Higher Education

by Lisa Pliscou

  “No.”

  “Cremora?”

  “No.”

  “Sugar?”

  “No.”

  “Honey?”

  “No.”

  “Sweet ’n Low?”

  “No.”

  “God, you really know how to eat, don’t you?” He wipes the plate clean with a last little wedge of toast, which he deftly pops between his teeth. “Lucky for me you weren’t hungry.” Still chewing, he smiles at me, tiny toast crumbs clinging to the corners of his mouth.

  “Teddy, what are you doing here?”

  A look of alarm clouds his face. “Oh no, we’re not going to talk about religion, are we?”

  “I mean how did you know I was here?”

  “Oh.” The toast crumbs curve upward again. “I ran into Walt Abrams in front of Adams House, and he said you were hiding out in the Union and were desperate for company.”

  “I didn’t know you knew Walt,” I say irritably.

  “Know Walt!” Teddy cries. “Walt and I are like that!” He waves his uninjured hand at me with the forefinger and the middle finger clamped together. “Why, we’re practically blood brothers.”

  “Oh?”

  “Sure. Walt’s the Lampoon business manager, you know.”

  “What?”

  “Didn’t you know that?”

  “No.”

  “Seriously? It was Walt’s idea to market those Helene Does Harvard videos.”

  “I see.”

  “I had a bit part in the Head of the Charles trilogy,” he discloses boastfully. “I played a dumb jock from Kirkland House.”

  “Imagine that.” I push back my chair and stand up. “Well, I hate to eat and run, but—”

  “You’re leaving?” Teddy looks up at me in surprise. “But I just got here.”

  “I’ve got a lot of work to do.”

  He nods. “Well, I guess I’ll have seconds and then head back to the UHS emergency room.”

  I pause. “Why?”

  “Because I’m still hungry.”

  “No, why are you going back to UHS?”

  “So I can pick up a prescription for Percodan which I’m going to sell to a friend of mine from Dunster House.”

  “Great.” I push in my chair. “See you around.”

  “A fellow Helen Reddy fan,” Teddy says, giggling. “Ouch!”

  At six o’clock the reading room closes. As I’m walking underneath the Wigglesworth archway toward Mass Ave, my head swims dizzily and I lean against the wall for a moment until my vision clears. As if on cue, my stomach growls, and then I realize that I seem to have skipped a meal or two today. Still feeling a bit lightheaded, I walk back to Adams House, peer into the empty C-45 mailbox, and, unaccountably dashed, plod into the dining hall.

  Virginia the checker sits erect at her post, pen poised over her list of names, her face nearly invisible behind her big eyeglasses and cheery expression. “Take one of these, hon,” she orders by way of greeting, holding out a sheet of paper as I pass by.

  “Thanks.” I use it for a placemat on my tray.

  Serge tosses me an apple over the glass counter. “Hey, I saved this one for you.”

  “It’s gorgeous. Thanks.”

  “I sure can pick ’em, huh?”

  “You bet.” I put the apple on my tray. “How are you, Serge?”

  “Great.” He’s bouncing up and down on his toes. “It’s my last night here.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah, I’m moving down to Florida to live with my grandparents.”

  “Can I have a banana?” A scrawny sophomore girl stands next to me. “And an orange?”

  “Sorry. Apples tonight.” Serge holds one out to her.

  “No bananas?”

  “Ran out at brunch.”

  “How could you have run out?”

  “People were eatin’ ’em, I guess.”

  “Well, never mind then.” She turns and walks away.

  Serge grins at me and puts the apple back in its bowl. “Yeah, I’ll miss this place.”

  “Why are you going to Florida, Serge?”

  “Aw, you look so sad,” he says delightedly. Then he shrugs. “I dunno. Better weather, right?”

  “It doesn’t snow so often in Florida.”

  “That’s right,” he says, laughing. “I’m gonna learn how to water-ski.”

  “It’s easy.” I try to smile. “Just hang on to the rope.”

  We are silent for a moment, and then he says: “Well—”

  “No, no.” I take a step backward. “I’ll come say goodbye on my way out.”

  I’m standing in the dim wood-paneled gloom of the Freshman Union, squashed up against the bread station and gripping my tray as I look around for a place to sit. It’s packed and noisy and I curse myself for having come to dinner during rush hour. Three, four, five people stream past, each bumping into me with a cheerful “Sorry.” Trying not to scowl, I follow in their wake as if I’m with them, covertly peering around for anybody I might know from these first few weeks. Even one of my roommates would be a welcome sight right now. Shit, shit, shit. Just as I’m resolving to start coming to dinner at five o’clock, regardless of when I might actually be hungry, I spot an empty seat in the middle of the long wooden table on my left. I squeeze my way in, slip into the chair, and gratefully pick up my spoon.

  “Oh, you’re probably confusing him with my uncle,” says the girl directly across from me, a big-shouldered redhead with about a thousand freckles sprinkling her face. “My uncle’s the television producer. It’s my father who’s the president of—”

  Oh shit, I think to myself, staring down at my yogurt. These are the glammies I’ve already learned to avoid, the ones who all seem to know each other, who wear expensive, handsomely outworn clothing, are intimately familiar with New York, speak several languages, and are prone to lapsing into composed silences when they don’t feel like talking, no matter how expedient it might seem to keep up their end of the conversation. I take a long breath, and smell cigarette smoke. Didn’t anybody tell them that this is a nonsmoking area? My mouth tight, I suppress a cough. What would they think if I got up right now and left?

  “I thought your name sounded familiar.” The kid on my left gestures triumphantly, flicking ashes all over his tray and into my yogurt. “My dad’s a department head over at NBC. Don’t your folks have a summer place in Montauk?”

  I accidentally drop my spoon and it clatters onto my tray, more loudly than I would have thought possible. The kid on my left looks over at me and nods casually. “Yo,” he says.

  Now I recognize him from my English-lit class. “Hi.”

  “Don’t you think the food is worse than usual tonight?”

  “Definitely.”

  “I thought so too. You go to class today?”

  “Sure. Didn’t you?”

  “Nah. Too boring. Hey, what about your dad?”

  “No, he didn’t go to class either.” I pick up my spoon and stir the ashes around in my yogurt.

  “No, I mean would I know him.”

  “Maybe.” My throat is constricting.

  “Yeah? What’s he do?”

  Feeling several pairs of eyes upon me, languidly I wave the smoke away from my face. “My dad?” I say, slowly. “Well, I’ll tell you one thing.” I lean back in my chair. “He’s got a fabulous suntan.”

  There is utter silence for a moment, and then they all laugh. The kid from my lit class pokes me with his elbow. “I think I know your roommate Jeanne. Aren’t you the one from California?”

  “Fer sure,” I say, deadpan, waiting for them to start laughing again. Instead the kid on my left points his cigarette at me and announces to the others: “We’re in English 10 together.” Then he offers me one of his Gauloises and they start asking me questions about L.A., what classes I’m taking, have I gotten my Coop card yet, and whether I actually plan to attend the freshman picnic on Saturday.

  By the time I’m describing to them some of the mo
re sophisticated techniques of bodysurfing, and Ryan, the kid from my lit class, has asked me to help him study for the midterm, and Leona, the redhead sitting across from me, has complimented me on my eye makeup, some strange, subtle, half-familiar circuit has flipped over in my head, leaving me with a sensation uncomfortably close to a headache.

  Pulling the piece of paper out from under my bowl of cottage cheese, I dab at the coffee rings with my napkin and peer at the first paragraphs through the damp blurry puckers.

  OCS-OCL SENIOR SURVEY

  Dear Member of the Class of 1982:

  We’d like to know more about you and your future plans. Please take a few minutes to answer the following questions. The results of this survey will enable us to better serve the Harvard community, and will be published in a future issue of Harvard Magazine. Please be sure to write clearly and legibly.

  1. Describe your plans for the upcoming year. Will you be attending graduate school? Beginning a job? Traveling? Include mailing address and telephone number(s) if available.

  I take a bite of apple and chew it carefully. Then I pull a pen from my bag and hunch over the table.

  I’ve joined the Navy’s Deep-Sea Research Program. No telephones where I’m going! I’ll write as soon as I get back.

  I give Virginia my survey, hand my tray to the dishwasher, and dump my napkin and half-eaten apple into the garbage. Turning, I see Beatrice and Alicia coming in my direction, their legs in red tights flashing underneath their black leather miniskirts. Shit. Trapped on either side by the big garbage bins, I swallow and step forward.

  But Beatrice and Alicia sail by, completely ignoring me. I’m staring after them, blinking, when somebody says behind me:

  “They heard about the lampshade.”

  “Huh?” I spin around. It’s Carlos, standing there with an empty plate dangling from his fingers. I notice he’s wearing the same loud Hawaiian-print shirt he had on the last time I ran into him at dinner. When was that? Wednesday night? It seems like several eternities ago.

  “Yeah, the lampshade.” He shakes his head. “They heard.”

  I look into his dark enigmatic face. “Very funny.”

  “You think so?”

  “Not really.”

  “Man, I wish I’d seen you with that lampshade on your head. That was some party, huh?”

  “Yep.”

  “I haven’t had so much fun since the day that kid cracked up in my psych class. Threw his books at the professor and ran out screaming.”

  I stare at him as he practices his Frisbee wrist action with his plate, until finally he switches over to his other hand and glances at me. “How’s your hay fever?”

  My teeth grit. “I don’t have hay fever.”

  “Really? You look like you’re having a bad allergy attack.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “That’s good. So what about that lampshade?”

  “Nice talking with you.” I turn away.

  “I’ll bet you look good in a lampshade,” he calls after me. “You’re tall, so you can carry it off.”

  “Thanks.” I walk toward the exit without bothering to wave goodbye.

  C-45 is empty and quiet. Taped to my door is a sheet of Harvard Athletic Department stationery on which Jessica has neatly typed a little note.

  Telephone messages: Michael (once), Richard (twice), two unidentified creeps who hung up as soon as they heard my voice. I’d like to stick around and take all your phone calls but I do have a thesis to write. I’m staying over at my thesis adviser’s place and using her PC in exchange for feeding her icky neurotic cats while she’s at Club Med. See you Friday. Meet me at the cocktail party in the History & Lit lounge around 5 if you want.

  Jessica Marie Hartsfield

  I leave the note on the door and go into the bathroom, where I lean against the basin and pick up my toothbrush. No sooner have I opened my mouth to sneer at the mirror than I see that there are several little white clumps of cottage cheese wedged between my front teeth. Dropping my toothbrush, I clamp my lips together and stare at my reflection.

  Through the air shaft I can hear someone singing “Get Happy” in his bathroom. Then there is only silence and suddenly I’m pressing my forehead against the icelike surface of the mirror, staring down at a basin in need of a good cleaning. Dear god, this is it. I’m cracking up. The phone rings and I jerk in surprise, bumping my nose against the mirror. “Ouch. Goddam.”

  I brush a few wisps of hair off my brow and open the cabinet behind the mirror, rooting through the various bottles and tubes until I find Midol and Sudafed. I swallow two tablets of each and then brush my teeth until my gums hurt.

  The phone rings again. I go back into the living room and wait for the rings to stop. Then, after a second’s hesitation, I pick up the receiver and start dialing.

  After the fourteenth ring I slam down the phone. “Jerks,” I whisper. “Let me guess. Bridge with the Taggarts, right?” I look at my watch, which of course says twelve-thirty. After a while I get up and go into my bedroom to check my clock-radio. It’s only a little past eight. Maybe I can go running today after all. I bend from the waist, touching the floor with my palms, and in an instant I’m completely congested again.

  Straightening up, I blow my nose, drop the tissue on the floor, and punt it under my bed. Frowning, I clamp my hands around my left hamstring. Is it my imagination, or does the muscle already seem a little flabby? My eye lights upon the big garbage bag next to my bureau and I poke my foot at it, trying to remember what I shoved inside last night. My, aren’t you just the cutest couple. Maybe you two’ll win the prize for best costumes. I give the bag a vicious kick and go back into the living room.

  Restlessly I do a few arm windmills and then stand by the window, looking down at the brightly lit stretch of sidewalk in front of Harvard Pizza. There’s Anthony and Skip sauntering out, each carrying a big flat white cardboard box, and crossing the street without looking for cars. Five or six football players pass through the narrow doorway, jostling one another and nearly trampling the Adams House English tutor, who’s got his arm around a blonde girl who looks vaguely familiar. Then I think I catch sight of Henry walking along Plympton Street toward the Charles.

  “Dear god,” I say aloud, my breath misting the windowpane. The tall dark-headed figure in the dark jacket vanishes past the Lampoon, and frantically I scramble for my shoes.

  I bolt down the stairs and out of Adams House and start racing down Plympton Street. When I come to the comer at Mount Auburn Street I plunge across the intersection against the light, and head for the river. My legs are stiff and cold but I force myself to keep lengthening my stride as I lope along scanning the sidewalks and streets.

  Crossing Mem Drive, I come to a halt on a gravelly path near the garbage-ridden bank of the Charles. I look around, panting a little. This isn’t exactly a terrific place to be alone, I remind myself, particularly at night. Yet I remain until my breath evens out and the abrupt urge to cry has subsided, and then I turn back toward Adams House. Though I’m now feeling less than energetic and I hate running in Keds which have no arch support whatsoever, I launch into a fast jog up Plympton Street. As I’m crossing Mount Auburn Street my nose starts tickling; I put up a hand to swipe at my nostrils and collide with a strange bouncy resiliency into an Arpege-scented form barreling out of Harvard Pizza.

  “Oh, shit!” It’s Jeanne, my freshman roommate, reeling with laughter as she points at the slice of pizza lying on the ground between us, its mangled tip pointing at me in a cheesy Je t’accuse.

  “No, pussycat, it’s mozzarella.” Her companion, his plump round chest swathed in a HARVARD MODEL U.N. t-shirt, laughs too. “Not shit. Mozzarella.”

  “You must be Carl,” I say sourly.

  “That’s right.” His lips glint in a grease-smeared smile. “And you must be Miranda. I’ve heard all about you.”

  “Oh?”

  “Same old impetuous Miranda,” Jeanne says indulgently. “Still running around
like she’s got a lampshade on her head.”

  “What?” I take a step closer, towering over her.

  Her eyes twinkle up into mine. “I just wish you’d watch where you’re going, sweetie. That slice had extra cheese and mushrooms.”

  I just wish you’d shove it up your ass. I wipe my nose with the back of my hand and notice that they’re goggling at me, their smiles fading. Dear god, did I actually say that aloud? Folding my arms across my chest, I stare right back. “And furthermore—”

  “How about another slice, pussycat?” Carl wheels around and hustles back into the pizza shop, the thighs of his blue jeans hissing as they rub together.

  “And furthermore—” I hesitate, sniffling. I wish I had a dollar for every time I’ve seen you talking on the phone wearing a big white Jolene mustache. “You know, Jeanne, I really hated the way you’d leave your pubic hairs all over the soap.”

  “I—what?”

  “Frankly, it really grossed me out.” I nod and stalk away. As I’m crossing Bow Street I hear Carl sing out behind me: “Here you go, buttercup! Extra cheese and mushrooms.”

  Buttercup, I say to myself as I’m climbing the C-entry stairs. How unutterably perfect. It’s not until I’m back in C-45, taking off my jacket, that I recollect what took me whirling outside in the first place. I go back to the window, dragging my jacket on the floor behind me. The sidewalk in front of Harvard Pizza is deserted.

  Henry. I’m leaning my shoulder against the window frame, remembering Henry’s gleeful predilection for hugely oversized thrift-store blazers, his unfailing interest in whatever shade of lipstick I happened to be wearing, which he would affably compliment and then gently dab off with one of my tissues. Do you mind? he’d say. It looks wonderful, but I don’t like the taste.

  There’s a tiny cool breeze coming in through the window. I look down at the street one last time, and then I turn and throw my jacket, hard, onto the couch. It lands with a sharp little plop and I go into my room and start taking off my clothes.

  6

  MONDAY

  I slam the little door to the C-45 mailbox shut, clutching a stiff white envelope in my hand. My head is pounding. I go around the corner into the ladies’ lounge, where I lie down on the slippery flowered divan and rip open the envelope. Seniors graduating with a job that pays over fifteen thousand dollars a year are cordially invited to apply for an American Express card.