Pretty, Nasty, Lovely

by Rosalind Noonan

  “Are you okay?”

  “It’s just . . . I dropped my cell phone. The way you rushed up on me—”

  “Here.” His hands clamped around my arm. “Let me help you down.”

  Normally, I would have told him hands off, but I could hear the concern in his voice and once I recognized him from freshman Comp I wasn’t afraid. “Dr. Finnegan? What are you doing here?”

  “That’s my question for you. Come off the wall.” He tugged on my arm. “Come away from the edge, before my heart leaps out of my chest.”

  He was legitimately scared for me. Holding on to the rail, I leaned back and slid one leg off the wall, then the other. He held on to my arm as I straightened and stepped toward the center of the roadbed.

  “You’re good, right? You’re okay? Still in one piece?” His eyes were wild, his hand warm on my arm.

  “Yeah. You can let go now.”

  He let out a breath of relief, then held his hands in the air. “Just trying to help. You scared the shit out of me.”

  “Yeah. Well, overreaction. I wasn’t trying to jump.”

  “Let’s look at the truth. You’re here alone. Middle of the night.” There was no accusation in his voice, only an argument for logic.

  “It wasn’t about suicide. I was just trying to understand, to put myself in her place. Lydia was my friend.”

  His eyes searched my face. “Then I’m sorry for your loss,” he said. “Suicide makes it harder, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes.” I turned away from his probing stare, stepped back toward the rail, and bent down to retrieve my cell.

  “Wait! No! What are you doing?” He grabbed me by the waist and pulled me upright. “Get back here.”

  It was shocking to be touched by a teacher, but his manner was protective and swift. The way he pulled me up and set me on my feet made me feel like a little kid again. “Calm down, Dr. Finn. Just getting my cell phone. You made me drop it.”

  “Really? Maybe you shouldn’t be texting while contemplating suicide.”

  I gaped at him as I picked up the phone. “Wow. That’s cold. And sort of funny.”

  “Sorry. I’m just . . . just trying to lighten an intense moment with humor. I’m glad you’re okay.”

  I could feel him studying me as I pressed the home button on my phone. The screen lit up. One crisis averted.

  “Emma, right? You were in one of my classes.”

  “Last year.” He was one of the better English professors, young and self-deprecating, an army veteran. Dr. Scott Finnegan, but everyone called him Dr. Finn.

  He nodded. “I had Lydia in one of my classes this term.”

  “Really? That must feel weird.”

  “It’s horrible. She came to me asking for more time and . . .”

  “You said no?”

  “I gave her some time, but now I wish I’d been more accommodating. I should have reached out to her. I should have recognized that she was suffering.”

  “You’re overestimating your power,” I said.

  “You think?”

  “Lydia didn’t jump over an English grade. She barely cared about her classes.” Having been forced to help her with a few last-minute assignments, I knew that academics were not high on Lydia’s list. “She did just enough work to pass.”

  “Well.” He scratched one sideburn. “I don’t know if I should be insulted or relieved.”

  “It’s not really about you, is it?”

  He rolled back on his heels, off guard. “Okay.”

  “That’s not what I meant. There are a lot of people crying and pouting over Lydia, but they didn’t know her. They’re just pretending to have a connection so they can get street cred for the tragedy. But you’re the real deal. You’re one of the few professors who take the time to get to know students.”

  He shrugged off the compliment. “Nice of you to let me off the hook, but it’s hard to shake the feeling.” He winced and looked away, toward the broken crime-scene tape, hanging limp in the damp air. “You were right. This isn’t about me.” He moved cautiously toward Lydia’s spot on the bridge, leaning heavily on the railing as if he needed help standing. “Tell me about Lydia, then.”

  “We’re in the same sorority. Theta Pi.” Again, that wicked song lyric uncurled in my mind. Theta born. Theta bred. And when I die, I’ll be Theta dead....

  “What were her best qualities?” he asked quietly.

  My heart sank. “Ask me something else.”

  “Things she did that annoyed you?”

  “Once she started with a story, she never shut up. Some nights I fell asleep listening to her drone on about who sat where at a wedding or how to make moussaka.” I moved back to the rail and stared at the mist below. “And now it turns out that a lot of those stories were lies. So I guess that’s annoying, too. And she thought she was the authority on behavior, telling us that something wasn’t proper or bugging us to make sure we had a proper date. That pissed me off, but part of that’s sorority life. All the events that you need to hook up with a guy for.”

  “Sounds tedious.”

  “For me, it is. But Lydia loved being someone’s date. Someone’s princess.”

  “Like dating from a bygone era. Barbie and Ken. Cinderella.”

  “It’s alive and well in Greek life.”

  “But you’re not into it?”

  “The dating protocol is a throwback. Kind of archaic.” I didn’t even want to touch on the way sororities and fraternities at Merriwether excluded the LGBT community. I felt bad about that, but sorority life gave me something I desperately needed. “I’m in it for the sisterhood,” I told him.

  “That working for you?”

  I thought about the Theta Pis, the good and the bad. The current Rose Council was bossy and way too caught up in appearances, but my girls, my friends, they were my life. “It is.” The mist was closing in around us, soft, protective. The privacy it offered made it seem that it was a perfectly normal thing to have a deep conversation on a footbridge in the middle of the night.

  “I wasn’t in a fraternity in college. I got my education later, after the army, but I can see how a supportive group of friends could save your life at such an alienating time.”

  “My sisters are my family now.”

  “And yet, you came out here alone. In crisis.”

  “Yeah. Maybe I didn’t want to wake up my friends in the middle of the night because I was having a panic attack. I didn’t want to be that girl.” He squinted at me curiously. “You know the one. Self-absorbed. Keeping people up all night with her problems. Unaware that other people have lives.” Why was there so much anger in my voice? I tried to dismiss it, but then realized who I was describing.

  “I think I’ve met her.” He glanced over his shoulder, toward Chambers Hall. “Energy-sucking, mind-fucking.”

  “That’s the one,” I said. “That was Lydia.”

  “And the plot thickens.”

  “I shouldn’t talk about her this way. I can’t believe we’ve been talking this long here, in the middle of the night. It’s so random.”

  “I just happened to be walking by and I figured I’d save your life.”

  “I wasn’t going to jump.”

  “I know. But I’m glad I was walking by.”

  “Same.” Understatement of the year. Now that we’d stepped out of the conversation, I realized we were going to wrap it up, and I was sorry to see him go.

  “So thanks for almost saving my life,” I said. “I guess I’ll see you around, Dr. Finn.”

  “What? You think I’m going to leave you in the haunted mist? I’m walking you home, missy.”

  “I’m right over there, at Theta House.” I pointed toward the right side of the ravine, where the grim outline of the building was now masked by fog. “I can get there on my own.”

  “It’s close. I’ll walk with you.”

  “But you were going in the other direction.”

  “Can’t do it.” He shook his head. “Not that I don�
��t believe you. It’s just . . . with everything that’s happened, I can’t leave this bridge until you go with me.”

  I rolled my eyes. “This is harassment.”

  “And you could get me in a shitload of trouble. Or I could save your life. I’ll roll the dice on option A, since option B is so critical.”

  That was the Dr. Finn I remembered from class, a sweet, animated nerd who valued his relationship with students. Just my luck. I’d been rescued by the rock star version of Super Mario when I didn’t really need saving.

  “Fine.” As we started walking I noticed that he was limping. I was about to ask him if he was okay, and then I remembered that he had injured his leg in Afghanistan. Part of it was missing from an explosion. Which made him walking me home that much more of a sacrifice.

  We passed a sign that read WE CAN HELP. CALL FIRST. It gave the number of a suicide hotline. Had Lydia noticed the signs, or had she been too lost in her daze to see?

  THERE IS HOPE, read a sign on another post.

  I was such a sucker for hope.

  CHAPTER 20

  During the short walk back to Theta House, I asked Dr. Finn what he was doing out so late on a Tuesday night.

  “Walking?” he answered like a ten-year-old.

  “Let’s look at the truth.”

  “I don’t think the truth makes for appropriate conversation between student and teacher.”

  “That’s not fair after I spilled my guts to you. Okay, you look tired and a little rumpled.”

  “I’m always rumpled.”

  “You were headed to the town side of campus, where most of the professors live. Late night at the office?”

  He gave me a look that said I should have known better.

  “Okay. You were Skyping an associate in Moscow.”

  “Sweden, actually. They’re talking about nominating me for the Nobel Prize in teaching.”

  “What?” For a quick second I believed him, and then he cracked a smile. “Come on. I’m not that good.”

  I let it drop, only because we were approaching the lawn of Theta House. “That’s it. I’m going ’round the back, so . . . thanks.”

  “Listen.” He put a hand on my shoulder, a solid grip. “If you ever want to talk, you know where to find me.”

  “Same with you,” I said as he gave my shoulder a pat and turned away. “And be careful crossing that bridge,” I called after him. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

  He glanced over his shoulder with a wry smirk. “I’ve come to hate bridges, but it’s good to get to the other side.”

  “Wow. That could be a proverb. Kind of deep.”

  “I know, right?”

  I sneaked in the kitchen door and stole upstairs, holding my breath all the way. For the next few hours I slept like a stone, torn from sleep when my alarm jangled. That early-morning wakeup call was a bitch, but it was worth the easy A in Art Lit.

  As Angela and I crossed the North Campus Bridge on the way to class, I imagined Dr. Finn and me, two broken people standing there inside the torn crime-scene tape.

  “I came out here last night to think,” I told Angela. “I woke up with a panic attack, and I had to get out.”

  “Aw. You should have called me.”

  “In the middle of the night?”

  “What about Isabel and Defiance? They wouldn’t mind.”

  “I just had to get out . . . and fast. I ended up running into Dr. Finn from English.” I told her that we had talked for a while, and it had helped smooth out my anxiety.

  I was still awed that we’d talked so openly out on the bridge. Most people would have just ushered me home or called the cops, but Dr. Finn had gotten involved and engaged. He reminded me of my older brother—reticent but easy to talk to, respectful but warm and encouraging. That made sense, since Dr. Finn and Joe were probably around the same age, both pushing thirty. Talking to Dr. Finn reminded me that I owed my brother a call, though I knew I wouldn’t do that. Although I always enjoyed spending time with Joe, a phone conversation would only punctuate the awkwardness of distance and time. No matter how much I wanted a family, there was no going back to the time when I had an older brother who picked me up at soccer practice or swiped oatmeal cookies as soon as I got them out of the oven. With Mom and Delilah gone and Dad in emotional retirement, the web of family had dropped away, leaving Joe and me calling to each other from distant islands. He was married now, living a very different life, and I had started down my own path at Merriwether.

  “It’s weird to run into a professor in the middle of the night,” I told Angela, “but if I had to choose, Dr. Finn’s a good one.”

  “He always made me laugh. But I feel bad that I wasn’t there for you, bae. Next time call me.”

  “I didn’t want to be a pain.”

  “You know I can go right back to sleep if I want to. What do you think caused it?”

  “Just everything. Classes and work and the normal shit. All the questions about why Lydia killed herself, and the police detective pressing me about it. Detective Taylor seemed annoyed and suspicious. As if I pushed my own sister off the bridge.”

  A sigh hissed through her teeth. “And you were so nice to Lydia. You were one of the few people who would listen to her stories. And you took care of her when she was sick, Nurse Emma.”

  “I take care of everyone.”

  “But still, you deserve major credit.”

  “Tell that to Detective Taylor. She scares me. And Dean Cho wants me to be on some stupid suicide squad, and I missed my A & P exam last night, which is a matter of life and death in the nursing program. And my stomach has been off for the last two days.”

  “You a mess, girl.”

  We paused on the steps of Chambers Hall, looked at each other, and laughed softly.

  “Good thing you’re here to help me keep it real,” I said.

  * * *

  Although it had been a rough night for sleep, Finn was actually whistling as he walked into the English department Wednesday morning. Mrs. Noble, the department secretary, twinkled her fingers at him but didn’t miss a beat of her phone call, telling the caller that there were no guarantees without making an appointment. Finn checked his mailbox—an archaic practice, and yet there were two flyers there, one about a department meeting. Inside his office he added the meeting date to his calendar and fired up his PC.

  Life was good. He sat down at his desk, took a sip of his coffee, and savored the smooth, bitter taste. Yes, good.

  Last night’s bridge incident had been the wakeup call Finn needed. The glimpse of Emma’s life had made him realize how imminently solvable his own problems were. Time to put aside the hesitation and self-pity and keep moving ahead.

  Because he had a purpose.

  That morning he had received an e-mail from Dean Cho that outlined a suicide prevention task force she was forming—finally a positive, proactive step from the university’s office of health services—and Cho had offered him a position on the panel.

  Yes, yes, and yes.

  Since their abrupt meeting a couple days ago, they had volleyed a few e-mails, with him suggesting programs that might help students, and Cho enumerating costs and restrictions. Issues of privacy, costs, and student rights had to be respected. While their correspondence hadn’t solved the problem, he had realized that Cho’s heart was in the right place, and they had come up with a strategy to address it—a task force that included students, faculty, and administrators.

  Seeing Emma on that bridge had sealed the deal for him, reinforced that he could reach students and help them. And now, with this opportunity, he was beginning to believe that he had come to Merriwether to fulfill a role that would be more meaningful and lasting than his mistakes with Eileen.

  With more than an hour until his first class, he picked up two coffees and egg sandwiches at the campus Starbucks on his way to the admin building, a cranky structure that smelled like it had retained the original dust of its construction in 1896. Taking the s
teps two at a time, he made it to the second floor without spilling coffee onto the lids. Dean Cho’s door was open, and he could see her at her desk, working on the computer. “Good morning,” he announced himself from the threshold.

  Sydney Cho glanced away from her computer monitor, her eyes flickering with recognition. “Well, look at that. It’s my worst nightmare. Come in. Have a seat.”

  “I brought you a peace offering. An egg-and-cheese sandwich and coffee.”

  “Thank you.” She took one of the coffees and cradled it in her hands. “I see you’re partaking of the peace gift, too.”

  “Of course. The ritual of breaking bread together.”

  “You are so old school, Finn. And this has nothing to do with you squeezing in a breakfast?”

  “You wound me,” he said over a mouthful of sandwich.

  “I’ve been hearing that a lot lately.” She switched to a more serious tone as she sat back in her chair. “The students have rejected and criticized every program I’ve developed here, and so far—and I realize it’s early, but still—the new policies do not seem to be reducing student suicides.”

  “That’s why the task force is a great idea. It’s a way to engage students while directly addressing their concerns. We have some amazing kids here, Dean Cho. Together we can do amazing things if they help tailor the program to meet student needs.”

  “You sound like you’re running for political office.”

  “Can’t help it. I get excited when I have a brilliant idea.”

  “And modest, too,” she said as she unwrapped her sandwich.

  He was glad that the banter had returned. Cho tended to take herself far too seriously. He rolled the paper from his sandwich into a ball and pitched it toward the trash in the corner. “Score.”

  “Do your students ever complain about your cavalier attitude?”

  “Not to my face. And I’m not being facetious. This is genuine enthusiasm.”

  “I’m glad one of us is feeling upbeat about this. I can tell you it’s not going to be easy to get students on board. So far, out of the three students I’ve approached, two have said no.”

  “Who did you ask? I’ll find them and turn on the charm.”