Higher Education

by Lisa Pliscou

  “Oh.”

  “We decided this together, of course. We had a long discussion about it, and together we decided that this would be the best thing for all concerned.”

  “Sure.”

  There is a silence, during which I trim an already short thumbnail.

  “Charlie Chaplin festival at the Brattle,” Gerard says suddenly. “If we hurry we can catch the beginning of The Kid.”

  “When does it start?”

  He looks at his watch.

  “Ten minutes.”

  “Okay, I—” Then I shake my head. “No, I can’t go.”

  “Why not?”

  “I left my wallet in C-45.”

  “That’s okay. I’ll take care of it.”

  “I don’t have a jacket either.”

  “Borrow one of Jackson’s.”

  “I’m not wearing any makeup.”

  “You look fine.”

  “I’ve got a lot of work to do.”

  “Are you going to come along peacefully or do I have to sling you over my shoulder?”

  “Oh, Gerard.” I swing my feet onto the floor and reach for my sneakers. “You really know how to handle a woman.”

  “Do you want me to pick out a jacket for you?”

  “Sure. Thanks.” I tie my shoelaces and stand up, noticing out of the corner of my eye that he’s blushing again.

  Gerard waves at somebody over by the checker’s desk. I follow the direction of his wave and see Jackson and Stephanie Kandel, the girl in my writing class who was so anxious about missing the assignment, standing in line and looking our way. At this distance it’s hard to tell if they’re smiling or not.

  “My stars,” I say quietly. “Isn’t that Jackson over there?”

  “Yeah, we’re having dinner together.” Gerard slides his chair away from the table. “Then we’re going over to the Advo to set up for the party tonight. You’re coming, aren’t you?”

  I pick a tiny piece of orange pulp off my sweater. “I didn’t know Stephanie was on the Advocate.”

  “She’s not.”

  “Ah.”

  “Come sit with us.” He stands up. “I never get to see you anymore.”

  “Thanks.” I stand up too. “But I’m on my way out.”

  “Come to the party, okay? You owe me a dance.”

  “Listen, will you give Jackson a message for me?”

  “Sure. What is it?”

  I turn away. “Nothing. Never mind.”

  “Bye, Miranda,” he calls after me. “See you tonight, okay?”

  Walking out of the dining hall I am careful to keep my gaze on the floor in front of me. I’m mechanically climbing the C-entry stairs when I nearly collide with someone coming down. “Sorry,” I murmur, flattening myself against the wall.

  “Baby.”

  There’s a touch to my shoulder, and I lift my head. Richard Amidei is leaning against the railing, looking down at me with his great deep-set dark eyes. He’s wearing his old black leather jacket tonight, which has a tiny white Sex Pistols button pinned on the pocket over his heart.

  “Richard.”

  “Babes.” He takes my hand and raises it to his mouth.

  “I like your button.”

  “Thanks. I like yours too.”

  “What? I’m not—Oh.”

  He’s begun sucking upon my forefinger. “Orange,” he says softly. “Your hair looks great. So why do you look so sad?”

  “I thought I looked embarrassed.”

  “No, you look beautiful.”

  “Will you please stop doing that to my hand?”

  “Why?”

  “Because.”

  “Because why?”

  “Because I haven’t washed my hands in three days.”

  “Better and better.”

  I tilt against the wall, gazing at his strong sharp features and the smooth muscled curve of his jaw and throat. His dark hair, long and curly, is tied into a small ponytail that brushes artlessly against his nape. When finally I pull my fingers away, he steps a little closer and holds out his own hand.

  “My turn?”

  I take him by the wrist and hold his palm to my cheek. He smells of sweat and smoke and another, subtler musk.

  “Baby,” Richard whispers, lightly touching my face. “Your skin’s so smooth.” His fingertips glide across my mouth and as I start to sway toward him there’s the clattering of what sounds like a hunting party tearing downstairs in hot pursuit.

  “’Scuse us!”

  “Coming through!”

  Richard and I step apart to let my next-door neighbors, the Bicknell twins, skitter past.

  “Hi, Miriam,” Beth squeaks.

  “Cute hairdo,” Stacey adds enthusiastically. They bubble on downstairs, dressed in matching floaty off-the-shoulder gowns. Is there a prom tonight, I wonder sleepily. Why aren’t they wearing corsages?

  Richard pulls me to him. “Miriam.”

  “What.”

  “We’re playing at the Spee tonight.”

  “Yeah?” Closing my eyes, I let my head droop onto his fragrant leather-covered shoulder.

  “I want you to be there.”

  “I’m so tired,” I whisper into his jacket. “I should get some sleep.”

  “But don’t you want to come see me?”

  “Of course I do. But I’m so tired, Richie.”

  “Let’s go upstairs.”

  “I’m waiting for the elevator.”

  “You’ll wait a long time, baby.”

  A strain from “Stairway to Heaven” drifts through my head, and I look up at him. “Isn’t that why they call it higher education?”

  He smiles. “Let’s go on up.”

  I let him take my hand and lead me up the remaining two flights of stairs to C-45 and into my bedroom, where he sits at my desk and waits while I dig my Estée Lauder mirror out from under a pile of clothes next to my bureau. Then I sit on my bed, propped up on pillows, watching him. His lips are parted in concentration as he bends expertly over the mirror.

  “Looks a little messy in here,” he remarks without looking up. “Haven’t had time to do your spring cleaning yet?”

  “I’ve been busy.” I sink lower against the pillows. “My workload’s unbelievable this semester.”

  “Yeah, mine too.” He hums to himself for a while, then rises and comes over to the bed, mirror balanced on the palm of his hand. “Miriam?”

  “Richie?”

  “The elevator’s here.” He looks at me, his dark eyes shining. “Which floor did you want?”

  “I don’t know.” I sit up, making room for him next to me. “You decide.”

  Now the mirror is on the floor somewhere, as are my shoes and one of my socks. Richard is kissing my neck. It’s tickling me, and I squirm and sit up.

  Richard gives me a heavy-lidded look. “You okay?”

  “Be right back,” I say, sliding off the bed. In the bathroom I stare at myself in the mirror for a minute or two, noting with perverse interest the traces of last night’s makeup rimming my eyes.

  Back in my room Richard is lying on his back, legs crossed at the ankle, eyes closed and humming to himself. One of his feet jiggles back and forth.

  “Hi.” I sit on the edge of the bed. “Miss me?”

  He doesn’t open his eyes. “Miranda blue,” he sings softly, experimentally. “Miranda blue, Miranda blue.” He keeps trying out different combinations of notes, all of them in a minor key, until finally I lean over him and take him by the shoulders.

  “Call me Miriam.”

  At last he opens his eyes. “Miranda blue,” he says, sliding his arms around me and pulling me close.

  “Richie?”

  “Relax,” he whispers.

  “I hate blue,” I whisper back.

  “No you don’t.” He’s giving me that heavy-lidded look again. “Color of your eyes.”

  “Is it?”

  “Blue like the sky.”

  “Really?” I touch my lips to his th
roat.

  “Yeah,” he whispers. “Yeah.”

  “Richie?”

  “Miriam?”

  “I just—will you—” I notice that his foot is still jiggling. “Just kiss me, will you?”

  It’s a little past nine and here I am by the Charles, running swiftly even though my legs are a little numb and my skull feels oddly hollow and silvery. My breath comes rapidly, synchronizing itself to the rhythm of my stride.

  Left, right. Left, right.

  The river glistens black and sinister, reflecting the yellow pinprick lights of the Harvard Business School twinkling from the opposite shore. I find myself wondering if it’s true that they dredged up the body of a young woman in a business suit last weekend. They say she was still clutching her briefcase.

  “Hey, Legs!” A bottle-green Plymouth cruising by on Mem Drive slows alongside me, and a grinning dark-haired head emerges from the window. “Run over here, why doncha?”

  “Hey!” I call back without breaking stride. “Drop dead, why doncha?”

  The head looks surprised and retreats inside the Plymouth, which picks up speed and roars off into the darkness, red taillights gleaming.

  One, two, three, four.

  My head is pounding. Or is that my heart?

  I’m trying to remember what it feels like to be tired. Instead I keep seeing Richard’s face smiling at me in the dim light of the desk lamp he’s covered with his jacket.

  Already I’ve reached the Weld Boathouse, which overhangs dark and foreboding above the river, reminding me as ever of the Haunted Mansion at Disneyland. I turn around and begin running back toward Weeks Bridge. A double circuit tonight.

  One, two, three, four.

  One, two, three, four.

  Wait a minute, I tell myself. Is this an E-ticket ride?

  I lope past Winthrop House and then turn up Plympton Street, passing Leverett, then Lowell and Quincy House, dodging the usual clumps of people hurrying about with that loud, boisterous Saturday-night intensity that ordinarily tends to drive me into the library right after dinner. Better to tuck myself in a solitary comer of the Widener reading room where I needn’t be forced to witness these vivacious, back-slapping, bug-eyed pursuits that always leave me feeling like I’m a hundred years old. C’mon, Miranda, let’s go out and have some fun.

  Fun. I hawk up a little phlegm and spit it into the gutter.

  I’ve just negotiated crossing Mount Auburn Street against the light when a blood-rattling scream comes pouring down from the open windows of the Lampoon building across Plympton Street. Leaping over an empty beer bottle, I turn my head to sneer up at the party and jog straight into somebody standing in front of Harvard Pizza.

  “Oh, shit!” a voice wails, and I look down to see a large slice of pizza lying at my feet, cheese side down.

  “Gross,” I exclaim, inspecting my sneakers to see if there’s any tomato sauce on them. Or worse, some kind of animal matter. Sausage, say, or pepperoni.

  “I didn’t even get a bite of it,” the voice goes on.

  I lift my head, brushing the hair out of my eyes. “Hi, guys.” Billy Collins lists against a street sign smiling loopily at me with an enormous hero sandwich jammed into his mouth. Lounging next to him, the collar of his Levi jacket turned up, Skip Peterson dangles two teeth-marked crusts and a half-eaten slice in one tanned hand. Anthony lurks at the edge of the group, staring disconsolately at the doomed slice lying inert on the ground between us.

  “Sorry about that,” I tell him, restlessly shifting my weight from one foot to the other. “Extra cheese, wasn’t it?”

  He’s shaking his head in sorrow. “Extra mushrooms too.”

  “Bummer.”

  “Hi, Miranda,” Billy says, leering to the extent that he can through half a hero sandwich. “You’re looking great tonight.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Yeah, nice legs.” Skip grins at me.

  “Of course it’s cheese side down,” Anthony says gloomily. “Murphy’s Law, that’s what it is.”

  Another scream from the Lampoon floods the street, followed by nerve-jarring sounds of chinaware being smashed and long whoops of laughter.

  “Some party.” Skip tosses his crusts and the rest of his slice onto the sidewalk.

  “No, no,” I say. “Murphy’s Law was proven with peanut butter.”

  “Right, get technical.” Anthony looks hurt.

  “Peanut-butter pizza?” Billy’s busily picking his teeth.

  “Hey, big shot.” Skip sticks a pointy elbow into Billy’s side. “Why don’t you be a gentleman and offer her a slice?”

  He gulps. “Sure, okay.”

  “No, thanks.” I can’t stand still. “Cheese gives me zits.”

  “Me too.” Billy points at his chin.

  “Oh, gross me out.”

  “I don’t see any zits.” Skip shambles closer. “Where are they? Can I see?” He slides a hand down my arm.

  “Get your mitts off me,” I tell him, smiling. “Or I’ll kick your teeth in.”

  He backs away. “Your skin looks great. Really.”

  I stand there for a moment looking at them, simultaneously wondering why I had once found Skip so amusing and whether Billy’s father the ambassador really used to hide him in the closet during state receptions. “Well.” I poke a strand of hair behind my ear. “It’s been fun, gang.”

  “You’re going?” Billy’s picking his teeth again, this time with a toothpick.

  “I’m afraid so.” I turn away.

  “Coming to the Spee?”

  “Coming to the Advo?”

  “I’ve got a lot of work to do,” I call back, and start jogging up the street toward Adams House. As I reach the door it swings outward and I step aside to hold it open. The pear-shaped junior passes by, ignoring me. He carries three or four fat textbooks under his arm.

  “Hi,” I say. “How are you?”

  He walks on without so much as a glance in my direction. Staring after him, I notice he wears tan chukka boots with thin navy-blue socks that are bagging a little over his ankles.

  It’s quiet in C-45. I switch on the living-room light and take off my running shoes. “Jessica?” I say, and then again, louder, “Jessie?”

  There is no response. I knock on her door and then, cautiously, open it and peer into her bedroom. It looks the same as it always does—books on her dresser and clothing in her bookcase, with her desk impressively bare and neat—and so it’s impossible for me to tell if she’s been here recently or not.

  Closing the door behind me, I return to the living room, where I pick up magazines and newspapers from the floor and arrange them in a tidy stack in the fireplace. For a second I’m even tempted to straighten the Matisse print hanging askew above the mantel.

  Instead I sink into the sofa, pull the telephone close, and dial a number. On the fourth ring a voice I don’t know answers.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, is Michael there?”

  “No, he’s not. Can I take a message?”

  “No, that’s okay. Thanks.”

  “Sure.”

  I hang up. After a few seconds I dial another number.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, is Henry there?”

  “Henry?” There is a pause. “Oh. Henry. He’s not here anymore.”

  “What?”

  “He got a fellowship in New York. NYU, I think. So he finished up here a semester early and took off. In January, I guess it was.”

  “Oh.”

  “You want his new number? It’s around here somewhere.”

  “No, that’s okay. Thanks.”

  “Sure. Have a nice evening.”

  “Thanks.” I hang up. From the nearby Lampoon comes a particularly resonant scream, thin and piercing. Jaw clenched, I reach for the phone again.

  “Harvard Security,” says a deep male voice. “Sergeant Manusco speaking.”

  “Yes, can you please send a squad car over to the Lampoon? I think they’re slaughtering p
igs again.”

  “Hello, Miranda. How are you tonight, dear?”

  “Oh, I can’t complain. And yourself?”

  “A little bit of a cold, but otherwise I’m just fine. Thanks for asking.”

  “Sergeant, can’t you please go over there and arrest them all?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t do that, Miranda.”

  “Why not?”

  “We’ve gone over this before,” he says, patiently.

  “I know, but they’re worse than usual tonight. Can’t you at least get them put on academic probation?”

  “It’s not my jurisdiction, dear.”

  “Okay,” I say in a small voice. “I’m sorry to have bothered you.”

  “Now Miranda—”

  “You have a good evening. Sergeant. And take care of that cold.”

  “Miranda—”

  “Try vitamin C.”

  “Miranda, will you—”

  “And give my best to Mrs. Manusco.” I slam the phone down.

  Another scream, faint but prolonged, issues from the Lampoon. I get up, pull down the windowshades, and go back to the phone. I dial another number.

  On the fifth ring somebody answers, laughing and breathless: “Hello?” In the background I hear “Roxanne” playing on the stereo, and what sounds like chairs being toppled over.

  “Hi, is Jessica there?”

  “Who?” the girl says, giggling.

  “Jessica Hartsfield. She’s a friend of Sutter’s.”

  “Oh. Gee, I dunno.”

  “Well, is Sutter there?”

  “Who?”

  “Sutter,” I say grimly. “He lives there.”

  “Oh.” The volume on the stereo goes up, somebody yells “Banzai!” and the phone is dropped. A girl says, “Stop it, please stop,” and then I hear more laughter. “Hello?” a male voice says politely, and I hang up.

  I’m in the middle of cleaning out my closet when the phone rings. I hold up the green silk tie I’ve found underneath a stack of English 165 papers from sophomore year, and by the time I’ve torn the tie into two long narrow strips, the phone has fallen silent. I flip my clock-radio on to an oldies station.

  In the very back of the closet, buried underneath tangled pairs of well-worn sneakers and my only pair of high-heeled shoes, I find a thermal undershirt, a Pierre Cardin dark-blue sock, a broken electric pencil-sharpener, two dead cockroaches, and, at the very bottom of the heap, a handful of dried-up leaves, their once-brilliant colors dimmed to dull brown and red. I stuff it all into a large plastic garbage bag I stole last semester when Kurt stepped out to investigate an overflowing toilet in E-entry. I include the strips of green silk as well as the cockroaches, which I gingerly transport using the Pierre Cardin sock as a glove.