Higher Education

by Lisa Pliscou

  I stare blankly at her for a moment, and as our respective convolutions rotate us apart I look up from an enthusiastic little dip on Dean’s part to see Jackson and Stephanie over by the fireplace. Her arms are clasped around his neck and he is kissing her, her throat a pale arch meeting the bended curve of his head.

  Wait. What’s wrong with this picture. She must be standing on tiptoe, I reason dully, or is perhaps wearing high-heeled shoes. Dean starts nuzzling my neck as we lurch about, and twitching my head I catch sight of Gerard up on the oak table, dancing with a huge inflated plastic shark, which he is clutching familiarly just underneath the fin.

  Mick Jagger finally fades away but Dean still holds me to him as the guitars to “Walk This Way” begin. People unglue themselves from each other and commence their solitary jiggling and writhing about. I struggle to lean away. “Hey.”

  “Hay is for horses.” He gives me a flirtatious little squeeze. “Let’s get a drink.” He takes my hand and is hauling me toward the bar when all at once I feel a warm dampness in the back of my jeans.

  “Goddam it.” I stop, so abruptly that Dean, still grasping my hand, executes a loose-limbed boomerang that brings him swirling up close to me again.

  “What’s up?” He’s still listing avidly toward the bar.

  “Somebody spilled a drink down my back.”

  “Well, it’s too late to cry about it now.” He tugs at me. “Come on, let’s get over there before they run out of booze.”

  “I’m going to look at myself in the mirror downstairs.”

  “Vanity, vanity.” Fondly he clicks his tongue at me. “Go on then. I’ll try to save you a cup.”

  “Thanks loads.” I snatch my hand away, and without a second glance I set off, using my elbows for leverage. Dourly I keep my gaze fastened on the floorboards as I thread my way downstairs, where I find that the door to the bathroom is locked. I lean against the wall, listening to three contralto female voices talking inside.

  “—and then I said, ‘I can’t believe you’ve never read Emily Dickinson’—”

  “—lobbying for a theme issue devoted to Lapp authors—”

  “—‘You mean Angie?’ he says to me—”

  “—not a single uppercase letter in the entire—”

  “—of the nineteenth-century resistance movement—”

  “—I mean, how on earth did he get into Harvard?”

  “—manuscript. ‘This is not poetry,’ I told them—”

  “—and he starts telling me he knows William Dean Howells personally—”

  “—female nineteenth-century Lapp authors—”

  “Hey, girls.” I pound on the door. “You’re boring the hell out of me. Get out already.”

  The voices skid into silence. After a brief interval the door is unlocked and thrown open, and storming out in an eddy of dark skirts and tasseled boots is the big-nosed trio from Dunster House.

  One of the girls rams a shoulder at me as she bowls past. “How did you get in, anyway?”

  “Ow. What?”

  “Into the Advocate, I mean.”

  One of the other girls taps my arm. “Did you have to bribe Gino, honey?”

  I frown at her. “What did you say?”

  “I didn’t know he liked older women.”

  “Does she go to Harvard, d’you think? I haven’t seen her around before.”

  “D’you like her haircut?”

  “Her mascara’s running.”

  “I wonder how much she paid Gino?”

  “Dunster House sluts!” I scream, careening into the bathroom and turning the lock. Breathlessly I slope against the door, watching the mottled, water-stained ceiling throbbing from the tumult of dancers above. Then as I stare open-mouthed into the mirror it takes me a while before I realize that the pale, wild-haired girl I’m eyeing so suspiciously is actually my own reflection.

  Somebody knocks on the door. “Just a minute,” I say, twisting around trying to get a look at my behind in the mirror. It doesn’t work. The most I can see is a painfully hunched shoulder blade. Grumbling, I go into the stall and unzip my jeans. The knocking on the door continues, more forcefully. “Okay, okay,” I say irritably, and it’s then that I discover that I’ve started my period.

  Biting my lip, I peep out of the stall and nod. No more paper towels. I improvise a flimsy little pad out of toilet paper, maliciously pleased to be using up the last of the roll, zip up my jeans, and emerge from the stall. Meanwhile, the rapping on the door has become still more insistent, and now I can hear someone saying, “Candygram. Special delivery. Candygram.”

  I unlock the door and open it a crack. Instantly a huge soft bluish thing plunges at me and I’m mashed up against the mirror, face to face with a giant grinning mouth bristling with sharp white teeth. I let out a little bleat of horror.

  Next I hear laughter, and slowly my assailant pulls away. Then as I wilt against the basin wheezing softly I see Gerard standing in the doorway with his arms around the plastic shark, both of them rocking with mirth.

  “Land shark, Miranda.” Gerard giggles. “Land shark.”

  I straighten up. “You know, Gerard,” I say, brushing a strand of hair from my forehead, “sometimes you really get on my nerves.” Head held high, I sweep past the two of them and march to the door, which Gino opens wide for me.

  “Leaving so soon?” he says affably.

  “I’m afraid so.” I pause on the steps. “I didn’t find the person I was looking for.”

  “Oh, really? Who is it? If he’s in there, I would’ve seen him come in.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Of course. I’m the doorman. Nobody gets in without my okay first.”

  “Right.”

  “So who were you looking for?”

  “I was—I was—oh, mind your own beeswax.”

  “Listen.” Gino comes so close that I can’t even smell his leather jacket over the scent of hair pomade. “Can I tell you something?”

  “What.”

  “I’m really sorry.”

  “About what.” I’m trying desperately to keep my lips from quivering.

  “About not letting you in tonight. I didn’t know.”

  “Know what.”

  He leans even closer. “About you and Jackson.”

  I tilt backward. “What about us?”

  “I didn’t know the whole story. I’m really sorry.”

  “Great,” I snap. “At least one of us does.” And then, before I can turn away quickly enough, two large tears slide down my face.

  “I’m really sorry, Miranda,” Gino calls after me. “Anytime you want in at the Advo, honey, you just come to me. I’ll take care of you.”

  “Bryan? I didn’t wake you up, did I?”

  He grunts. “Just a minute.” There’s the sound of a lamp being switched on. “What’s wrong?”

  “Oh god. You were asleep, weren’t you?”

  “It’s three o’clock in the morning. Why would I be asleep?”

  “Oh god. I’m sorry. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  “If you hang up on me now I’ll kill you. What’s wrong?”

  “I can’t sleep.”

  “Jackson?”

  “Yes.”

  “What happened?”

  “We ended up sitting at the same table at dinner tonight.”

  “And?”

  “We talked about the weather.”

  “Jesus.”

  “I didn’t have much fun.”

  “I’ll bet you didn’t.”

  “And when we started comparing the weather this winter with the weather from last winter I spilled my coffee all over the table.”

  “Spill any on him?”

  “No, he wasn’t sitting close enough.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  “That’s what I thought too.” My voice trembles.

  “Then what happened?”

  “I made a joke about crying over spilled milk and got up.”

  He sighs. “That�
��s my girl.”

  “And then Anthony comes running over and wants to know why I don’t want to go out with him. Like I want to discuss this standing next to the salad bar.”

  “Right.”

  “Then Master Ackerman sashays over to congratulate me on winning the Boylston Prize, puts his arm around me, and exhales baked scrod all over my hair while he’s telling Anthony how proud he is that Adams House got me.”

  “Badly put.”

  “Yeah. And then his wife comes along and starts telling us all about little Jim’s latest bout of diarrhea, looking at me like it’s my goddam fault the kid’s got problems with his lower—”

  “I get the picture.”

  “Exactly. And then Gerard walks by with his little sister, who’s visiting for the weekend.”

  “Great.”

  “He says something to her and they both wave at me.”

  “Oh lord.”

  “Bryan, she’s five feet tall and she was wearing pink pants, pink shoes, and a pink blouse.”

  “What color were her socks?”

  “Guess.”

  “No thanks. So what did you end up doing?”

  “After I peeled Master Ackerman off me? And outran Anthony? I went to the Widener stacks till closing time. Then I came back here and I’ve been doing some reading. And how was your day?”

  “Never mind. Look, I want you to get some sleep. Will you try closing your eyes and just not thinking about all this?”

  “Got any Valium?”

  “Forget it. Get into bed and start thinking about ways we can get into the black-tie party at the Fogg this weekend.”

  “I could do that.”

  “I’m counting on you. So brush your teeth and get under the covers, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Good. And call me back if you still can’t sleep.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. You want to have dinner tomorrow?”

  “Can I come up to North House?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. Good night, Bry.”

  “Night.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it. See you tomorrow.” We hang up.

  The streets are cool and still. Slipping along Mount Auburn Street, my sneakers silent on the pavement, I realize I need to blow my nose. By the time I draw near the Lampoon, I’m soppy enough to pull up the neck of my t-shirt and use it to wipe my nose.

  “Ooh, disgusting!” somebody yells from the Lampoon turret.

  I look up and there’s Teddy Anson leaning on the ironwork balustrade, grinning and wiggling his fingers at me. He’s wearing a big gray Yale Crew sweatshirt, and a Red Sox cap tilts rakishly low over his brow. “Hi, Miranda,” he calls down. “What’s wrong with your nose?”

  “Hay fever,” I reply sourly.

  “You poor thing. Hey, I finally got my mother a birthday present.”

  He’s looking at me with such bright-faced expectancy that reluctantly I yield. “Yeah, what?”

  “A vacuum cleaner.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah, a mondo deluxe Hoover.”

  “You’re joking, right?”

  “No, of course not,” he answers, sounding hurt. “Why would I joke about a thing like that?”

  “Why would you buy your mother a vacuum cleaner for her birthday?” I wipe my nose again, this time using the back of my hand.

  “Ooh, gross me out.”

  “Doesn’t the poor woman already have a vacuum cleaner, for god’s sake?”

  “Yes, but the Coop had a sale on Hoovers.”

  “I see.”

  “So I charged the biggest one I could find and had them gift-wrap it and ship it out to her.”

  “Why didn’t you just use Federal Express?” I say disagreeably.

  “My folks don’t have a charge account with them.”

  “Good thinking.” I nod up at him. “I’ll bet Federal Express doesn’t gift-wrap either.”

  Teddy doubles over with a loud whoop of laughter. “Hay fever!” he cries, slapping the balustrade. “Oh god, Miranda. You slay me.”

  Tapping my foot, I wait for the chuckling to subside. “Well, Teddy, I’m afraid my nose and I have got to be running along now.” I flap my fingers at him and turn away.

  “Wait!”

  I halt. “What.”

  “Why don’t you buzz on up? We’re just starting our Helen Reddy retrospective.”

  “No thanks.” I haven’t taken more than two paces when Teddy calls out again.

  “Wait!”

  “What, for god’s sake?”

  “You haven’t called me Theodore once tonight.” He leans over the balustrade to peer down at me. “What’s wrong?”

  “Mind your own beeswax.” I turn away.

  “That’s okay,” he cries. “It happens to the best of us.” He says something else too, but I can’t make it out over the rising strains of “Ain’t No Way to Treat a Lady” pouring out from the second floor.

  I cross Plympton Street, and as I’m going down the stone steps to Adams House I spot the pear-shaped junior ahead of me, opening the door. “Hey, wait up,” I blurt, rushing to catch the door before he lets it swing shut behind him. I grab it just in time and squirm inside, bearing down on him by the C-entry mailboxes. “Hey,” I say, tapping him on the shoulder.

  He jerks around with such a look of dread upon his wan doughy face that automatically I recoil too. “Oh, sorry. Did I frighten you?”

  He just looks at me, gripping his books to his chest, and in the silence I find myself noticing that the color and texture of his skin reminds me, strangely enough, of a plucked chicken.

  “Hey.” I try to smile. “My name’s Miranda. What’s yours?”

  His back straining against the mailboxes, he seems to be willing himself to disappear behind his massive armful of books. His pale eyes dart erratically in their sockets.

  “I said, my name’s Miranda. Who are you?”

  At last he garbles something in a thin asthmatic tremor. “Mahnmzlrzn.”

  “Pardon?” Leaning forward, I cup a hand to my ear. “What did you say?”

  He looks ready to crawl into one of the mailboxes. “Ahsd, mahnmzlrzn.”

  “Oh. Larson.” I break into a toothy smile of relief, and my nose starts running again. “That’s some Southern drawl you have there.”

  “Ahmntsuthn.”

  “Oh, really?” I give a loud sniff. “Then why’s your face so red all of a sudden? Looks to me like you’re blushing.”

  “Izmallrgeez.” His eyes are skittering wildly.

  “What? You have hay fever?” I exclaim. “Say, you wouldn’t happen to have a Kleenex I could borrow, would you?”

  Drawing a long sibilant breath, he hoists his books a little higher on his chest. “No,” he says, very distinctly. “Ah don’t. Now y’all leave me alone.” Then he lunges past me and scuttles across the corridor into the men’s room, locking the door behind him.

  Leaning against the mailboxes, I use my t-shirt again to wipe my nose. Then I pick at my cuticles for a little while, yawning. “Hey, Larson.”

  Tomb-like silence from the men’s room.

  “Aw, come on out. I won’t bite you, I promise.”

  Nothing.

  “Come on, don’t be such a stick in the mud.”

  Still nothing.

  With a sudden flash of resentment I find myself wishing I had Gerard’s shark right now. Candygram. Special delivery. “All right then. Be that way.”

  Nothing.

  “It’s no skin off my nose, pal.” I sniff again, even more loudly. “But how do you ever expect to make any friends if you’re going to be such a loner?”

  Then I slink off, without so much as a simple Ciao to give him fair warning that I’m gone. When the cat’s away …

  As I trudge up the C-entry stairs, I’m wondering if poor pear-shaped Larson will end up spending the night in the men’s room, staring bleakly into the mirror or perhaps even doing some readi
ng from one or another of his textbooks. Still, there are worse fates, I tell myself philosophically, and then I realize with an abrupt little jolt that UHS was actually right. I’m not pregnant after all.

  That’s it, I vow. I’m never having sex again.

  My feeling of cheerful resolve barely lasts the time it takes to ascend a single flight of steps, and in its wake comes the unwelcome yearning to cry. As I bite my lower lip, a dimly remembered voice floats through my head, echoing softly. It’s a party, remember? It’s a party, remember?

  I pause on the landing, confused. God, who said that? I can’t seem to think, and shaking my head I keep plodding upward. When finally I reach the door to C-45, I take a deep breath and straighten my shoulders before letting myself in.

  Inside it’s that ponderous dead-of-night darkness, shadowing everything with an eerie amorphous underwater dimness. In the living room the furniture seems transmuted into vague, unfamiliar objects, shapeless and threatening. Oh god, are they moving toward me? I start to look around for the night-light, then catch myself. You little dope. Grow up, why doncha.

  I creep back into the hallway. The door to Jessica’s room is halfway open, and from her bed comes the low rippling growl of her snoring, rising and falling in a slow, steady glottal cadence.

  Quietly I shut the door and go down the hallway into the bathroom, where I swipe one of her Tampax. After I shower I step onto the cool floor, toss the empty shampoo bottle into the wastebasket, and lackadaisically towel myself dry. I brush my teeth, avoiding my image in the mirror, and just this once I skip the floss. Then, wrapped saronglike in my towel, I pad back down the hallway, hesitating at Jessica’s door to listen for a moment to her snoring.

  My room feels cold. Shivering, I drop the towel onto the floor and get into bed, too tired to look for my only pair of pajamas, which in fact, I suddenly recall, I borrowed from Michael for last year’s pajama party. Grimacing, I blow my nose, toss the soggy Kleenex in the general direction of the plastic garbage bag in the corner, and pull the covers tightly around my shoulders. I stare up at the ceiling in the blue-black darkness, listening to the tiny electric hum of my clock-radio. Then I curl up onto my side and close my eyes, numbly wondering if this chilly, pinching sensation in my chest will ever relax its hold.