by Lisa Pliscou
“He’s a nice guy,” Jackson says presently, holding a wet washcloth to my forehead. “I’m glad you got to meet him.”
“Me too,” I say faintly.
“Listen, Randa.” His voice is less steady now. “About tonight—”
“Shut up.” I close my eyes. “Please just shut up.”
“I just wanted to tell you—”
“Tomorrow you’re taking me to the movies. And you’re paying.”
“Okay.”
“And you’re buying the popcorn.”
“Okay.” He runs a hand down my spine. “How’re you feeling?”
“Fabulous.” I open my eyes and brace myself for another spasm. “Thanks for asking.”
“I love you.”
My stomach heaves again and I lean forward into the toilet bowl, thankful that the dorm crew has been by recently to clean, and that for once they did a good job of it. Although I expect that next time around they will probably be less enthusiastic about the task at hand.
I drop the album back into its bin and look around. Teddy Anson, the only person I know on the Lampoon staff who seems even remotely anthropoid, is pawing through a sale carton a few aisles away. I slip up behind him and clap my hands over his eyes. “Guess who.”
“Marquis de Sade? Jimmy Connors? Adelle Davis? Charlton Heston?”
“Oh, never mind.” I take my hands away and step around next to him. Sighing, I start poking through the albums.
Teddy remains inert, eyes squeezed shut. “Walter Mondale? Bella Abzug? Virginia Woolf? Peter and the Wolf? Kaye Ballard?”
“Will you stop the goddam free association already?”
“Okay, sure.”
“Theodore, it’s me.”
His eyes are still shut. “Me who?”
“Miranda.”
“Is it really? Miranda Walker, you mean?”
“Yes. Feel free to open your eyes anytime you want.”
His eyes pop open, swiveling in my direction, and instantly he breaks into a smile. “Hi, Miranda. How are you?”
“Can’t complain. Yourself?”
“Just dandy. You’re looking great as always.”
“Thanks. What’s new?”
“Oh, nothing much. Just doing a little shopping for my mother’s birthday.”
I look down at the album he’s been holding on to all this time. “The Best of the Dave Clark Five? I had no idea your mother was so groovy.”
“You bet she’s groovy. She was the first one on the block to get a rotisserie microwave.”
“Theodore, you overwhelm me.”
“Why do you keep calling me Theodore?”
“Say, don’t your folks pay your Coop bill?”
“Yep.” He nods benignly. “I thought maybe I’d get Mom the cast recording from Hello, Dolly. Something nice and sappy. She’d like that. She’s groovy but she’s also a little sentimental.”
“Oh?”
“Every year she sends me a big red card on Valentine’s Day.”
“How sweet.”
“So’s the candy she sends me.” He snickers.
“How about Oklahoma? Where the corn grows as high as an elephant’s—”
“She’s already got that one. Maybe My Fair Lady?”
“Are you sure she doesn’t already have that one too?”
A look of doubt clouds his features. “Maybe. Or is it Hello, Dolly she already has?”
“Maybe it’s Fiddler on the Roof you’re thinking of.”
Now he looks at me suspiciously. “Hey, you don’t even know my mom, do you?”
“No, but I’m sure I’d love anybody who’s lucky enough to have a rotisserie microwave.”
“So how could you know what albums she has?”
“Theodore, I’ve got to run. I’ve got a class to go to.”
“Why do you keep calling me Theodore?”
“You’re just full of questions today, aren’t you?”
“Well, sure.” Teddy gestures grandly. “Isn’t that what the university environment is all about?”
“Been rereading our old college prospectus, eh?” Waggishly I poke him in the general region of his upper intestine.
“Oh, you’re jabbing at me,” he laments. “Why are you picking on me, Miranda?”
“Picking on you? Teddy, don’t you know when someone’s extending a hand in friendship?”
“Huh?”
“Don’t you like to be touched, Teddy?” I give him another prod in the gut.
“Ow.” He retreats a step. “What’s your point, Miranda?”
“Can’t you take a hint? Don’t you know when somebody’s trying to reach out to you?”
“Really?” He comes two steps closer. “Want to go out for a cup of coffee?”
“I’ve got a class to go to, remember?”
Teddy steps one pace backward, then does a little side feint to avoid a tweedy Cambridge matron barreling toward the classical-music section. “Miranda,” he says plaintively, “how come I’ve never actually seen you inside a classroom? Or leaving one?”
“Poor timing on your part.”
“You really take courses? You’re actually enrolled here?”
“Of course I am.” I’m sifting lazily through a jumble of discounted cassettes. “I’m just not ostentatious about it.”
“Oh.”
“Besides, taking classes isn’t what Harvard’s all about.”
“No?”
“Of course not.” I hold up a Led Zeppelin tape and then toss it back into the pile. “I’d stop poisoning my mind with that silly old prospectus if I were you.”
He takes half a step forward. “Then what is Harvard all about?”
“Who am I, Alfie?”
“And now you’re calling me names.”
“Teddy, I’ve really got to run.”
“Where?” he asks suspiciously.
“Warren House.”
“Who house?”
“Warren House. English department building over by the Freshman Union.”
“Oh. Well, I’ll walk you to Lamont. Guess I’ll go read magazines for a while before lunch.”
As we make our way across Mass Ave and through the Yard, Teddy’s telling me about Fools Week at the Lampoon. “I videotaped a whole bunch of new members jumping into the IAB pool fully clothed. During team practice,” he says proudly.
I try to think of something pleasant to say, and failing that, I change the subject. “I see the new Lampoon is out.”
“Yep.”
“Are any of your pieces in it?”
“Pieces of what?”
“Pieces of eight,” I snap. “Yo ho ho.”
He whoops and goes off into a strangled paroxysm of laughter. “Oh god,” he gasps. “That’s too funny. Yo ho ho.” He laughs again. “You should be on the Lampoon.”
“Icicles in hell.”
“God, you’re funny and bitchy,” he says, fawningly. “You’re perfect for the Lampoon. Are you sure you don’t want to join?”
“Teddy, I’m graduating, remember?”
“A mere technicality. Why don’t you comp for us?”
“I’d rather die.”
“See? You have the perfect attitude.” As we climb the steps past Pusey Library, Teddy chuckles. “Speaking of dying, somebody almost did at the IAB the other day.”
“Don’t tell me. One of your initiates had an anchor tied to his leg.”
“Close. Somebody on the swim team got tangled up with the inflatable shark and almost drowned.”
“My, that is funny,” I say evenly.
He’s still chuckling. “No, what’s really funny is that their coach started hyperventilating, hit his head on the bleachers and had to be rushed to the emergency room. Twelve stitches.” Grinning, he wipes his eyes.
We halt at the long shallow steps leading up to Lamont. Just inside the double glass doors, the afternoon-shift guard, a thin old man in a maroon blazer, stands at the security kiosk, nodding blindly at the people streaming pa
st, waving IDs and books at him.
“Well,” Teddy says brightly, “this is my stop.”
Huddled in my big down coat, I come along the path in time to see the Lamont guard leave the library and walk down the steps toward Quincy Street. In the bitter wind his trousers, flared at the cuffs, flap wildly around his thin ankles, revealing dark socks and garters. I stand watching him, my nose buried in my scarf, and then I turn around and go back to Adams House. Slowly I walk up the stairs to Michael’s room, where I’ve just spent the afternoon helping him prepare for his French final, and when he opens the door to let me in I go over to the big La-Z-Boy with the Peanuts throw pillows and sit down, still in my coat and scarf. I lean forward with my face in my hands, shivering.
“Gal?” Michael says, coming over to squat on his heels next to me. “What’s wrong?”
Shaking now, I curve more tightly into myself. I feel him loosening my scarf, and then he places his hands over my ears to warm them.
“Whatcha doin’?” he whispers, taking his hands away. “Kitten?”
I keep my face buried in my palms. “Trying to cry. Do you goddam mind?”
“Sure. I mean no.” He touches my hair. “You go right ahead. I got plenty of Kleenex.”
“I can’t, goddam it.”
“How come?”
“I don’t know.”
“Honey,” he says, “it’s okay. I’m pretty sure I’m not gonna flunk my French exam. D’accord?” He pronounces it dack-cord.
After a while I raise my head, sniffing. “I could use a tissue.”
He goes into his bedroom and returns with a box of pink Kleenex. I take one and blow my nose. “How come you have such sissy tissues?”
“I like pink.”
“So do I.” I shove the damp Kleenex into my coat pocket. “Thanks.”
“Gal?”
“Michael?”
“Y’all mind if I ask you a serious question?”
“Yes, but now’s as good a time as any.”
“Is there a reason why we ain’t gone to bed together?”
For a moment I am silent. Then I look up at him, feeling my eyes start to sting. “I think I like you too much.”
“Kind of ass-backward logic, ain’t it?”
“That’s the way I operate.”
He crouches next to my chair again and takes my hand. “I kinda wish it weren’t that way.”
“I know. I mean, we could try it, I guess, but—”
“Yeah.” He sighs. “Why mess up a good thing.”
“I know it seems stupid.” I’m trying to keep my voice even. “I’m sorry.”
“No, it ain’t stupid.” His fingers tighten on mine. “It’s fine, honey.”
There is a silence, and then I sigh in a long soft breath. “Michael.”
“Gal?”
“There’s no heat in this goddam room. Let’s give Kurt a call, okay?”
He looks at me and smiles. “Ma chère,” he says, “ma chère.” He pronounces it maw-shair, drawling out the shair until it sounds like a four-syllable phrase.
“Michael?”
“Yeah?”
“While I’m calling Kurt,” I tell him quietly, “you’d better get out your Larousse. We have some more work to do.”
“Well,” Teddy says again, with undimmed cheer, “this is my stop, I guess.”
“What?”
“I said, I’ll see you later.”
“Okay,” I say absently. “Good luck with getting your mom’s birthday present.”
“Thanks. It was last week, so there’s no rush.” He dissolves into burbling laughter. “Yo ho ho. God, that was funny.” As I turn away, he cries: “Wait.”
“What.”
“Which party will you be at tomorrow night?”
“Which party?” I feel a keen ache behind my eyes.
“Spee or Advo?”
“Aren’t you guys having your usual Saturday-night bash?”
“Oh, sure. But you know us, we love to crash parties. Break a few glasses here, break a few glasses there.”
“All in a night’s work.”
“Yep.” He starts giggling again, and I wave at him and start walking toward Quincy Street. When I reach the crosswalk, I’m overtaken by a vociferous knot of freshmen bent for lunch and enthusiastic over the prospect of ratatouille. I pause, letting them pass me, and then all at once I decide to skip class and go back to C-45 for some aspirin and a nap.
I’m sitting cross-legged on Henry’s couch, holding an immense bouquet of irises in my arms as I watch Henry pace back and forth, a Ronald McDonald glass half-filled with Miller Lite dangling in his hand.
“Miranda, “he’s saying, “I just don’t understand.” Back and forth, back and forth. “I just don’t understand this at all.”
“There’s nothing to understand.”
“Nothing to understand?” He glares. “There’s plenty not to understand. Like why I’m not supposed to see you anymore, for example.”
“We can’t, Henry.”
“Why not?” Back and forth. “Tell me why we can’t.”
“Because I’m going out with Jackson.”
“I know that,” he says impatiently.
“So why don’t you understand?”
“Thanks for reminding me. I also don’t understand why you’re going out with him.”
“We’re not discussing my relationship with Jackson.”
“Maybe we should.”
“I’d rather not.”
“Finally, something I can understand.” He grins sardonically.
“Bully for you.” My mouth tight, I watch him as he strides to and fro in his noiseless black Converse hightops.
“Look, Miranda, can we stop this goddam running around in circles? We’re not getting anywhere.”
“No, but it’s good exercise.”
“You don’t want to talk about your relationship with Jackson, you don’t want to talk about your relationship with me.” He runs a hand through his already disheveled hair. “Maybe you’d like to talk about the weather?”
“We don’t have a relationship, Henry.”
“Will you stop with the goddam semantics?”
“Shh.” I point at the door. “Your kiddies.”
“Whoops. Thanks.” He takes a long swallow of his Miller Lite, and then holds the glass out to me. “You want some?”
“No. Thanks.”
He resumes his pacing. “Let’s try and talk about this honestly, okay? I’ll start. Ready? Okay. Now, I’m perfectly aware of the fact that you’re going out with Jackson.”
“Look, Henry—”
“Although why you’re doing it is beyond me.”
“I don’t want—”
“If you ask me, it doesn’t seem to be making you particularly happy.”
“Nobody’s asking you.”
“The point is, Miranda, I’d just like to spend some time with you.”
“It’s not that simple, Henry.”
“Why not?”
“What happened the last time we saw each other?”
“Miranda, nothing happened.”
“I beg to differ,” I say coldly. “That was not nothing.”
“So we kissed each other. It was nice, right?”
“Yes, but—”
“And we left all our clothes on, right?”
“I—yes—”
“And I didn’t even try to unhook your bra, did I?”
“I—what?”
“Oh, sorry. You don’t wear a bra, do you?”
My face is burning. “Screw you.”
“Coward, coward,” he taunts me.
I jump to my feet and throw the irises at him. They flutter against his chest like slim violet-plumed birds and fall rustling to the floor. Henry takes another sip of his beer, and looks over at me. “I’m sorry,” he says mildly. “I thought you liked irises.”
I stoop to pick up a flower that’s landed near me. Gripping the stem in my fist, I straighten up, feeling a
little dizzy. He stands watching me as I come near, and timidly I put my arms around him. Closing my eyes, I rest my cheek against his sweater, which smells faintly of Miller Lite, Liquid Paper, and my creme rinse. “I’m sorry too,” I say, dropping the iris.
His arms encircle me. “I guess that makes us even.” I can feel the Ronald McDonald glass against my shoulder blade, chilly even through my shirt. “Next time I’ll get you roses, okay?”
“Okay.” I press my cheek harder against his chest. “Henry?”
“Miranda?”
“Please don’t spill your beer all over my shirt.” I don’t see any reason to tell him that it’s Jackson’s.
The light ashen shadows of late afternoon are spilling into my room, silvery and mysterious. I look over at my clock-radio. It’s nearly five-thirty, which means that the Adams House tea is doubtless in full swing by now. Yawning, I picture the prim dark rooms at Apthorp Court, jammed with the usual assortment of physical-sciences nerds, house tutors, classical musicians, overweight political activists, social climbers, zealous sophomores, unidentified kindly-looking adults dressed in what appears to be their Sunday best, and a sprinkling of glammie types prowling ecstatically around with a particularly offensive air of being deliberately out of their milieu, the whole lot of them eating and drinking as if there’s no tomorrow, rattling teacups and standing around making halfhearted conversation while busily scanning for fresh trays of brownies and puff pastries.
On the whole, I’d rather go running.
Shit. In the middle of another yawn I remember that I told Michael I’d be there. I roll over onto my back, fingers laced together behind my head. Pondering, I start flexing and pointing my feet. Left, right, left, right.