Higher Education

by Lisa Pliscou

  By the time I hear the front door slam, I’ve degenerated into mindless absorption in my foot-flexing. Left, right, left, right. “Jessie?” I call out.

  There is no reply. I get up and peer into the living room. “Jessica?” Nothing. I go into the hallway. “Jessica?”

  “No, dope, it’s the Queen of England,” she screams from the bathroom.

  “You’re squeezing your face, aren’t you,” I scream back and dart into the bathroom, where indeed, she stands before the mirror with forefingers poised like pincers. “Hey!”

  “Hey what.”

  “Stop that.”

  “Go away.” She starts pinching her chin.

  “Jessie, stop for a second. Please, just for a second. Pretty please? Pretty please with an olive on top?”

  Without turning her head she rolls her eyes in my direction, rendering her absolutely carplike for a brief, magical second. “I hate olives.”

  “Well, I know you don’t like cherries, so I thought I’d substitute olives.”

  “I hate olives, cherries, and Melba toast.”

  “Yes, but you’ll like this.” I lean against the towel rack. “Knock knock.”

  “Oh Christ.”

  “Come on. Just this once.”

  “Christ.”

  “Thank you. Knock knock.”

  “Who’s there?” She keeps her fingers at her chin.

  “Olive.”

  “Olive who?”

  “Olive you.”

  She gives a brief mirthless smile and begins scrutinizing her forehead. “Hilarious. Will you go away now?”

  “Not until you leave your face alone.”

  “It’s my face. I can mutilate it if I want to.”

  “Will you at least tell me why you’re doing this?”

  “Because my complexion sucks. Isn’t it painfully obvious from twenty feet away?”

  “Jessica, your complexion is fine.”

  “Easy for you to say. I’m the one looking at all these zits.”

  “You’re crazy. Now look, what’s the real reason for all this?”

  She grips a piece of flesh between her fingers. “I’m a horrible, disgusting person. Is that a good enough reason?”

  “Can we please talk about this in the living room? You know how I hate these little tête-à-têtes in the bathroom.”

  “I can’t leave now. My face is all red and blotchy.”

  “We’ll put a paper bag over your head, okay?” I take her hand and draw her into the living room, where we settle into opposite ends of the sofa. I unlace her shoes and slip them off her feet, blinking at her socks. Today she wears a black-and-white-striped glitter sock and a brown cableknit knee-hi.

  “Righto then.” I start massaging her insteps. “What seems to be the problem?”

  “Nothing. I have no problems.” She sighs, leaning her head back against the sofa. “That feels great.”

  “Look, I give footsie, you spill guts. Deal?”

  “A little harder on the arch, please.”

  “How’s this?”

  “Fabulous.”

  “Good. Now talk.”

  “Well, my first mistake was going to the tea.”

  “Foolhardy girl. Hey, did you see Michael there?”

  “Michael?” She thinks for a moment. “No. But I did see Beverly Stinson.”

  “Mistake number two?”

  Jessica nods, then drops her chin and rolls her eyes in a single coordinated gesture of woe. “Beverly,” she says darkly, “has not only finished her thesis, she’s had it typeset and bound in a blue leather cover.”

  “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”

  “Pigskin,” Jessica moans. “Hand-tooled Spanish pigskin.”

  “Jessica, Beverly Stinson has a face like a scallop. What are you worried about?”

  “I’m worried about her blue pigskin thesis.”

  “Twenty years from now, your thesis won’t mean shit.” I switch to her other foot. “And Beverly Stinson will still look like a scallop.”

  “That’s true.” Jessica brightens a little.

  “An aging scallop.”

  “Yeah,” she breathes.

  “Good. Now, is there a mistake number three?”

  Her face droops again. “Melba toast.”

  “Oh, right. Olives, cherries, and Melba toast.”

  “After talking to Beverly, there was only one thing to do.”

  “The buffet?”

  “What else.”

  “It’s always the victims who blame themselves.”

  “I ate about ninety hors d’oeuvres, mostly cream cheese on Melba toast with little olive slices on top. I’m about to explode. Don’t bring any pins or other sharp objects near me.”

  “I thought you said you hated olives.”

  “Now I do.”

  “Ah.”

  “Besides, they ran out of brownies.”

  “I see.”

  “So I spent an hour stuffing the goddam Melba-toast things into my mouth waiting for more brownies to arrive.”

  “Look at it this way. If you hadn’t been busy eating olives on Melba toast, you might very well have been cornered by some social misfit wearing chukka boots.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “But what?”

  “Don’t you know how fattening olives and cream cheese are?”

  “But they were on Melba toast.” I’m gently bending each of her toes in succession. “Melba toast isn’t fattening.”

  “But olives and cream cheese are.”

  “So that makes up for it.”

  “Huh?”

  “Don’t you see? They cancel each other out.”

  “They do?”

  “Of course. I thought everybody knew that.” I give her metatarsals a final knead and stand up. “It’s simple yin and yang. Olives in, Melba toast out.”

  “Fine.” She wiggles her toes. “I’m just not eating for the next three weeks.”

  “That’s my girl.” I put one leg in front of the other and bend forward, touching the floor with my palms. “Now listen. I’m going running. If you squeeze your face while I’m gone I’ll beat your nose in.”

  “Promises, promises.”

  “Don’t be disgusting.” I reverse my legs. “Hey, it’s Friday night, isn’t it?”

  “So what?”

  “So it’s time to start having fun.”

  “Says who?”

  “What glamorous schemes have you cooked up for yourself?”

  “Don’t say cooking.”

  “Sorry.”

  “My plans for tonight? Three guesses.”

  “Starts with T? Six letters? Rhymes with—”

  “Right.”

  “That’s glamorous.”

  “So what are you doing tonight?”

  “Me?” I stretch lower, grunting a little. “Hot date in the Widener reading room.” Carefully I straighten up. “I haven’t done any reading for Soc Sci 33 all semester, and my section leader’s getting huffy about it.”

  “Right, so you started skipping classes.”

  “It seemed the logical thing to do.”

  “Hey.” She turns onto her side and looks up at me. “What’d you get on your last paper? The one on surfing subcultures.”

  “An A,” I say indifferently, and go into my room to change.

  My run is long, and fast, and as I walk down the entryway steps into Adams House I’m still breathing hard, flushed and damp with sweat. I’m leaning against the wall next to Kurt’s office, shaking out my left calf, when Jackson saunters down the steps, singing to himself: “I know this world is killing you … Alison, my aim is true …”

  He sees me, and stops. “Your leg okay?”

  “The usual.” I look down at my shin. “Still bothers me on the last mile or so.”

  “You don’t warm up properly.”

  Involuntarily I smile a little. “I know.”

  “You’ll injure yourself someday.”

  “P
robably.”

  “I mean seriously injure yourself.”

  “I’ve been lucky so far.”

  “Then why does your leg hurt?”

  “Because I don’t warm up properly.”

  There’s a brief silence. I shake out my other leg, even though it isn’t actually troubling me at the moment.

  “Want a rubdown?”

  “Pardon me?”

  “I said, d’you want a rubdown?”

  “Oh.” I glance at him. “Really?”

  “Really.”

  You’re buzzed on endorphins. Your glycogen supply is exhausted. Your nervous system is completely haywire. Say no. “Sure.”

  He crouches down before me and takes my ankle in his hands. “How are you, sweetie?”

  “I’m okay.”

  “That’s good.”

  “How are you?”

  “I’m fine.” Lightly he kisses my knee, and it’s all I can do to keep from jerking away in surprise. “Cinderella.”

  “Yeah. In size-nine Nikes.”

  He’s rubbing my calf with a steady touch. In the white light of the entryway lamps his hair shines a rich ashen brown, and I reach down to wind my fingers through the wave of hair that sweeps down across his forehead. He looks up at me, no smile. I am quiet, watching him, and then I withdraw my hand.

  His fingers stop, curving around my leg just beneath the knee. “Feel better?”

  I flex the ankle. “Yes. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” He straightens, and now he stands looking down at me. “I’m on my way in to dinner. Care to join me?”

  “I’m all sweaty.”

  “You look beautiful.”

  “Thanks.” I swallow. “But I’d like to shower first, and dinner’ll be over by then.”

  “Okay.”

  He’s about to turn away, and swiftly I say: “How about dessert?”

  A half-smile curves his lips. “Okay.”

  Jessica’s in more or less the same position she was in when I left. I pull up the bottom of my sweatshirt and swab at the sweat on my face. “How’s the thesis coming along?”

  “I’ve been thinking.” She doesn’t open her eyes.

  “Thinking about alpha waves,” I say genially. I lie down on the floor, hook my feet under the bottom of the sofa, and start doing my sit-ups.

  “Eighteen, ninety-three, forty-seven, twelve.”

  “Cut that out,” I gasp.

  “Just trying to help.” She rolls onto her stomach and buries her face in a cushion. I finish my sit-ups, then do a few push-ups and leg stretches; after I shower and get dressed again I return to the living room to find Jessica prone as before. I perch on the edge of the sofa and pick up the phone, dial Michael’s number, and as I’m listening to the rings I gaze at the smushed sliver of her face that’s just barely visible among the pillows. First her nostril flares a couple of times. Then she breathes adenoidally through her mouth for a while. Finally she yawns and a pale-blue eye opens sluggishly. By this point I’ve long since hung up the phone and am sitting chin in palm, elbow on knee, legs crossed, studying her.

  “Mighty fancy for the Widener reading room,” she remarks in a muffled voice. “Why are you wearing so much eye shadow?”

  “Your nose is turned up like a pig’s. I can see straight up your nostril.”

  “Well, why don’t you read my fortune in the cilia, dope?”

  “I can see a tall, handsome stranger.”

  “Goody.”

  “I see romance, passion, intrigue. Intimate dinners in poorly lit bistros.”

  “Don’t stop,” Jessica murmurs. “D’you want to see the other nostril?”

  “No, that’s okay. There’s plenty of hair in this one.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Do you want me to finish your fortune or don’t you?”

  “Sorry.”

  “I see a big house in Scarsdale. I see a big green lawn, hibachis. A golden retriever. Canasta parties. I see weekly facials and enormous bills from Bloomingdale’s.”

  “Wait a minute.” Jessica sits up. “What about the handsome stranger?”

  “That’s what your husband wants to know.”

  “What? Oh.”

  We’re still snickering when there’s a knock at the door. Jessica leaps to her feet, suddenly energetic. “It’s the handsome stranger, I know it.” I remain perched on the couch, listening. “Oh. Hi.”

  “Hi, Jessie. How are you?”

  “Me? Oh, I’m fine, Jackson,” she says in a loud warning voice. “What’s up?”

  “Well, I was just wondering if Miranda’s around.”

  “Maybe. I’m not really sure.”

  “Mind if I have a look?”

  “It’s really messy. We haven’t vacuumed since we moved in.”

  “That’s okay. I doubt I’ll be looking under the chairs anyway.” He comes strolling into the living room with Jessica sharp upon his heels, and I see that he’s changed his shirt. “Hi,” he says, smiling. “Here you are after all.”

  “Yep.”

  “Ready to go?”

  “Let me just get a jacket.” As I stand up I watch Jessica’s eyes flying from me to Jackson and back again to me before abruptly narrowing into blue slits. She follows me into my room and shuts the door behind us.

  “What’s going on?” she hisses.

  I pull on my jacket, dab on more lipstick, run my fingers through my hair, and finally turn to face her glare. “I’m not sure,” I reply, mildly.

  To my horror, she suddenly looks as if she’s about to burst into tears. “Don’t squeeze your face, okay?” I whisper, giving her a quick hug before plunging back into the living room and whisking Jackson out of C-45, thereby forestalling what almost certainly promised to be a dampening performance on Jessica’s part.

  “It was Katharine Hepburn who said that.” Jackson takes a swallow of his Beck’s. “Why do you ask?”

  “No reason.” I’m gazing past the dance floor toward the bar, which is jammed with the usual eclectic Oxford Ale House crowd: the long-faced leather-jacketed townies, some multicolored punkers, the Cher-haired girls in skintight jeans, a couple of Hell’s Angels showing off their tattoos, and a few brave Harvard types idling about self-consciously, darting nonchalant glances at the mohawks and studded belts and bracelets. In fact, I think I recognize a kid from my Soc Sci 33 section, wedged in between two black-haired Amazonians wearing Cleopatra-style eye makeup and hobnailed boots, who ignore what appear to be his vivacious attempts to strike up a conversation. I can’t help laughing softly as I take a sip of my beer.

  “What’s so funny?” Jackson says.

  “Nothing.”

  “My, you’re inscrutable tonight.” He takes a hank of my hair and tugs upon it. “What are you smiling about?”

  “Am I smiling?”

  “Yes.” His hand slides through my hair, and rests lightly against the curve of my neck. “Tell me. What’s the joke?”

  “It’s just this place. I love the ambience.”

  “What ambience?”

  “I enjoy thinking about Caroline Kennedy being tossed out of here on her face.”

  “You don’t believe that silly story, do you?”

  “Some kid from Winthrop House told me it was true.”

  “Freshman week, right?”

  “Yes, but how—”

  “They tell it to all the freshmen.” He’s signaling for another round. “You shouldn’t have been so gullible.”

  “I’m not sure the Oxford Ale will ever seem the same.”

  “Truth is vulgar, darling.”

  “I thought truth is beauty.”

  We sit silently for a while, not looking at each other as we drink our beers. Presently Jackson lights a cigarette and offers it to me.

  “No thanks.”

  “Really? You’ve quit?”

  “I never started.”

  He blows a smoke ring over my head. “You know, I used to think Jessica liked me.”

 
“Well—”

  “She’s a good egg though. A bit hard-boiled, but nice.” He laughs. “Or should I say a little cracked.”

  I arch an eyebrow. “I beg your pardon?”

  “But I’ve always admired that mother-hen instinct of hers.”

  I give my empty beer bottle to the waitress, who in turn places fresh ones on the table. Jackson hands her a five-dollar bill. “Keep it,” he says to her.

  Lowering my eyebrow, I take a sip of my beer. “I think it was my turn to pay.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Well, thanks.”

  “No problem.”

  We’re silent again for a while, and then Jackson looks over at me.

  “Hey.”

  “Yeah?”

  “You never told me.”

  “Told you what?”

  “What’s for dessert?”

  “Dessert?” I feel myself starting to smile. “Maybe they sell beer nuts here.”

  “That’s not what I had in mind.”

  “I think there’s a candy machine by the bathrooms.”

  “No, that’s not what I had in mind either.”

  “Mmm.”

  The big black speakers are blasting out the Romantics’ “What I Like About You.” Jackson touches my arm. “Dance?”

  “Okay.”

  He takes another drink of his Beck’s and helps me slide out of the booth, and then all at once we’re dancing on the Oxford Ale’s tiny uneven dance floor. Right next to the kid from my Soc Sci 33 section, in fact, and one of the Amazon twins, whose hobnailed feet can really dance up a storm.

  4

  SATURDAY

  The phone is ringing.

  I am in bed, evidently, and my feet seem to be propped on my pillows somewhere down past my knees.

  “Ick,” I murmur, stirring. A series of more or less unpleasant sensations stickily unfurl onto my consciousness:

  My mouth and brain feel as if they’ve been stuffed with rotting cotton.

  The bed smells like Jackson.

  Jackson is gone.

  It seems to be daylight outside.

  The phone is still ringing.

  And I am developing a tremendous headache.

  I tuck the covers more securely about my shoulders, grimly aware that if I don’t get coffee soon I will probably die.

  The phone stops ringing.

  My clock-radio reads 3:07.

  I see that I am wearing Jackson’s t-shirt. I peek under the covers to assure myself that I’m not wearing his underwear too.