John spent New Year’s in Albany, with Ben. I never got a clear picture of what they did, but I saw the photos, and not a single girl, so I didn’t care. He spent the rest of the break working for his dad. He promised to spend the money on me.
The only other important event was the day my grades arrived in the mail. My failing mark in my computer class put me on academic probation, meaning I had one semester to turn things around. By some act of divine intervention, it was the day CNN first brought us news that war had broken out in the Persian Gulf, so the conversation with my parents was short and to the point. As Bernard Shaw announced, “Something’s happening outside,” from his hotel room in Baghdad, I was quickly advised that another semester of similar performance would earn me a nametag and hair net at the local pancake house.
I considered myself warned.
Chapter Seven
I returned to school for my second semester in late January of 1991. I was glad to get back to my life, my freedom. I had chosen my classes with a bit more care this time, and was looking forward to pulling my GPA out of its nosedive. Two more English classes, a political science class, and an introduction to anthropology. Definitely more manageable.
Molly returned from more than a month at home back in Texas. Her accent, which had mellowed a bit with the coming of the New England winter, was back in full force. Though we had our own lives at school, with not much overlapping, we had found our rhythm, and got along well enough to live in peace. She became more involved with the equestrian program at the university, once they learned of her credentials, and so I was able to let go of the guilt for having a social life founded on the betrayal of her so-called friends.
Second semester did bring a few changes. Both Prim and Julie decided not to return to New Hampshire. Prim, I heard, transferred to Harvard. Julie, it was rumored, found her way onto a pole somewhere in south Florida. I hope, for both their sakes, things have worked out for them.
***
We were back at school in time for the Super Bowl. John and I had been watching Monday Night Football together for a few months, and I had to grown to enjoy the game. Not as much as hockey, but John’s game was football, so it became mine as well. I have a long tradition of hating any team, in any sport, from New York, but it was the Bills against the Giants. What was I to do? I picked the lesser of two evils, and hitched my wagon to Buffalo.
When John invited me to go along with him to a Superbowl party at Ben’s room, I felt like I had received an invitation to some dark and secret club. I was being given access to the innermost cave during a major sporting event? Surely I must have been doing something right to be granted such a rare and coveted honor.
The actual television watching, as it turned out, was located in the bland study lounge just down the hall from Ben’s room. I should know. I spent at least twenty-five minutes sitting alone on a questionable couch while three Star Trek dorks debated the effectiveness of the Bud Bowl advertising campaign in front of me.
Five minutes into the game, John had excused himself along with Jared and Ben and some other random people I did not know. I knew they were smoking pot; I wasn’t dumb. But I felt abandoned and picked over, and not sure at all why he had invited me in the first place. I was lost in my hurt when Ben sat down on the sofa beside me.
“What are you doing in here?” he asked me.
“Watching the game,” I answered.
“Where’s John?” He looked around the room.
“I thought he was in your room,” I told him.
“He was,” he answered. “They haven’t come out yet?”
“Haven’t seen ‘em.” It was hard not to stew.
Ben looked around, and elbowed me in the ribs when his eyes settled on the dorks in the front of the room.
“C’mon Greer, come with me,” he said in a low whisper. “You can’t sit here with these goofballs, all by yourself. You don’t have to smoke, but just hang out with us. We’re really not that bad, I promise.”
He stood up, and extended his right hand to me. He smiled, and his face lit up. It was impossible not to like him. He could charm the scales off a snake, or the panties off a co-ed. I smiled and took his hand and let him lead me out of the study lounge and down the hallway to his room.
John was surprised to see me walk into the room behind Ben, but he smiled. Nobody else seemed to really notice. The conversation continued to flow as John pulled me into a sitting position on his lap.
“I’m glad you’re here,” he whispered in my ear. My hurt feelings slipped away like a bad dream, leaving behind only stirrings in the otherwise thrill to be awake, and wanted.
The room smelled skunky, and they were listening to the Grateful Dead. Visine could have sponsored their half-time show. I was impressed with the amount of ceremony that went into smoking weed. One boy would roll a bath towel and place it at the bottom of the door. Another would open the window and turn on a small fan, pointing it out the window, into the night. Another would sit at the desk, carefully picking through a pile of sticks and leaves and stems, pinching the weed and stuffing it into a small, wooden pipe.
When someone handed the pipe to me, I passed and handed it to John. He took a hit, held his breath, and puffed a long stream of smoke into the fan. It shot out into the darkness like an urgent fog.
***
The subject came up again a few days later as I lounged in John’s room one evening after dinner. I was lying on his bed, looking down on the room from the loft. I had a rare night with no reading or writing to do. John was working on chemistry homework at his Commodore computer at the desk underneath the loft. When I complained of being bored, he handed me a paperback.
There was a knock at the door, and suddenly the little room filled up with Topher and another guy I had seen around their floor on Holt. His name was Patrick, and he was a preppy, chubby guy from the rocky coast of Maine, with ruddy skin and sailing in his blood. He looked like a frat brother, but liked recreational drugs too much to limit himself to keg parties and beer bashes.
When the door closed behind them, Patrick removed a small , rolled up baggie from the pocket of his jeans, and handed it to John.
“Thanks, man,” John said to him, looking up from his computer. “You got a few minutes to hang out?”
They nodded and attempted to make themselves comfortable in the cramped quarters. John stood and looked at me. We were face to face.
“Do you mind if we smoke?”
“Go right ahead,” I said. I really was becoming quite complacent with the whole drug thing. I guess when I realized that its effects were not as severe as I had been led to believe, I dropped my disdainful attitude. Who was I to judge, after all? Getting drunk seemed to mess me up just as effectively as anything else, and that was practically expected of us college kids, with a wink and a nod and a promise to grow up upon graduation.
I placed the book down, and propped myself up on one elbow. I enjoyed watching the ritual of toweling the door, opening a window, and propping a fan. John removed a small, ceramic cigarette-looking thing from his desk drawer, and poked a small bit of his new weed into one end. He handed it to me.
“You interested?” he asked, hopeful.
“Hm,” I said, twirling the one-hitter between my fingers.
“C’mon, join us on the dark side,” Topher teased with one of his summer day smiles. He batted his Marlon Brando eyelashes at me quickly.
“No,” I said slowly, handing the pot back to John. “I’m already messed up enough, without the aid of chemicals.”
They laughed. John lit up.
“No arguments there,” he said as he exhaled into the fan.
***
When Patrick and Topher had left us, John climbed up into the loft with me, threw the paperback to the floor, and began trying to liberate my shirt.
“I thought they’d never leave,” he uttered in a low voice, as he disappeared under the sheets, sending my jeans and underwear the way of the discarded book.
I liked sex. That was not the problem. I loved the wet, mad kissing, the groping and pulling off of clothing. My underwear went damp at a mere smile from John, and I found myself fantasizing about him during the day when I was not physically with him. I just could not close the deal. And I was ok with that, figuring it would take some time, and frankly, with my limited experience, it was good enough as it was. But his ego was having a hard time handling the notion that he was not the incredible lover he saw himself as. Things were so good, otherwise, between us; I did not think sex was important enough to allow to become a problem. Besides, I had that ghost of a climaxing ex-girlfriend to vanquish.
So I faked it. I did my best When Harry Met Sally, and faked my way through my blossoming sex life. It was much easier, it saved us all kinds of time, and he seemed satisfied in the end. The journey to the Land of O would be a bumpier road than I knew.
***
I had great expectations for my first Valentine’s Day with a boyfriend. Unfortunately, so did a nasty little flu virus living in The Pit.
Molly and I both woke up with it on the morning of February 14. I had made the poor decision to eat pork fried rice the night before, and spent a few miserable hours in the bathroom regretting that choice. My insides felt like they were being pulled through a meat grinder. I was sweating and freezing at the same time. My brain had been secretly replaced with a lead weight.
When John stopped by with a dozen red roses and a surprise invitation to lunch in town, I would not let him turn on a light or open the shades. I could not have him seeing me in anything but dim lighting, wearing my most ratty t-shirt and my brother’s old sweat pants. My head looked like a family of snakes had made themselves at home among my dark locks, and my eyes had their bags packed and were ready to hit the road. Molly had finally fallen asleep, and was snoring faintly underneath a pile of blankets on the other side of the room.
“I’m so sorry about our plans tonight,” I said weakly.
He sat down at my desk, and smiled at me. He had finally gotten a haircut, and I could see his eyes.
“Don’t worry about tonight. Just get better,” he said.
“You probably shouldn’t stay,” I said slowly. My tongue felt like fuzz. “You don’t want to catch this. It’s miserable.”
He stood and looked uncomfortable.
“It’s ok,” I reassured him.
I fell asleep quickly, and slept the afternoon away. When I awoke, Molly was sitting up in her bed, hair pulled into a ponytail, slurping from a styrofoam bowl of soup. My mouth started to water as soon as I processed the warm, salty, homey aroma of chicken noodle. I sat up and rubbed my sleepy eyes. I actually felt better. I looked past Molly to her desk, where Topher sat, playing Tetris at her computer.
“Mornin’ Sunshine,” Molly drawled between slurps. She sucked the noodles in like a five year old, and licked her chin with a satisfied smile. “Wasn’t he so nice to bring us soup? On Valentine’s and everything.”
“What?” I asked. I was still foggy.
“Topher heard we were sick, and brought us soup!” Again, I imagined little cartoon hearts floating around her head like Sally from the Peanuts whenever Linus was near.
At that, Topher stood up from his game, grabbed another styrofoam bowl from the top of my desk, and brought it to me. He also brought me three black balloons on curly black ribbon that I had not even noticed floating in the corner. He sat on the edge of my bed.
“Happy Black Thursday,” he said with a grin. Topher claimed to hate Valentine’s Day, and dubbed it “Black Whatever-Day-It-Falls-On-This-Year” for as long as I knew him.
“My God, thank you,”I said eagerly, ripping the lid off and attacking the soup enthusiastically. I dipped the plastic spoon in and brought a warm bite of noodles to my mouth. After twenty-four hours of keeping nothing down, it was the most delicious thing I could imagine.
“John told me it was pretty grim over here,” he said.
“What’s he up to tonight?” I asked in between bites of noodle. “I had to cancel our dinner.”
Topher just shrugged, and then stood up and went back to his game at Molly’s desk. I finished my soup quickly.
“Do you need anything else?” he asked when his game came to an end. He stood to leave.
“No, thank you, the soup was awesome,” I said appreciatively. He was a good friend.
“A ginger-ale!” Molly cried out, as if he hadn’t done enough already.
He was a great friend, because he went down the hall, bought two ginger-ales from the soda machine in the lobby, and brought them to each of our bedside.
“Happy Black Thursday,” I called out to him as he was walking out our door. He turned back with a smile and wave and left us to ourselves to finish feeling better.
It kind of pains me, now. Thinking about that Valentine’s Day.
***
Eventually, the flu hit the bricks for more vulnerable pastures in the dark, dank Pit of the all-boys dorm next door. Molly and I Lysoled the room, opened the windows despite the below-freezing mid-February temperatures, and bid good riddance to the virus.
Winter dragged its heavy feet through the rest of our shortest month. John and I found our stride, and made it to spring break without much drama. I had to actually put some effort into my studies, to avoid a replay of last semester’s dismal performance. On weekends we often saw live bands at the SUB, or rented movies to watch on his old beat up VCR and computer monitor. Our favorites were Harold & Maude and Blue Velvet.
Occasionally we would trek through the biting cold over to Harrison Hall, to party in Ben’s room, but mostly we kept to ourselves during those few, freezing weeks of my second semester. Spring Break came up quickly, which was unfortunate, because I was dreading it, and what absence would do to my better half’s heart.
Chapter Eight
Growing up, my family was not the type to own a lot of toys. No boats, or sports cars, or dirt bikes. No big, high-tech televisions, stereos, or any of the other things men use to compare penis size in polite society. The Bennetts took vacations.
That year, my parents decided it had been too long since they had last carted Cooper and me to their own little piece of paradise, a quarter-acre parcel of near-the-beach Florida property they never actually built anything on. They sold it just before The Great Recession hit. Sun Coast was an up and coming suburban dream just north of Daytona. My parents owned a small lot on a cul-de-sac, just up the street from the community fitness center and pool. Since all that sat on my parents’ parcel was some scrub brush and an old, discarded sofa, we were to stay at a resort nearby, right along an otherwise undisturbed stretch of oceanfront.
Though the sandy beach and warm sun sounded wonderful in this dead spot of winter we were stuck in, I dreaded the thought of an entire week away from John, where he would be at home and free to see Abby without any way of me finding out. I trusted him completely at school, all bets were off once we stepped off campus.
“I’ll be working for my dad all week,” he reassured me when I expressed my reluctance to go to Florida. “Besides, shouldn’t I be the one worrying about you, out there on the beach in some skimpy bathing suit,” he said, swiftly turning the focus back to me.
“Yeah, me and all the other eighty year old blue-hairs,” I retorted.
We were at the dining hall, eating dinner a few nights before the break. I slid my last mozzarella stick onto his stack of five plates, and finished my Diet Coke. He shoved the entire piece of fried cheese in his mouth and grinned at me. His hair was finally starting to grow back over his forehead, which I preferred. I made a mock-disgusted face at his childish behavior.
“Say hello to the Mouse for me,” he finally said after swallowing h
ard.
“There’s more to Florida than Disney, you know.”
“I’m sure you and your family will have a lovely time. Just be sure not to run away with any tanned beach bums with flowing blond hair and a cheesy pickup line.” He piled my tray on his and stood to leave. I pulled on my black wool coat and followed him.
“You’re the only cheesy blond I’m interested in,” I told him as I walked past him to the doors. He disposed of the trays and chased me down the ramps into the cold March evening outside. I didn’t spend a single night in The Pit that week.
***
The flight from Boston to Orlando was uneventful. I spent the three hours reading every sex article in the various women’s magazines I had purchased at the airport. Though the reading may have helped with technique, I was still looking for someone to explain to me what, exactly, an orgasm felt like. How would I know when it was happening? What if I had just missed it, and didn’t have a problem at all?
I missed a day’s worth of anthropology and poly-sci classes so that we could pull up to the palm tree-lined resort hotel just before dinner time. I already missed John, and it had been less than twenty-fours since I had been with him. I sulked through check-in. It wasn’t until I pulled open the curtains in our suite to reveal a long stretch of white sand and gentle waves lapping at the shore just out in front of us that I relaxed a little. There were a handful of people jogging on the beach, all men. All fit. Maybe the week wouldn’t be so bad.
I could go into a lot of detail about our trip, but I would prefer not to. Not much happened. The sun shone. The ocean waved. My parents went to many, many open houses, looking for that perfect model home on which to base plans for their own retirement heaven. My brother and I usually declined to tag along, preferring instead to hang out on the beach or by the pool for the afternoon until our parents came back and took us out for dinner.
Beware of Love in Technicolor Page 11