Scags at 18

by Deborah Emin

Here I am sitting in my dorm room again. I could see people hooking up for coffee after classes. They went to the Commons and the noise was so loud that I had to come back up here. Sylvie must think I never leave the room.

  This first day threw me that’s for sure. Well, it was really just one class that made me feel this way. When you know, as I do, that you’re the pet project of a couple of your high school teachers and if they saw what happened today they would wonder why they poured all their energy into you, well . . .

  I’m really not angry. Nor am I ungrateful. I know it took my hard work too to get me into this place. The two of them played a significant role in helping me. I feel like I am now on the road to disappointing them.

  I sat through this first day of classes and wondered what Miss Fromm and Mrs. Wald were thinking of. What would they do if they were me?

  My assessment is this: When it comes to purely academic classes like the psychology and philosophy classes, I am a whiz kid. My two other classes aren’t as certain when it comes to my abilities as a student. Or, in the case of Dr. Fish’s poetry class, my perceived abilities. Or my innate inabilities due to my feminine nature.

  Mrs. Wald might know what to say to someone like Dr. Fish, but she isn’t here. Both of them were great when it came to coaching me for the interview. We sat for hours and we had a good time doing it. They asked serious questions but then they would ask just plain silly ones to help me relax and enjoy myself.

  Dr. Fish would never understand that kind of student/teacher relationship because he is aptly named Dr. Fish. Or as I am now dubbing him—old fuck face. Yes, I can be like this here in my room and in my diary, but in person, he is as awful as his name sounds.

  It could not have been a worse start to our class than for him to say, as he did, that no woman, not one, is capable of writing or understanding poetry. I am not making this up. I heard him say those very words. He intimidated me, the way he stood in front of the class and counted the number of women sitting there. It was like he couldn’t stand the fact of us being there.

  When I learned how to dissect a fish in Miss Fromm’s biology class, I never knew that I might be fantasizing doing it on a human.

  The nagging question in the back of my head is this: What if he fails me and I lose my scholarship?

  I could barely put those words on this page. Nor can I keep up this attitude of being so smart and it will all turn out to be okay.

  I returned from classes and went to the bathroom and threw up right away. I didn’t care who was in there, I had no time to care.

  As I recovered from throwing up, I imagined two options. The first was I could run away. The second is I could pretend to be someone else. I’d still have to be a girl but maybe if I weren’t me who was so scared, I’d do okay.

  Why do they let him teach here?

  Okay, Scags, you’ve got to stop this complaining because then there is the other class you know you will have trouble with but for other reasons.

  In the pottery class that Prof. Keating insisted I take, I am up against something else I’m not sure of. I wanted to be in an art history class, but no, he placed me in a studio arts class. I’m not an artist. I don’t know anything about throwing pots, I didn’t even know that was what one did or called it. At least Prof. Calderon is a nicer person and so much better to look at than Dr. Fish.

  I can only tackle one big problem at a time. Prof. Calderon may be easier to talk to than Dr. Fish will ever be. I felt so out of place there. It was more than just the content of the class—the throwing pots—it had to do with the way she walked around the class talking to us. So personal in a way I have never seen before. I didn’t know how to respond to it at all.

  After dinner, I’ll go to the library. At least there I know what to do and feel competent. I think I should wait until the end of the week to run away. Maybe by then I will have calmed down.

  Date: Tuesday, 9/9/69

  I couldn’t stay away from this diary. Something else unexpected and unplanned for occurred today and I wanted to write about it.

  When I went to breakfast this morning, I found a note in my mailbox from Prof. Keating. He apologized for the late notice but this was an invitation to a small gathering at his house of new and returning students. He promised we would have a good time and that he wouldn’t keep us too late.

  I was torn. I wanted to go to his house and see what it was like but I had planned to be in the library all evening. It’s a good thing that Goldie’s sayings keep popping into my head. Her suggestion for this evening was—plans are meant to be changed. So, I dutifully walked to Prof. Keating’s house guided by the map he enclosed with his invitation. Fortunately, there’s a lit path that goes directly from the campus to faculty housing and his house is at the end of it. No mistaking which house is his.

  I arrived a little early and a lot nervous. I rang the bell and entered through a large wooden front door into a large front hallway that was filled with the clutter of his family’s life. I smelled their dinner when the door flew open, held onto by his son who looks exactly like him but much younger. He silently led me to their library.

  I walked into that room and was all alone. Photos of family and friends sat on the bookshelves making it impossible to read the titles of the books. Instead of trying to read the titles by removing the pictures, I sat down on a long, leather couch and picked up some literary journals lying about. His son left too fast for me to say one word. He has the same hair color and skin color as his father, though—white hair and red skin.

  I heard Mrs. Keating’s voice in another room. Her laughter rang throughout the house and set the glassware chattering in response to her braying. I wish I knew what she had been laughing at.

  Prof. Keating came into the library carrying a large tray with bottles of pop as well as a large bottle of red wine. He set it down on a glass-covered table right in front of me and then disappeared. He returned quickly, with another tray filled with cheese, crackers and cookies. Out he went again for the glasses and by then the room began to fill up with other students, thank God.

  Prof. Keating wasn’t really comfortable with us in his home. There were 13 of us. I recognized two guys from my philosophy class and a woman from the pottery class, or the pot throw, as I call it. Everyone else was a complete stranger. How does a school this small have so many unknown people in it?

  I said one word to one person I didn’t know. I said “hi” to a guy names Charles. Prof. Keating didn’t seem to like Charles very much which seemed odd to me.

  Charles intrigued me, though. Of all the people I’ve met so far, he strikes me as the most interesting. It’s like he’s in a movie as he moves through life. He wears a leather jacket, slicks his hair away from his face so you can see exactly what he is thinking or feeling. It is written there for all to see. Most of the other guys have very long hair that obscures their faces. Charles chewed on a match stick and the harder he chewed, the more intense his thoughts seemed to be. Out of his jacket pocket a long-titled book by Tom Wolfe poked out. The book was thin but the title was endless.

  He sat hunched over the glass table at Prof. Keating’s house, chewing on the matchstick and patiently listening but with a bored look on his face. Since I felt as invisible as I usually do, I watched him and hoped he didn’t notice that. Everyone else became more animated and as they ate the food and drank the wine, their voices rose and they all seemed to feel at home. When the food and wine were gone, like a silent agreement, they left.

  I’m not sure why we were there. I heard Prof. Keating say he would be doing this regularly throughout the term.

  I watched Charles for the entire time we sat there. He remained still and minded his own business. He didn’t speak up or to anyone. Some students knew him and said hello. He nodded at them. It was when I I saw his smile and big blue eyes shine out of his face that something inside of me went kerplunk. You know, something happene
d and for one moment he looked at me that way too. He looked at me and I knew he saw me. I couldn’t turn away, I wanted to, but I was frozen in place.

  When everyone got up to leave, Charles disappeared out the door. Prof. Keating unexpectedly grabbed my hand and asked me to stay a bit longer. I wanted to get out the door. I had spent the whole day in classes and didn’t want to talk or have to listen to anyone.

  He invited me to stay for dinner. I was hungry and the idea of a home cooked meal was very tempting and it was such a good thing I stayed. The food was delicious. It was a feast.

  Mrs. Keating was in the kitchen. Large and dark and loud, she wasn’t at all like her husband or their two kids. She was very nice and sweet to me. She asked me questions about what my life was like before I got to the College. She had some disparaging words about this place but said them in such a funny way, I thought, she doesn’t mean them. I liked sitting at their table, the four Keatings and me. Mrs. Keating had such big hands and such a wide mouth that she looked more like a farm worker than a professor’s wife. Her kids seemed embarrassed by her, she could talk kind of rough as if she were a farmer. She called the other professors and their wives “uptight asswipes.”

  By the time we finished dinner, I was filled up and bit drunk. Mrs. Keating disappeared from the kitchen and the two kids ran up to their rooms to do their homework. Prof. Keating walked me back here.

  The kids are wonderful. I would be their friend if their father weren’t my advisor. I know that. They are twins. Her name is Robin and he is named Jeffrey. They look like Prof. Keating. Mrs. Keating is large and I mean large but in her manner as well as her appearance.

  Prof. Keating walked with me, he said, because he needed air after all that food and wine. I was glad for his company. We walked slowly and watched the stars in the sky. The sky was clear and up here in the mountains, it’s possible to feel much closer to the stars than we are.

  “I’m waiting for the harvest moon to rise,” I told Prof. Keating.

  He asked me why and I told him the story of how my family had made that night a family holiday.

  “The story goes like this,” I said to him. We stopped along the path and sat down on a bench.

  “When I was a little kid, my parents and I were out for a walk at night. We had gone to a movie at my school and wandered home. All of a sudden I noticed the moon rising and it was so big I burst out crying. My Pops had to pick me up. I had become too frightened to walk any further.

  “They might have laughed at me but they didn’t. They understood how that outsized moon could be so startling to a little kid. So, we had a ritual every fall after that. As soon as we knew the Harvest Moon was going to rise, we would go outside. Pops would put me on his shoulders until I got too big for that and we would watch the moon rise and tell stories about her size, her color and why she was the way she was. The trick was to change the story every year. Otherwise, we would be creating a fetish, my Pops said. We needed to keep it fresh.”

  Prof. Keating sat in silence as I told my story. At the end of it, he turned to me and said that the College had made a wise choice in selecting me to come on scholarship.

  “I like the fact that you come from an imaginative family that values creativity.”

  There was something about the way he said it that sounded better than it does on the page. He was sincere and it felt different from how I had experienced him in his office or even over dinner when he barely lifted his face from his plate.

  I tried to find a way to ask him about Charles but I could sense that this wasn’t the best time. We were both so tired. I left him downstairs at the doorway and came back up to my room to write in here. Somehow these new experiences are more real to me once I enter them in my diary.

  Date: Wednesday, 9/10/69

  Charles intrigues me. He isn’t a Chuck or a Charlie. Charles. He doesn’t know that I am interested in him or that I have been following him around. That is when I’m not studying. Oh you of little faith, of course I am not wasting my time mooning over some guy as Goldie warned me not to do. Her big fear was that away from home, I would lose direction and forget why I had won this scholarship. Of course not. I’m just intrigued by him and want to learn more about him.

  When he came to the library today, he picked up a large stack of newspapers and magazines and sat down in an easy chair not far from where I was working. How convenient I thought. From time to time, I felt his eyes on me and so I turned slowly, as if just pausing in thought, to see if he was looking at me. He was. He recognized me, I’m sure. He smiled. One thing I noticed about him was how methodically he read his papers. He placed the ones to be read at his left foot and went through it from front to back, folded it neatly and set it down next to his right foot.

  When he walked by my spot at the table, I smelled him and it was a mixture of cigarettes and coffee, not unlike my Pops with his cigars and coffee. Charles is about the same height as Pops. He’s younger, of course, has more hair. His beautiful blue eyes shine out of him and in combination with his sunken cheeks, he almost looks like a movie star. He never takes off his leather jacket. He looks very handsome in it.

  I’ve never used that word before—handsome—to describe someone I know. But it fits Charles. He laughs quietly and whispers to himself about the things he reads in the papers. I heard him swearing at the news, or saying, “fuck no,” often. Sometimes, he threw down the papers and walked away as if they had personally insulted him. But he returned, picked up the papers and returned to his orderly reading.

  I worry about him. I do. I may not know him yet but it isn’t good for a person to walk around feeling upset about things in the newspapers.

  Tonight before I left the library, I went to the big unabridged Websters to look up handsome. I was curious.

  When I look up a word in the dictionary it is an expedition, I wanted to say to Eileen. Just as I had explained to her my love of libraries, I wanted her to hear about my love of dictionaries. Lately though with classes and her new friend, Philip, I am more alone again.

  I wanted to explain to her how I feel like an explorer when I am in the dictionary. Willing to go anywhere the word takes me and to investigate whatever else may be lurking nearby to help me understand more of the world.

  The word “handsome” fits Charles. As the dictionary defined it: He is “well proportioned” and does “have a generous and gracious nature.” While those qualities aren’t exactly the ones I like about him, they are true as far as they go. At this moment, since I know so little about him, this word is sufficient. But I want to know more and to find better, more insightful words to describe him.

  In my search for an understanding of the word “handsome” I found a term for deer grass—Handsome Harry.

  Too bad his name isn’t Harry. Though Charles is a perfect name for him. Charles. Not Charlie or Chuck. Charles. Good night Charles.

  Date: Thursday, 9/11/69

  Following Charles around campus has some benefits. I am becoming more familiar with places, and thus feel more at ease in them. I may walk into the bookstore alone but I’m doing more than just buying a book, I’m watching to see what Charles is up to. My two days of undercover work have revealed that the Commons has a back room where there is a television, a pool table and vending machines.

  I haven’t seen a female friend at all. He has a buddy named Tony. They spend time together whenever Charles is on campus.

  Many students know Charles. They give him big hugs and tell him how glad they are to see him back. I wonder where he was. He pats them on the shoulder, kids around with them and then he leaves with Tony. He has an old beat up Jeep that he parks near the guard station. Does he think someone will steal it? It is old and rusty and an eyesore as my Pops would say. He has New York license plates and they say, “Black Beauty.” Why? I have no idea.

  In my sleuthing, I heard him mention to Tony that they would be seein
g “The Third Man” on Friday night.

  I planned to go to the library Friday night and begin a long weekend of studying. In light of these new developments however, I plan to go to the movie as well.

  I saw a poster in the Commons for the film series on Friday nights. I’ll have to go early because I am sure it will be packed. I mean, free movies. It’d be stupid and a waste not to go. Of course I will be there. I just need to plan for this and at the same time make it look really spontaneous. No one ever said that growing up was easy but this wasn’t ever mentioned to me before—the ways in which to meet and get to know a guy. I’m willing to learn. Practice is a good thing. If this doesn’t work out, well, there are lots of other guys here. It’s just that he’s so good looking.

  Date: Friday, 9/12/69

  This was the day. I woke up ready to go to the movies and to figure out how to get to know Charles better. While I had begun preparations for this new assignment, certain unforeseen events interfered with my ability to put my plans into effect.

  For one thing, Dr. Fish, old fuck face, is still at it. I gave him this whole week to improve and he didn’t. Today in class, I wanted desperately to answer a question. Of course, I knew the answer and of course I could have said it more eloquently than the fellow Dr. Fish called on. But I didn’t get a chance. He doesn’t allow women to speak. I don’t know why I let him upset me but he does. As I raced out of his class, I burst into tears. Mostly out of frustration, I think. There I was in the hallway in tears when Eileen showed up. It was as if she heard me crying and came to my rescue. She saw the tears on my cheeks, took me by the arm and walked me to the orchard.

  Thank God for Eileen. She apologized for not warning me about Dr. Fish. I wanted her to tell me that she had taken his class and done well. But she hadn’t done well and so withdrew rather than fail it. She confirmed my worst fears. He truly hates women.