctica with only the top half of a balaclava. And then, snip, snip, snip… bye bye, curls. My hair was so short that when I walked into the Sigma Phi house Sunday morning to retrieve my mother’s classroom flags, even Sutton noticed the change.