Susan frowned, and then walked over to close the door herself.
Swell. Was she being imprisoned now? Time to pull out the fucking panic button, maybe.
“I’m not going to push you, Meg,” Susan said. “Because—well, I don’t like it when people do it to me. But if there’s anything you feel like talking about, I want you to know that you always can. Anything at all. Any time at all.”
What, she was suddenly going to spill her guts to someone she scarcely knew? Yeah, right. “Thanks, but I’m fine,” Meg said. “I’m a little tired, and maybe a little homesick. Nothing too interesting. Just wanted to thank you for the sandwich, that’s all.”
Susan looked frustrated, but she nodded.
“Well,” Meg reached back to open the door, “I have a lot of reading to do tonight, so I’d better get moving.” Except, maybe she should smooth the waters, a little. “And even though it’s entirely misplaced, I really do appreciate your concern.”
A pleasantry which seemed to make Susan furious, although in a very repressed way, her lips tightening so much that they almost disappeared.
“What?” Meg asked.
Susan shook her head, turning away to sort through a few papers on her desk.
“You don’t have to edit around me,” Meg said. “What was it you felt like saying?”
Susan’s eyes narrowed. “You really want to know?”
On second thought, maybe not—but, Meg nodded.
“I was thinking that she taught you well,” Susan said, “didn’t she.”
Nice. Besides, it couldn’t be taught; a person was god-damn born with it.
Although one thing her mother had, unintentionally, passed along to her was the ability to give someone an “if I didn’t think it would bore me beyond description, I would arrange to have you blown off the face of the earth” look. She had almost never seen that look—and had used it herself even more rarely—but that didn’t mean that she didn’t know how. Maybe she couldn’t do karate, or even stand on her own two feet, but that didn’t mean that she was entirely without resources. “You have a problem with the President?” Meg asked.
Even though she had just been the recipient of a fleeting, but distinctly wintry and contemptuous stare, Susan didn’t seem to be at all phased. “No,” she said evenly. “Not with the President.”
Okay. That was blunt. And it would be nice if they genuinely liked each other, but it certainly wasn’t required. “Well.” Meg opened the door. “I’m sorry if I offended you. It wasn’t my intent.”
Susan sighed. “Meg—”
“Excuse me,” Meg said, and headed for the stairwell and back up to the third floor.
* * *
SHE HAD ONLY choked down half of her sandwich, when her father called, and after that, Trudy and Beth did, too. She kept the conversations on the usual optimistic, if fallacious, “everything’s just peachy” level. Not that any of them bought it, probably.
There wasn’t much to do, so she tried to study, but couldn’t concentrate. She was pretty thirsty from the peanut butter, and went out to the bathroom to get some water.
Mary Elizabeth was already in there, washing her face. She saw Meg, nodded briefly, and kept scrubbing away.
Meg drank a full mug of water, and refilled it. “Hi.”
Mary Elizabeth nodded, smoothing on some kind of expensive face cream.
Meg finished off the second mug. “Pretty quiet around here tonight.”
Mary Elizabeth nodded.
Scintillating. She filled the mug a third time, so she would be able to make some instant coffee in her microwave.
“A lot of reporters still around,” Mary Elizabeth said, washing and buffing away.
Okay, she’d had just about enough of that. Of everything. Especially since the press had mostly gone away, except for the odd stringer or feature writer here and there, and the ever-insatiable paparazzi, who never failed to pop up at unexpected moments in their endless attempts to capture her in potentially scandalous or newsworthy situations. “It’s a death-watch,” Meg said. “They want to make sure they’re on the scene, in case I get killed.” She paused—undeniably, for effect.
Mary Elizabeth stared at her.
“Doesn’t really make you want to walk around near me, does it,” Meg said.
Mary Elizabeth wiped her face with a towel, not noticing that she hadn’t washed off all of the cleansing cream yet. “I didn’t know that’s what they were for,” she said quietly.
“That’s what they’re for,” Meg said. “Hope you aren’t inconvenienced by them.”
As she went back out to the hall, she ran into Juliana, who was bopping down the hall, not a book in hand.
“Hi, Bucko,” she said, chipper as can be. “What are you up to tonight?”
“Trying to piss off the whole entry,” Meg said. “I already got Susan and Mary Elizabeth, and I figured I’d go after you and Tammy next.”
Juliana looked in the direction of Tammy’s partially open door, where—judging from the sounds of animated, one-sided conversation, she was on the phone. Or else, she was deeply, irrevocably, psychologically disturbed. Then she looked back at Meg. “Takes a lot to piss me off.”
Meg shrugged. “I could probably do it.” Easily.
Juliana laughed. “Hey, go for it.” Then she looked more serious. “How’d you manage to bug Susan? She’s like, Miss Mellow.”
Miss hot-blooded Irish temper Mellow. “I was rude and arrogant,” Meg said. “Worked like a charm.”
Juliana nodded. “Okay. I can see how that might.” She started to open her door, then paused. “I can’t picture Susan mad.”
“She was polite about it,” Meg said.
“Oh.” Juliana nodded. “Well, that’s all right, then.”
There was no question but that Juliana operated on a different frequency.
However, if Beth’s planet turned out to be full, she might not mind getting a visa to visit Juliana’s for a while.
Both planets seemed to be a hell of a lot nicer than the one she lived on.
16
BEFORE SHE EVEN had time to turn on her microwave—some member of the advance team had left a generous supply of coffee, tea, cocoa and instant soups in a small wicker basket—Juliana came in. Meg was going to snap, “Can’t you knock?” in an attempt to make her angry, but—well, it was already too late. She must have looked exasperated, though, because Juliana gave her a big shrug.
“In my life, an open door’s an invitation,” she said.
Clearly.
Juliana came bouncing the rest of the way into the room and sat down on the bed, making herself right at home by grabbing a pillow to put behind her head and leaning against the wall.
“Comfortable?” Meg asked.
Juliana nodded. “Yes. Thank you.” She picked up the open philosophy book—Kant—and started flipping pages.
“Help yourself to the quilt, if you get chilly,” Meg said.
Juliana laughed, and dropped the book. “You’re a bitch on wheels, you know that?”
Jesus, even Beth didn’t go that far.
“Don’t get me wrong,” Juliana said. “It can be a good quality. I mean, you’re not at all like I expected you to be.”
“Sorry to disappoint,” Meg said, and stuck her mug in the microwave.
“I mean, acerbic?” Juliana shook her head. “Who would’ve figured? I thought you were going to be all noble, and—boring. Like living with a princess or something.”
“Feel free to think of me as a princess,” Meg said. “If it helps you.”
Juliana laughed again. “Weird sense of humor, too. I thought you’d be no fun. Like, way too dignified and stuff. But, this is much better.”
Speaking of weird, Juliana took first prize in that contest. “Well, gosh,” Meg said, and then thought of something. “Did you call me ‘Bucko,’ before?”
“Yeah,” Juliana said. “I thought you needed a nickname.”
And she chose Bucko? Great.
“I�
��ll have to think it over,” Juliana said. “Maybe I can do better.”
Hard not to.
“Are you going to offer me some of whatever you’re having?” Juliana asked. “A specialty coffee, maybe?”
Apparently so. Meg handed her the little wicker basket.
Juliana, indeed, selected a tin of specialty coffee. “I’ll get my mug.”
“Do that,” Meg said. “Hurry.”
Juliana grinned. “I have Oreos, I’ll bring them, too.” She left, returning almost immediately with the cookies and a bottle of Baileys Irish Cream. “Now, we can sit and talk.”
Didn’t sound like she had much choice in the matter. Her cup was a Red Sox mug Neal had given her for her birthday once; Juliana’s was blue, with “Wild Thing” splashed across it in red.
“Mark seems very nice,” Meg said, as the water heated.
Juliana nodded. “I think being pre-med is a waste of time, but I like him a lot. Seen anyone you like yet?”
“Well—” No. Even though, tediously, guys sidled—or swaggered—up to her constantly, in the dining hall and library and so forth, to try their luck. Meg frowned. “I haven’t really looked.” In months.
“Simon’ll probably ask you out, but you can say no,” Juliana said.
It was always good to have permission. Meg took the mugs out of the microwave one at a time, using her right elbow to close it again.
Juliana stopped pouring liqueur into her coffee long enough to reconsider that. “Unless, of course, you want to go. Then, you should say yes.”
“Well,” Meg took an Oreo, “that’s good advice. Thank you.”
Without asking, Juliana leaned over and poured a shot of Irish Cream into Meg’s mug, too. “The thing about Simon is, he’ll always be nice. Not be a jerk to you.”
“I get sick of that,” Meg said, forgetting that she should just speak in her usual vague, noncontroversial generalities. “I don’t like it when they let me push them around.”
Juliana frowned. “You and Simon should probably just be friends, then.”
Damn, and the invitations had already gone out to be engraved.
“Are the upperclassmen all over you?” Juliana asked. “I bet they are.”
“Only the sycophants,” Meg said, without thinking.
“Whoa.” Juliana stopped crunching her cookie. “Does that mean me, too?”
Hmmm. “No,” Meg said. “You probably would have been friendly to me regardless.”
“Not if you were boring. Then—no way in hell.” Juliana picked up another Oreo, looked at it, put it back, then picked it up again. “Although I was trying to decide if you were a royal bitch, or just shy.”
“I’m shy,” Meg said.
Juliana shook her head. “Nope, you’re a big faker. People might think you’re shy, but it’d be more you not being friendly.”
“Would you be friendly, if you were me?” Meg asked stiffly.
Juliana shrugged, twisting her Oreo apart. “I don’t know.”
“I mean, Jesus Christ,” Meg said. “I can barely function, and you want me to be charming? Jesus.” She slugged down some of the liqueur-enhanced coffee. “I just—look, this isn’t something I talk about, okay?”
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 ty
pes. 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?”
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