Higher Education

by Lisa Pliscou

  “Right,” I mutter aloud. “Don’t goddam leave home without it.”

  “Look, honey,” my father is saying, “he’s your son.”

  Hunching lower over the kitchen table, I turn another page in my algebra book. Through the open windows their voices float in from the backyard, where they are sitting in lawn chairs facing into the last of the afternoon sun.

  “I just can’t believe Andy doesn’t want to spend the summer with us.”

  “Is that what he said?”

  “He said he’d rather stay out in Denver.”

  “Maybe he’s going to summer school,” my father says tentatively. “Or maybe he’s got a girlfriend out there.”

  “I’m sure he put Andy up to it.” I hear ice cubes rattling against glass. “It’s just the kind of thing he’d do.”

  “Now, Annie—”

  “If he knows I want something, he’s just got to do the opposite.”

  “I’m sure he’s—”

  “Divorced fifteen years and he’s still trying to make me miserable.”

  “I don’t think—”

  “Fifteen years of gloating about what a terrific father he is. Haven’t I insisted that Andy spend his summers with us, even if it’s screwed up our own vacation plans?”

  “Now look—”

  “I’ll tell you one thing.” My mother lowers her voice. “I sure as hell wish I’d gotten my tubes tied before I met you.”

  There is a long silence, punctuated by the soft whooshing cadence of the sprinkler jerking around and around over by the honeysuckle trellis.

  My father sighs. “You want another drink?”

  “No, I want you to talk to Andy.”

  “Why do you want me to talk to your son?”

  “I just want you to talk to him. Man to man.”

  “He’s sixteen years old.”

  “Just talk to him. Is that so much to ask? Tell him how much we’re looking forward to seeing him. Tell him he can use your car.”

  “Hey, hey, let’s not get carried away here.”

  “Tell him we’ll pay for his guitar lessons.”

  I close my algebra book and gather up my papers into a neat little stack and go upstairs to my room, where I put on socks and sneakers. Then I go back downstairs, slipping through the kitchen and into the garage, and get my bicycle where it leans against an old rickety bookcase my mother keeps insisting she’s going to give to Goodwill the first chance she gets. I’m not too worried about the algebra test on Monday anyway. I haven’t dropped below a 95 yet.

  The toilet flushes in the adjacent bathroom. I turn my eyes to the top of the application, where, I note, the NAME OF APPLICANT line has already been filled in with neat computer type: Mrs. Mirinda Walker.

  There’s the sound of water running in the next room and then somebody’s nose being blown in soft vigorous puffs. Involuntarily I give a little sniff of my own. Please describe your employment history, including summer job(s), listing most recent first. Video games, I muse, does that count as full-time employment?

  “Wanda!”

  I look up from the section describing the billing agreement in print so minute it makes my head throb even more violently. Angela stands there, a brush in one hand and a large handbag in the other. Her eyes are red, or maybe it’s just a reflection from her maroon sweatshirt with RADCLIFFE embroidered over the heart. “Hi, Angela. How’s everything?”

  “Awful.”

  “Oh?”

  “Guess what I’ve been doing.”

  “Smoking pot in the loo?”

  “No, I’ve been crying.” She sits on a stool in front of the mirrored vanity. “Philip and I are having an argument.”

  “What, again?”

  “In the dining hall.” Her voice is low and excited. “I just stormed out on him in the middle of dessert.”

  “My.” I realize that I need to blow my nose, and start poking around in my bag for a tissue.

  “Wanda?”

  “Mmm?”

  “Do you think I’m wrong to want breast implants?”

  “Well—” I blow my nose and stick the Kleenex back into my bag. “I’m not really sure if it’s a question of right or wrong.”

  “That’s what I keep telling Philip.” Her lower lip starts to tremble. “Will you come help me, Wanda?”

  “I don’t see how—”

  “Come and help me talk to Philip.”

  “I’m sure you’re doing a perfectly good job already.”

  “I just want you to—”

  “After all, isn’t that what a liberal-arts education is all about?”

  “I really need you to—”

  “Improved communication skills, right?”

  “Wanda, please. He likes you. He respects your opinion.”

  “Really?” I say dubiously.

  She gives a little sob. “Please.”

  “Okay, okay. Just don’t cry, all right?”

  “Thanks, Wanda. I knew you’d come through.” Then her look of relief is displaced by an anxious pucker. “Oh my god.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I hope he hasn’t left the dining hall already.”

  “We’d better hurry then.” Slowly I fold up the letter from American Express and put it into my bag.

  “If Mariel Hemingway can do it, why can’t I?” Angela says for the third time.

  Philip sighs and stands up, empty coffee cup in hand.

  As soon as he’s out of earshot Angela turns to me and whispers, “How do I look?” She gropes in her bag and pulls out a hand mirror.

  “Fine, fine,” I mumble through a mouthful of split-pea soup and smushed-up cracker.

  “My hair looks awful.”

  “No, no—”

  “I look like I’ve been dead for two days.”

  “No, no.” I swallow laboriously.

  “And he doesn’t even offer to bring me more coffee, the selfish creep.”

  “Does he always drink this much coffee?”

  “Only when he’s upset.”

  “Calms his nerves, does it?”

  “Will you look at these pores? God, I hate my complexion.”

  “Angela, your skin is beautiful.” I crumble another saltine into my bowl.

  “You won’t believe what he said to me the other night.”

  Oh shit. “Have you had a facial lately?”

  “He’s lying right on top of me and he looks at me and says—”

  “I hear oatmeal soap is marvelous.”

  “I mean, the bed is dripping wet and he has the gall to tell me—”

  “Benzoyl peroxide,” I say loudly. “Jessica swears by it.”

  “And then he says, ‘I’ve been meaning to tell you something—’” She breaks off as Philip returns and sets his cup on the table in precisely the same spot it was before. Without looking at us he sits down again, adds sugar to his coffee, and stirs, his spoon making little rhythmic clinks against the inside of the cup. Angela puts the mirror back into her handbag, closing the snap with a sharp twist of her fingers. I’m staring down into my bowl, bent on mashing the cracker around until I’ve achieved the perfect sodden green consistency.

  “You’d have dissolved granite in there by now.” I glance up, but she is addressing him.

  “I like to stir my coffee.” He doesn’t stop. “Is that okay with you?”

  “Listen,” Angela begins.

  “If you mention Mariel Hemingway one more time—”

  “All I was going to say was—”

  “All you’ve done for the last week is talk about your breasts,” he says wearily. “How do you expect me to get any work done when you’re running around the room without a shirt on?”

  “If you cared about me—”

  “Angela.” Philip sighs again. “I just don’t think getting breast implants is such a good idea.”

  There is a leaden silence, and then Angela pinches my thigh under the table. “Ow!” I exclaim. “Don’t do that.”

  “Go o
n,” she hisses. “Talk to him.”

  “Oh.” I look across the table to where Philip is still stirring his coffee. “Well, gang, let’s just approach this thing rationally, shall we?”

  “Good,” Angela whispers, nodding.

  “Thanks.” I nod back, and fall silent.

  She pinches me again.

  “Ow!”

  “Keep going,” she hisses.

  “Oh.” I stifle a sigh. “Well, I mean, look. Maybe somebody should tell me why Angela wants to get breast implants in the first place.”

  “Some jerk claiming to be from—”

  “A senior photographer from Playboy has asked me to—”

  “Wants her to take all her clothes off—”

  “‘Girls of the Ivy League’ pictorial—”

  “Take her picture standing stark naked in the middle of Harvard Yard—”

  “Tasteful partial nudity—”

  “Right in front of my freshman dorm—”

  “And he’ll help me get a modeling contract.” Angela smiles gloatingly. “He says he knows Eileen Ford personally.”

  There is another silence. I look down at the green mush in my bowl, wondering if this was such a good idea for my stomach after all. I push my tray away and use one of my napkins to blow my nose.

  “He’s so self-absorbed, Wanda. He doesn’t pay attention to my needs at all.”

  “Well, if it comes to that, she never—”

  “Him and his little hidden agendas—”

  “How does she expect me to get my work done?” Philip leans toward me, his round little wire-rimmed glasses glinting in the overhead light. “How am I supposed to study for my finals? My thesis review is on Thursday—”

  “I’ve got emotional requirements too, you know.”

  “And the final paper for my psych seminar is due in two weeks.”

  “Hopes and dreams like everybody else.”

  “And I’ve got med school to start thinking about—”

  “Is it such a terrible thing to want to be on the cover of Vogue?”

  “And right after my finals are over I’ve got to register for my psych classes at summer school—”

  “They’re not his breasts.”

  “And all she can do is worry about her cleavage—”

  “Sandy Duncan has breast implants.”

  “Eye implant,” I say absently, rooting around in my shoulder bag to see if maybe I overlooked the aspirin the last time I checked.

  “You’re missing the point,” she wails.

  I look up to see if her lips are trembling again, but she’s gazing at Philip.

  “Barbra Streisand got her nose fixed,” she says tremulously. “I’m sure there are dozens of girls who’d feel the same way if a chance like this came along.” Angela knits her brows and then gyrates her head toward me. “Wanda, wouldn’t you get breast implants if a senior photographer from Playboy wanted to use you in a ‘Girls of the Ivy League’ pictorial?”

  I shrug. “I avoid major surgery at all costs.”

  “But if it meant a modeling contract—”

  “Well, if we’re going to talk about ignoring needs.” Philip’s eyeglasses are glinting my way again. “Back me up here, Miranda. Put yourself in my shoes.”

  “I hate Topsiders.”

  “What would you do if you were trying to get your work done, trying to focus, trying to concentrate, and your girlfriend kept running around without her shirt on, crying and carrying on like it’s the end of the world?”

  “I’d probably offer her a Kleenex.”

  “Wouldn’t you go to the library to study?”

  “Sure. Listen, you don’t happen to have any aspirin on you, do you?”

  “See?” Philip turns to Angela. “She says I’m right.”

  “She does not. She said she’d go to the library and do you have any aspirin.”

  “Yes, do you?” I look from one to the other, but they are busy frowning at each other across the table. As if for the first time, I find myself noticing the startling resemblance between them, with their wavy blond hair flowing off handsome broad foreheads, their clear gray eyes, their smooth pale skin ever so slightly freckled from summers on the Cape. My stomach gives another stabbing cramp and I lean my elbows on the table and prop my forehead in my hands. What next, I ask myself. My nose, my stomach. I wouldn’t be surprised if my arms were to fall off.

  “She says I’m the one who’s passive-aggressive. I’m the one who’s sending out subliminal messages of rejection—”

  “Wanda.” Angela nudges me. “Philip’s talking to you.”

  “Ouch.” I raise my head. “What.”

  “She keeps telling me how insensitive I am, right? So the last time we had sex, you know what she said to me?”

  Oh god no. “Well,” I say, shifting in my chair. My nose tickles in a panicky sort of way. “I think I’d better be—”

  “She has the gall to—”

  “Hate to eat and—”

  “—the absolute gall to—”

  “—studying to do—”

  “—comment about the size of my—”

  I sneeze, clapping my hands over my nose, and in the hush that follows I peek over my fingers to see if my arms are still attached to my shoulders. I give a little sigh of relief, and then my stomach cramps again. “Pardon me,” I say faintly.

  “Bigger this, bigger that,” Philip goes on irately. “She’ll probably want us to move to Texas after we’re married.”

  “Eh?” I tilt my head in despair. This is it. My goddam hearing is going.

  “Didn’t you know?” Angela says gaily. She waves her left hand in front of my face. A round little diamond twinkles on her fourth finger, glittering yellow, pink, violet, blue. “We’re engaged. I thought everybody knew that already.”

  I feel my jaw drop. As I’m looking back at her, a riptide of fatigue suddenly overwhelms me; it’s all I can do to move my lips. “Congratulations.”

  “Isn’t it wonderful?” She is glowing, two spots of pink blooming on each patrician cheekbone. “We’re going to Italy for the honeymoon.”

  “Italy.”

  “Assuming my first year in med school goes well, of course.” Philip finishes the last of his coffee. “Otherwise we’ll have to postpone until after my second year.”

  “That’s what you think, buster. Mummy’s already reserved space for the reception hall.”

  “We’ll see,” he says austerely.

  “So what do you think, Wanda?” Angela turns to me.

  “About what?” I’m still staring at her ring.

  “About the breast implants.”

  “I think—” Blinking, I draw a long breath. “I think you should—”

  “Yes?” She’s giving Philip a victorious little smile.

  “I think you should remember that my name is Miranda.” I push my chair back and slowly stand up. “Not Wanda. Miranda.” I turn and start walking toward the exit, so tired I feel as if I’m moving in slow motion against some powerful current. Behind me I hear their voices, floating toward me as if from a vast distance.

  “What’s wrong with her?”

  “She just walked out on us.”

  “She left her tray.”

  “Wanda!”

  Limping a little, as though I’ve run too hard or ignored burning calf muscles, I keep walking. I make my way out of the dining hall, through the foyer and past the mailboxes and up the C-entry stairs, pausing at each landing to rest for a moment, just as if I were an old, old woman.

  7

  TUESDAY

  “‘And as he stood there in the snow looking at her, he found that he had nothing more to say. No words, no sounds, just the snow falling everywhere, covering the ground, falling lovingly on their heads, caressing their faces like little white fingertips. And he knew, as he watched her, that somehow his life had changed in such a way that he would never be the same again. He wanted to reach a hand out to touch her but it seemed unnecessary somehow, so he
just stood there and watched her, and felt the snow falling onto his head, white and inviting, soft white fingers somehow cold and warm at the same time.’”

  Kerry pauses for a moment and then slowly lowers the last sheet of paper onto the table. She looks around the ring of faces and when nobody says anything she adds in a loud voice: “That’s all, folks.”

  Then come the sounds of rustling papers, yawning, coughing, people stirring in their chairs. Gradually it all subsides into another deadly quiet.

  Kerry looks around, frowning. “Hey, it’s your turn now, remember?”

  There’s a sharp crackle of gum, and somebody laughs quietly. I’m sitting chin in hand, gazing across the table at Stephanie Kandel, who keeps her eyes fixed on her lap, when Winky whispers into my left ear: “Miranda?”

  “Yeah?” I whisper back.

  “I was supposed to hand something in today.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Writer’s block,” she murmurs. “I had writer’s block.”

  “Again?”

  Mr. Tate finally looks away from the window, pushes his glasses higher on the bridge of his nose, and tries to smile at Kerry. “You’re done reading?”

  “Yes.” She frowns at him too. “I thought it was obvious.”

  “Well, these days it’s hard to know for sure.” Mr. Tate shakes his head, and his glasses slip down again. “The new fiction and all. Can’t tell if you’re coming or going.”

  “It seemed pretty clear to me that the story had ended.”

  “Well, you’re the author. You had some inside information.”

  At the word author Kerry has brightened, but doggedly she pushes on. “I tried to make the ending dramatic. You know, memorable. Memorable and—and compelling.” She draws an invisible circle in the air. “Strong sense of closure.”

  “Oh, really?” Harris says. “I thought you were parodying the ending from ‘The Dead.’”

  She stiffens. “What’s ‘The Dead’?”

  He gives her a sardonic look. “It’s the book they made Dawn of the Dead from.”

  “What?” She glares at him. “Are you implying that my story is about a bunch of zombies?”

  “Oh, for god’s sake, Kerry, relax.” One arm thrown over the back of her chair, Erin blows a shimmering pink bubble and pops it between her teeth. “He’s pulling your leg.”