At first, we talk about high school and our lives until this point. His aunt and uncle live in LA and he’s been there a few times. I ask him about Worthington, the fancy boarding school he’s gone to for the last three years. Growing up, it had been a dream of mine to go to a boarding school. It’s not that I wanted to get away from my parents or be a grown up so much earlier. I just like the idea of the independence that came with it. Living with roommates. Being responsible for your own laundry. Living on your own terms. But still in a somewhat safe environment with other kids. I share my dream with Dylan. He just laughs.
“It’s not really like that,” he says. “I mean, you do get to be on your own a lot. But it’s a little different when you feel like your parents just shipped you off there because they got tired of you.”
“Really? No, that can’t be true.” I shake my head. “I’m sure you parents love you.”
“Well, unlike you, I didn’t really want to go. I liked my friends and my teachers at the private school near our house. But my parents were getting divorced and my brother was already in Dartmouth. My dad had a new girlfriend and my mom was having a breakdown. I don’t think they wanted me around anymore. At first, I protested and they caved. But then when my mom went to rehab for two months, there was no one at the house to stay with me. So my dad thought it’d be best to send me to boarding school.”
“That sucks,” I say and put my hand on his arm.
“Eh, it’s okay. Rich kid problems, right? I’m fine. I honestly wasn’t even going to talk about this. I never really do. I just didn’t want you to have some illusion of what boarding school is like.”
“Well, to be honest, you haven’t really told me anything bad about boarding schools. Your story was really about parents who want to send their kids to boarding school,” I joke and smile. It takes a beat, but he catches on.
“Well, to be honest with you, boarding schools do have their perks.”
“Oh yeah, like what?” I move to the edge of my seat.
“Well, you get to hang out with girls. And I mean really hang out.”
“Is it co-ed like this?” I ask.
“No, but it’s pretty awesome anyway. They sleep in a different building, but they’re on campus. Away from home. So if you meet someone special, you can sneak out at night and actually hang out. No need to steal your parents’ car or anything like you public school kids do.”
I laugh. The check comes. He insists on covering it. Doesn’t let me even look at it. I fight for a bit, but eventually give in.
“Hey listen, I did want to talk to you about something. I just wanted to let you know that I totally get it about Tristan.”
A cold sweat dashes through me.
“What do you mean?”
“I get it that he’s your ex and that it’s really awkward having him as your roommate. But you know, that doesn’t mean that you don’t have the right to be in the living room.”
“Yeah, I know. I just couldn’t really deal with it yet.”
“I know. But the thing is that he’s there. He’s not acting like he doesn’t belong. And I want you to know that you belong, too. You can’t just go through your whole first semester avoiding him. What kind of college experience would that be?”
I shrug. I haven’t thought about how I was going to go through the whole semester. So far I’ve been living hour to hour.
“Not a good one, that’s for sure.” He flashes his handsome smile. “So I just want you to know that I can be your buffer. I’ll try to hang out in the living room as much as possible so you wouldn’t have to be alone.”
“Wow, I don’t know what to say. Thank you.”
“But I’ll only do it if you promise me that you’ll be there after dinner tonight. You’re not allowed to use school as an excuse.”
I like the way he jokes. It’s not malicious and it’s not at the expense of anyone. His warmth puts me at ease so much that I actually allow myself to imagine what hanging out in the living room with Tristan might be like.
“Okay,” I mumble. “I’ll try.”
“No, promise me you’ll do it. Not just try.”
“Promise,” I say after a while. No feelings of lingering regret creep up. It’s an honest promise.
“Why do you care so much, anyway?” I ask as we walk back to campus.
“’Cause you seem like a fun girl. A fun roommate. And I don’t want to miss out on that just ‘cause you used to date someone at one time.”
That is definitely one way of putting it. I’ve been so much in my own head about this whole Tristan thing, this whole other entity that we became while were together that I didn’t realize that this whole life altering thing could just be described as “I used to date someone at one time.” Putting it that way, gives me a little perspective. Maybe it’s not a big deal after all. Or maybe I shouldn’t make it that big a deal.
My American Lit class is starting soon. I don’t really know where Hamilton Hall is, so I put in the location into the map app on my phone. Dylan’s got American Civilization to the Civil War in the same building at the same time. We follow the app’s instructions, glued to my phone, like all the other freshmen.
“Man, I have to learn the campus layout a bit more before this weekend,” Dylan says when we finally reach the building. “I don’t want to look like a total idiot.”
“Why? What’s this weekend?”
“My girlfriend’s coming to visit me.”
“Oh, you have a girlfriend?” I joke. Not that it should matter, really, but I’m caught off-guard.
“Yes, I have a girlfriend,” he smiles. “Peyton. She goes to Yale. We met at Worthington last year.”
“How far is Yale from here?”
“About two hours, depending on traffic, if you drive. But she’s taking the train. So that’ll be about 3 hours.”
“Ah, I can’t believe you waited all through lunch to tell me. Now I have so many questions and I have to go to class,” I say, looking at my phone. “So what’s she like?”
“She’s awesome. Fun. Outgoing. She’s majoring in Poli Sci. She wants to work in government. She does a lot of volunteer work. Even started her own foundation in high school.”
“Wow, that’s impressive. She sounds amazing.”
“Yep, she is,” he says, beaming. “And she’s really looking forward to meeting everyone. And that includes you.”
I smile and promise that I’ll be there. He gives me a brief hug and turns into his class. I walk down the hall to room 101.
9
I open the door to a large lecture hall. Somehow, I’m late. Everyone else is already seated in a semi-circle around multiple levels of whiteboards. A few people turn around to look at me as I make my way down. I find a spot in the middle. Not too close to the front and not too far in the back.
When I put my bag on the floor, I look up and find a small thin woman with large disapproving eyes standing over me.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” I say.
“I would just like to make you all aware of the fact that in the future, the door to the room will be locked and no late arrivals will be tolerated.”
I look down at the syllabus that she’d put on my desk and read her name.
Dr. Polk returns back down to the podium. Behind me two girls giggle.
“Where do you think she got her paisley shirt?” one whispers.
“Goodwill. Oh, and what about those disastrous shoes. How awful.”
I hope Dr. Polk doesn’t hear them and try to focus on what she’s saying.
“Many of you are here because you’re genuinely interested in reading some of the best books from the 20th century. Books like The Great Gatsby, To Kill a Mockingbird, Catch 22, 1984 and House of Mirth. And as for all the rest of you, who aren’t interested, frankly, I don’t really know why you’re here, then. This isn’t a required elective and I hope you don’t waste either my time or your time taking a course that you’re not interested in.
“Also, as many o
f you know, this is a second-year course, which has only recently became open to first year students,” Dr. Polk continued. “We don’t recommend you take it unless you’re prepared to work really hard. That goes out to all of you, but specifically you freshmen.”
The girls behind me giggle with the laissez-faire of sophomores. They’ve been here for a whole year and they’re apparently not threatened by statements like that. Unfortunately, I’m not so at ease. Perhaps I’m in the wrong class altogether, I wonder. Just because I did really well in high school doesn’t mean that college will be a cakewalk. Especially this college. Especially this course.
Dr. Polk starts to go over the syllabus and introduces the books that we’re going to read this year. I’ve read most of these books in high school. Some just for fun, some for school. Suddenly, the floodgates from the recesses of my mind open and all sorts of unwanted thoughts and memories rush in.
To Kill a Mockingbird. I read it in 11th grade English. Our teacher, Mrs. Danes, let us choose our own seats and Tristan and I sat next to each other. Mrs. Danes was one of those progressive, non-hierarchal teachers who liked to challenge patriarchy at every turn, so she arranged all the desks in the room in a circle so that we could all face each other when we spoke. In a circle, there’s nowhere to hide, she liked to say. I looked forward to that class every day, not just because I loved English, but also because I sat next to Tristan. There were all of these moments before class started where we joked and laughed and all of these moments after class. Sometimes he walked me to my next class, sometimes to my locker. And one time, he kissed me. He walked me all the way to my locker and waited for me to switch out my books.
“So I meant to ask you, how was your date?” he asked. He had heard. Of course. I went on a date with a senior who didn’t go to our school, a brother of a friend of ours.
“Fine.” I smiled. He was trying to be casual about it. Like he was just asking about it in passing. But he was a little flushed. Not like his usual self.
“I was just wondering,” he said very quietly as he leaned closer to me. His face was inches away from mine. His eyes sparkled in the sunlight. He licked his lips and pressed them against mine. Lightly, at first. And then with full force. He put his hand on the back of my neck, pulling me closer.
“I was just wondering if you could not do it again?” he whispered.
That was our first kiss. Real kiss. That night, we went out together and I never saw that other guy again.
Dr. Polk moves on to Catcher in the Rye. Another book that I’ve already read. I started Catcher in the Rye the night after Tristan moved away in August of our senior year. For the first couple of days, I was a frenzy of activity. I did a million things to turn my mind off the fact that I wasn’t going to see my boyfriend for five months. I wrote, I did a ton of math homework, went running twice a day. But no matter what I did, I couldn’t shut my mind off. I couldn’t make myself feel better. So then I stopped. Gave up. Just got into bed and didn’t leave for days. I didn’t know what else to do with myself. I was drowning in anger. And my anger made me feel like the whole world was phony, including me. It was then that I started to dream of walking the streets of New York, just like Holden Caulfield, in a daze in search of something. But definitely not a prostitute (like Holden was).
“That’s enough for now,” Dr. Polk interrupts my train of thought. “Look over your syllabus. Decide if this class is really for you. If it is, go buy all the books and start reading House of Mirth for Thursday’s class.”
I wait for the bell to ring. But this is college. There are no bells. Everyone simply gets up and leaves and I follow them out. If only my dad knew that we had to read books in this class that I’ve already read over the last two years. This time, however, his likely response makes me chuckle.
10
This is going to be one of those defining moments that would change the course of my life. I could feel it as if it were bubbling up within me. What I did next would really define the rest of the semester.
After grabbing a few bites to eat in the cafeteria, I clear my tray and went back upstairs. I had promised Dylan something that I had no right to promise, something that I don’t want to do. I’d promised him that I would come into the living room tonight and hang out with them. All of them. It doesn’t sound like much on the surface. They’re my roommates. All are nice and friendly people. None of them are going to bite my head off. Least of all, the person that I’m most worried about.
Tristan. He’s going to be quiet and reserved about the whole thing. Just like before. I know this because I know Tristan. But that’s the thing that scares me. That’s not really who Tristan is. And when he’s acting that way, when he’s pretending to be this quiet, unassuming person who keeps to himself, well, that’s when I know that he’s being insincere. A fake. A stranger.
But then again, who am I kidding? He’s pretty much a stranger anyway.
I look at myself in the mirror. A timid, frail girl looks back. My eyes seem hallow, vapid even, and I have dark circles under them already. For Christ’s sake! I haven’t been in school for a week yet and I’m already a hot mess.
I put on a substantial layer of foundation. Line my eyes with black eyeliner. A dash of dark eyeshadow. Color in my wispy eyebrows a bit and flip my hair over to give it a bit of volume. How the hell was I walking around like this all day? Did I forget to wear makeup this morning? Really?
I look in the mirror again. Much better. But something’s missing. Oh yes, of course. Lipstick. Bombay Funk is a dark matte red lip color, which completes the look. Now I’m ready. At least, as ready as I’m going to be. Makeup is my cover. It gives me strength. Something to hide behind. It’s my war paint.
I take a deep breath and step onto the battlefield.
Dylan’s lounging on the couch in a pair of flannel pants and a white t-shirt, which accentuates his toned physique. He’s really hot. Just focus on that, I say to myself. Juliet is standing next to the hot plate with a guy I’ve never seen before. She introduces him as Brandon from her acting class. Tristan is sitting at the dining room table, eating cereal with one hand and scrolling through his phone with another. When I come in, he gives me a brief nod and quickly gets back to his phone.
“So, in acting class, they have us do these breathing exercises,” Juliet starts talking. What I’ve learned about Juliet in our brief time of being roommates is that she does not believe in preambles. Juliet simply starts in the middle of a conversation betting on the fact that everyone else will catch up to her train of thought. In this case, I do.
“They’re so strange, aren’t they Brandon?”
Brandon’s arms are wrapped tightly around her torso. His lips slide up and down her neck. How long have they known each other?
“Brandon?” Juliet pushes him aside jokingly. “Did you hear what I said?”
“Yeah, yeah,” he says pulling her closer. He has a quiet, smoldering voice. Very sexy. “They are strange. Makes me feel like I’m going through labor.”
“Oh yeah, and how would you know what that’s like?”
Brandon shrugs and buries himself in her chest. Juliet tilts her head back from pleasure and then flashes me a smile.
“What are you cooking?” I ask.
All throughout this courting display, Juliet continues to stir something on the skillet on the hotplate.
“I’m making s’mores for everyone.”
I nod, as if that’s a perfectly normal thing to cook on the stove.
“Oh and you know what else, Alice? Get this. My assignment for next week’s class is to write a thank you note.”
“A thank you note? To whom?”
“To whom?” Brandon lifts up his head from Juliet’s breasts to make fun of my proper grammar.
“To anyone. It’s some sort of gratefulness exercise. The teacher is this real new-agey woman. So we’re supposed to write a thank you card, on an actual card and everything, for something we’re thankful for. A person or a thing. It’s sup
posed to make us more present in real life, or some shit like that.”
I look around the room and wonder what Juliet’s teacher would think of how un-present we all were in this moment. There’s Dylan’s on the couch, glued to Sports Center and their analysis of what had already happened in the world of professional sports. There’s Tristan who missed bringing the spoon of cereal into his mouth on a couple of occasions because he’s too busy looking at something online. Then there’s Juliet, who’s taking multi-tasking to a whole new level. She’s got a guy kissing her neck and feeling her up while she’s making s’mores and talking to me about her teacher. And then there’s me. I’m not really doing anything, but I’m also not present. I’m an observer who’s not really in the moment any more than any of the rest of them.
The s’mores are finally ready. Juliet had melted the marshmallows in between the crackers and the chocolate already. Tristan’s done with his cereal and puts the dish in the kitchen sink.
“Want one?” she asks. He nods. She hands him two.
“Give this one to Alice,” she says.
I look over from the couch when I hear my name and watch Tristan take the s’mores into his hands and make his way over. But then something happens.
“Oh shit!” he says. The s’mores are lying on the carpet with their marshmallow chocolate goo spilling over the sides.
“Don’t worry; I’m making more.”
I drop down next to him to help him clean up. Carefully, we pull the crackers with most of the s’more off the floor.
“Wow, they’re hot!” I say.
“Of course, they’re hot,” Juliet yells. “They were just on the skillet, you geniuses!”
Her tone makes me feel like we’re in trouble and she’s about to call our parents for a parent-teacher conference. I look at Tristan. And after a moment, we both crack up laughing.
Tristan and I were not able to get every last part of the s’more off the carpet. The harder we tried, the more it disintegrated and the stickier the spot got. And when I walk over it the following morning on my way to the kitchen sink, my shoe sticks a little in the spot where the s’more was. But stepping on this spot makes me smile nevertheless. It was here where things between Tristan and I started to feel normal. And it was here that I started to feel like I could really do this: the whole Tristan and I, exes but roommates thing.
Auctioned to Him Book 8 Page 107