around my head.
“I can’t believe I’m letting you do this,” I said.
Aidan unsheathed a long, thin pair of scissors. “Sit.” She pointed to
the toilet seat.
I sat, and she began to snip away. Hair fell in dark curls onto the
linoleum floor.
“Don’t look down.” Aidan held my chin straight.
“Shouldn’t you be preserving a lock of my hair?”
“Are you kidding? I could make a wig.” Aidan held her face within
inches of my own, her breath cool, her stare controlled.
Her eyes were a dark russet, but up close I noticed that within the
iris of her left eye a bright splinter of gold gleamed like light bouncing
off the sharp tip of a needle.
“One of your eyes,” I said, “has this crazy fleck of gold.” “It’s a piece of broken glass.” Aidan tipped back on her heels. “It’s
lodged in there. Here, feel.”
Aidan took my fingers in her hand. She closed her eye and ran my
fingertips over the soft skin of her eyelid, pressing down on the hard,
small granule of glass.
“Does it hurt?” I asked. “How did it get in there?”
She sliced the scissors open and closed a silvery sound. “I don’t
want to talk about that. Not today.”
Aidan continued to trim my hair. I was happy just to sit in silence
and let her work. We both had our secrets and I didn’t want to overreach.
“You know that song,” Aidan said. “ ‘It Had to Be You.’ I always
thought the line went, ‘With all your false I-love-you-stills.’ ” “It’s ‘With all your faults, I love you still.”
“I know that now,” Aidan said. “You sang it one afternoon.” A piece of hair landed on my nose. I blew it up and away, but the
itch remained. Aidan slid me around and trimmed the back. Finally
she snapped the towel from my neck and rubbed my hair dry. “Take a
look,” she said.
We stood together in front of the bathroom mirror. She’d managed
to keep my hair long and curly, but neater.
“Well done,” I said.
“Now I can be seen with you.” Aidan collected furry mats of hair
from the floor. “Hair is destiny,” she said. “The right look can change
your life.”
I held up the shears and began clipping them dangerously close to
her head.
“No one cuts my hair,” she whispered.
“I’m glad to know that.”
As she busied herself sweeping up the mess, the pink arch of her
ear peeked out from her long red curls. In that moment she looked like
an elf or, even more, like a boy. How strange and rare it was to see the
top of a girl’s ear. I reached out to touch her, but my hand flew back
from a spark of static electricity.
In the weeks that followed, Aidan and I spent hours together walking on the beach. We’d play this game where I would stroll several yards in front of her and sing. She loved the way the wind carried the lyrics back to her, claimed that some words arrived before others shuffled out of order. She believed that the wind composed its own music from my voice. “You’re like one of those Sirens in the Odyssey,” she claimed.
“That’s right. I’m luring you into shore only to have you crash against my rocks.”
I kept offering to take Aidan sailing and she kept insisting that boats frightened her. I tried to reassure her that despite all dangers, I would keep her safe.
“I know you mean well,” she said, “but for now, let’s stay on land.”
When the tide was out, Aidan and I would sit on the breakwater and I’d school her on the art of sailing. She was surprised to learn that despite thousands of years of history and advancements in high-tech navigational instruments, sailing still wasn’t an exact and mea surable science. “A compass may point north, but the metallic needle is swayed and influenced by the boat’s own magnetic field.”
“So north isn’t really north?” Aidan asked.
“Not when you’re sailing. True north becomes compass north, and the degree of deviation must be drawn and plotted on a curve.” No matter how precise the instruments, how frequently adjusted, I had to admit to Aidan that certain aspects of sailing had no firm guidelines.
Like deciding when to reduce sail. Knowing when fast is fast enough. An overcanvased boat will strain and broach, rolling windward out of control. Reefing the main and reducing the headsail requires athleticism. Challenging a crew’s unity and strength. Striving to keep the areas of each sail in proportion. A wardrobe of sheets to select from. Mizzen, genoa, lapper, spinnaker. The skipper commands the crew and forecasts the need for change, basing his decisions on intuition and experience. The art of interpretation.
Though I didn’t set out to conceal it, Aidan and I kept our friendship private, hidden, even. We hadn’t known each other long, but there was an intensity, an immediacy to our feelings for each other. What made me like her? Her pain. Her mystery. I was drawn to her because she reminded me of Cal. I was drawn to her because she reminded me of myself. I couldn’t tell you what she saw in me. She certainly didn’t expect that I would add to her hurt. She could not have known the harm I’d bring.
SIX
Among the many tricks I learned from him, Cal taught me the secret to counting waves. He believed that if a sailor paid close attention and knew when to begin counting, he could track waves and predict their size and duration. Cal was convinced that in a series of waves, the seventh wave would always be higher than the sixth. The seventh wave would give a sailor an extra charge. A sailor just had to know when to start counting. “The first wave always looks like it’s going be a killer but then it breaks early, drops out, and doesn’t deliver. When you see one of those, that’s when you start counting.” We spent hours looking for that first wave in order to hunt down our seventh, knowing that longer swells traveled faster than short wind waves. What Cal liked best was to spot waves during an oncoming squall. We both understood that it was always best to sail directly into a storm. Never away. When riding into colder water we could feel the surface air cool, the wind slow and back down. Together we’d calibrate the rise, as gale forces cause the edges of crest to break into spindrift.
Cal and I often talked about what we’d do if we sailed into a hurricane. Revolving winds greater than sixty-three knots. Exceeding force twelve on the Beaufort scale. Beginning as shallow depressions. Settling on a path, then altering their set course without warning. Rotating and building into a warm core with the release of latent heat and rain. A solid wall of cloud. Cal thought that with the right boat, we’d be able to heave to and take the brunt of any storm’s beating.
I’d been at Bellingham for just over two months when a hurricane was predicted to ride up from the Caribbean, miss the Keys, strike Hatteras, and land finally on Cape Cod. A late-season storm, making a slow surge up the Atlantic coast.
The storm inspired Race to organize a hurricane party at his home on Powder Point. I had no interest in spending a night at Race’s house, but Race didn’t invite me. Tazewell did.
The note Tazewell left on my door said, “Come see me.” My dorm room was big, but Tazewell’s was a penthouse. A corner room with a private bath and four windows. When I came in, Tazewell was sitting on his own full-sized bed, not the regulation Bellingham cot. A tackle box filled with safety pins and embroidery floss opened in front of him. Dressed only in teal gym shorts. His naked chest puffed out like a proud peacock. A pile of lacrosse sticks sat like kindling on the floor. Kriffo’s last name, “Dunn,” repeated in silver letters up and down the lengths of all the shafts. I picked up a stick, scooped up a balled-up pair of socks, and cradled the dirty laundry.
“Got something for you,” he said. “Give me your wrist.” Tazew
ell held out a woven bracelet, similar to the ones that decorated his right arm.
“You make this?” I asked.
“Took me over a week.” He slipped the cord around, tied a reef knot, and turned my wrist over to admire his own handiwork. “Used seven different colors. Call it my cat’s-eye design.”
“It’s incredible.” I ran a finger over the intricate pattern. Both the tight weave and Tazewell’s choice of blues and greens reminded me of Cal, his changing eyes.
“Damn right it’s incredible.” He closed his tackle box. “I’m a fucking artist.”
“You really made this for me?” I asked. “Thank you.”
“Been feeling bad about not hanging out.” Taze picked up another lacrosse stick and shoveled up two paperback novels. “Why don’t we make these books look read? Let’s crack ’em.”
We volleyed the novels back and forth, bending the covers and denting the pages.
“Hurricane party this weekend. You in?”
“Where at?” I asked.
“Race’s. The storm’s supposed to hit on Saturday, so plan on signing out for an overnight. Say that you’re visiting Riegel at Princeton for a college preview. They never check college stuff. I mean, let’s be real, they don’t check much of anything here.” He snatched up a creamcolored paperback. “So are you game for a party?”
“Race doesn’t want me at his house.”
“It’s a party. More people the better.” Tazewell shot The Awakening over my head.
I reached back and made the catch, saving a desk lamp from The Awakening and obliteration.
“Nice,” Taze said.
I spun around and accidentally tossed the book out a window that was open only a few inches.
“One-in-a-million shot,” he told me. “You know when you do something unconscious like that. Then you try again, for show, and it’s impossible? I dig that.”
“Dumb luck,” I said.
The door swung open, and Kriffo entered, holding a rolled-up newspaper like an ice cream cone. The side of his cheek bulged out at the jaw and he spit brown tobacco juice into the wrapped paper.
“Dumb fucking luck,” Kriffo echoed. “Just heard about some serious bad luck.”
“What’s the word?” Tazewell asked.
“You know that freshman, Skinner?”
“Sure. A little guy,” Tazewell said. “Does cross-country.”
“That’s the one.” Kriffo spit. “Guess his roommate found him choking his chicken.”
“Choking?” I asked.
“He was spanking it, Prosper.” Taze gestured, meaningfully, with his hand. “So is Skinner packed? Is he out of here?”
I put down Tazewell’s lacrosse stick. “They’d kick him out for that?”
“No one’s telling him to leave,” Kriffo said, “but you can’t exactly live that shit down. One thing to do it. Another thing entirely to get busted.”
“The Skinman rides tonight.” Taze reached for his lacrosse stick, rubbing his hands over it and howling.
“The horny little homo.” Kriffo spit and missed his mark. Black liquid tobacco drool punctuated the dimple on his chin and trickled down one of his ironed shirt cuffs. “Couldn’t keep his hands off himself.”
“Remember Dewey Altman?” Tazewell asked me.
I nodded. Tazewell began to tell Kriffo about this epic masturbater we both knew at Kensington. “Dude would sit on his right hand till it fell asleep, then he’d jack himself off with it. Claimed it felt like someone else was doing the work.”
I laughed. “Yeah, Altman called it giving himself ‘the Stranger.’ ”
“Did it work?” Kriffo asked.
“I guess so,” I said without thinking.
“Oh, so you tried it Prosper? You’re a closet Skinman?” Tazewell asked. “Are we going to sneak into your room some night and find you humping your favorite pillow?”
“You must think I’m cute, now, don’t you Tazewell, if you’re making plans to sneak into my bedroom some night.”
“Bitch.” Tazewell dove and grabbed me by the knees. He picked me up, threw me back onto his bed, and straddled me. His groin was in my face. “You want some? Want some Tazewell magic?” He loosened the drawstring on his shorts.
Tazewell’s balls were pressed up against my chin. His naked chest covered with a light sweat that smelled like ivy on brick. As Tazewell looked down on me smiling and laughing, I felt myself stiffen underneath him. I tried to overpower my erection with thoughts of Nancy Reagan. Nancy Reagan on a surfboard. Nancy Reagan pitching horse shoes. Nancy Reagan holding a lacrosse stick.
“Prosper,” Tazewell began, “I want to see if you swallow.”
“I’m going to have to hose you two down.” Kriffo hit Tazewell on the head with his newspaper, spraying brown juice.
Tazewell rolled off me and went over to his bureau. He took out a cigarette, opened the window, and stood by it, smoking.
I sat on the bed with my back against the wall and one of Tazewell’s pillows covering my waist and groin. I looked to Tazewell. To Kriffo. They were just boys. Tall and strong, older looking than most, but still boys. They thrived in the world of games and rules. When someone slipped, they knew how to drag him down with a nod to each other. Down with a well-chosen word. They liked the world that had been created for them and wore this world, with cocksure pride, around their wrists. A birthright of confidence.
They were my friends, and I wished to be effortless with them. I wanted to register the same strength they did in the way I laughed or held chewing tobacco in my cheek. We were alike enough, the three of us, and yet my every gesture felt like a compensation.
I stood up to leave.
“Don’t forget about the party,” Tazewell said. “And don’t dream about me too much.”
I held up the bracelet. “Now that we’re engaged, it’s hard not to.”
With Aidan’s help I was beginning to adjust to life at Bellingham. Despite our stormy pasts, when we came together, we acted like teenagers in some aw-shucks 1950s dream world. Some nights we’d walk into town and buy ice cream sandwiches at the General Store, then head over to the library and watch films in the video room. Black-andwhite classics like Bringing Up Baby and Strangers on a Train. Aidan knew a lot about old Hollywood. Not trivia but actual stories about her mother hanging out with famous actors. Walking back to Whitehall one night, Aidan told me Cary Grant had once dosed her mom with LSD.
“She dropped acid with Cary Grant?” I asked. “The guy in all those
Hitchcock films?”
“Archie promised Mom it would help her see more clearly. That
was his real name, Archibald Leach.” Aidan pressed her lips together
and looked off into the night. “He’s gone too. Just like Astaire. An end
of an era.” Aidan wasn’t bragging. These stories slipped out only to be
followed by long periods of silence. Like most people who came from
privilege, Aidan was guarded about her family’s connections. I was happy to listen, to not ask for more, and to slowly piece together
her life.
That night, Aidan followed me back to my dorm. She was having
trouble sleeping and I’d promised to lend her a bunch of dreamy music: Leonard Cohen, Nick Drake, and even a recording of me singing
Christmas carols with the Kensington Choir. “My rendition of ‘Silent
Night’ will send you right to sleep.”
Girls were allowed in the lobby of Whitehall, but Aidan had never
gone inside. She wanted to see what she’d been missing. As we approached the dorm, we were both hit by the strong smell of pizza.
Aidan asked, “Does Whitehall always reek of sausage and onions?” We entered the dorm only to find Chester Baldwin in the lobby, his
head bowed, his arms crossed at his chest. An older man with a graying ponytail stood beside two towers of pizzas, the boxes leaning perilously on a coffee table. A couple of nights later, I came back to w
hitehall
and found Chester Baldwin in the lobby arguing with a pizza delivery
guy. The whole dorm smelled of sausage and onions. Two towers of
pizza boxes leaned perilously on a couch. The delivery guy, an older
man with a graying, kept insisting that Chester owed him money.
“Somebody ordered these pizzas,” he said, “and somebody’s got to pay
for them.”
Chester admitted to ordering one pizza but not the twenty he was being charged for. It was a classic prank. One of the Whitehallers had probably heard Chester phone in his order, then called back and added to it. “Can we help?” Aidan asked Chester.
“Do you have two hundred bucks?” Chester didn’t even look at us
as he spoke. He didn’t expect us to have an answer.
Aside from seeing each other in the hallways and nodding hello,
neither Chester nor I had made any effort to become friends. Chester
woke up early, ate all of his meals alone, and went to bed before curfew. He didn’t hang out with anyone. This was my opportunity to
change things between us. I told the delivery guy, “You know this is a
lame prank. Cut my pal some slack. There’s no need to extort funds.” “Are you guys running some sort of scam?” the guy asked. “Or do
you just think you deserve everything for free?”
“Wait right here,” I said. Chester and the pizza guy both looked at
me like I was nuts. They were in a standoff. Neither guy was going
anywhere. Aidan smiled, curious to see what I would do. I knew I had at least a hundred dollars in my room. I grabbed the
cash, then knocked on Yazid Yazid’s door. “Want a pizza?” I asked. I
promised to sell him one for ten bucks. He gave me the money. I
knocked on a few more doors and hit up a few more stoners. Kriffo,
who never stopped eating, was the only guy on my hall who refused to
pay for a pizza. I figured he was the one who’d set up Chester. “Let
me know if there are any leftovers.” Kriffo winked. I almost didn’t care
that Kriffo was such an obvious prick. I was happy and high from trying to help someone out of a jam. By the time I made it down the hall
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