by Lisa Pliscou
A quavering scream comes skewering through the wall, and I pinch at my waist for excess flesh. Then, sighing, I slope upward against the pillows and blow my nose. The Nyquil doesn’t seem to have helped much with my congestion, I think crossly, flicking the Kleenex onto the floor, and suddenly I sit up straight. It’s Wednesday. Late Wednesday afternoon, to be precise. Another Soc Sci 33 class missed. I start to yawn, and then into my mind comes the image of Jessica pacing a distraught little figure-eight in front of me. That’s right. You’re just the girl who cain’t say no.
There’s the sound of something smashing next door, and I look away from the wall, gazing at the gray attenuated shadows slanting in under the half-drawn blind. They look like trees, I tell myself, mutant trees. Or like those weird deep-sea creatures that never see the sun. No, dope, they look like lettuce leaves.
My stomach gives a long, hollow-sounding gurgle. I look over at the clock again. It’s been nearly twenty-four hours since I’ve last eaten. Slouching down against the pillows, dreamily I contemplate what I’ll have for breakfast. A big plate of waffles swimming in maple syrup? A mushroom-and-cheese omelette with heaps of toast and freshly squeezed orange juice? Or maybe I’ll skip straight to dinner and have a hamburger and french fries, with lots of ketchup. And Tab. And maybe some frozen yogurt from Baby Watson’s for dessert.
Humming, I throw off the covers and stand up. But when I lean forward to do a few toe touches, I find myself staring at my knees. When was the last time I went running? No pain, no gain, I hear Walt’s voice echoing thinly in my ears. You’re not going to let a little cold stop you from jogging, are you? Exhaling deeply, I touch my palms flat to the floor, ignoring another despairing gurgle from my stomach. Then I straighten up, trying to shake the tinny little voice snaking through my head. No run, no fun. Go ahead and feel sorry for yourself, why doncha.
“Sister,” I say aloud, bouncing on my toes, “you can kiss that mushroom-and-cheese omelette goodbye.”
I do a few dilatory waist twists. The way the day is going, I reflect bitterly, I may as well drag myself downstairs to the Adams House library and check out some Soc Sci 33 readings. I sigh again and then start scrounging around for some clean clothes.
Dressed in sweatpants, sneakers, and my ancient Minnie Mouse sweatshirt with the ripped sleeve, I pass the mailboxes, forbidding myself even a fast peep, and stalk along the entryway. From the Gold Room come sounds of raised voices, laughter, and off-key piano tinkling. As I’m passing by, eyes fixed upon the curving staircase that leads up to the library, through the massive gold-leafed double doors I hear someone squeaking out:
“Look who’s here!”
“Meeriam!”
The Bicknell twins dart out, each of them taking one of my wrists in a surprisingly strong grip.
“Come on in!”
“Join the party!”
I look left and right at them, both wearing identical pale-blue dresses with dainty lace collars, and finally I concede that I’ll never be able to tell the two of them apart. “What’s up, girls?”
“First Boston’s throwing a cocktail party.”
“For prospective job applicants.”
“Why don’t you come in?”
“We’re having lots of fun.”
“Well, I’ve really got a lot of studying to do—”
“They’re giving away the cutest little miniature briefcases.”
“There’s going to be a slide show later on.”
“Some of the guys are really cute.”
“And the buffet is fantastic.”
“Buffet?” I look over at Stacey or Beth, whichever. “I don’t suppose they have cheese balls, do they? Those mushy little orange things all studded with nuts?”
“Sure they do!”
“Trays and trays!”
“Well, I don’t know. It’s just that I’m way behind in my Soc Sci 33—”
“They’re giving away door prizes.”
“A gift certificate to the Coop.”
“Tickets to a Red Sox game.”
“Plus there’s an open bar.”
“A Red Sox game? No kidding?”
“Cross my heart!”
“Hope to die!”
“Well, maybe I’ll pop in for a minute or two.”
“Yay!”
“Hurrah!”
“But there’s just one thing.”
“What?” they say in unison.
“Maybe you could let go of my wrists before we go in.”
“Oh, bad luck!”
“Your turn, Marlene.”
“My turn already?” I lean against the piano, blinking. What am I doing here? Who are these guys? And why am I wearing a tie over my Minnie Mouse sweatshirt? I hear another soft ptui on my right and then I remember I’m in the middle of an orange-seed spitting contest with two young associates from First Boston, using orange slices we’ve stolen from the bar and martini glasses for targets. They’ve taken off their jackets and have rolled up their sleeves to the elbow. It’s Ned’s tie I’m wearing, a handsome silk paisley, loosely knotted around my neck. “Wait a minute. I thought it was Peter’s turn.”
“No, no. He just spit on somebody’s back.”
“Forgot the seed.” Peter grins.
I look over to where Ned is pointing. “Hey, that’s our house master.”
“Well, that’s Peter for you,” Ned says proudly. “Always aiming for the top.”
Peter slings his arm around my shoulder. “That’s the way we do things at First Boston, Marlene.” His breath smells of gin and oranges.
“Spitting on people’s clothing?”
“No, no. Aiming for the top.”
“And succeeding,” Ned adds. “You can bet your bottom dollar on that.” They both laugh.
“That’s right, little lady.” Peter’s arm tightens around me. “We don’t know the meaning of the word failure.”
“Is that so?” I look over at him, noticing dimly that I’m slurring my words. “Then how come I’m the one winning the contest?”
Ned laughs loudly. “You Radcliffe girls. Cute and smart.” He throws his arm around my shoulder, getting tangled up with Peter’s arm in the process.
“Oh, Ned!” Peter coos. “I didn’t know you cared.”
“You pussy-faced dick.” Ned pulls his arm away, nodding at me. “None of that stuff at First Boston, Marlene. You can rest easy on that score.”
“We don’t go in for that kind of shit,” Peter agrees. “No way. Nothing but real men at First Boston, Marlene.”
“That’s good to know.”
“Say, Marlene.” Ned leans close again.
“What.” I take a big swallow of my drink.
“You’re a Radcliffe girl, right?”
“Woman.” Peter squeezes my shoulder.
“I guess so.” I take another swig. “Who cares?”
Ned looks around, then whispers, “Is it true what they say about intelligence being an aphrodisiac?”
I blink at him. “I don’t know. What do you mean?”
“Well, I hear—” He lowers his voice even more. “I hear there’s a correlation between your IQ and how good you are in bed.”
“Oh, I see. Well, I sleep pretty soundly, I guess. But maybe that’s because I always leave my window open.”
“No, what I think they mean is—”
“Maybe it’s the fresh air.”
“No, I—”
“Just a tiny bit, even in winter.” I blow my nose in a cocktail napkin.
“Yuck,” Peter says, wrinkling his nose. “That’s what you get for sleeping with the windows open.”
I crumple up the napkin and pitch it into one of the martini glasses. “Two points,” I say lightly, fighting down an oncoming sensation of déjà vu.
“Just a minute here.” Ned clears his throat. “Who says it’s two points?”
“A napkin is lots bigger than an orange seed. It should be worth twice as much.”
“But you blew your nose
in it.”
“Then make it four points.”
Ned starts to think it over, and I grin at him, showing all my teeth. No one speaks for a moment.
“Heard a great joke today,” Peter says brightly. “An investment banker meets a commodities trader in a bar, see—”
I look across the room, where Stacey and Beth are gleefully waving their Red Sox tickets in front of the slide projector. Standing by the bar Master Ackerman watches them without expression, paying only nominal attention to the two enthusiastically gesticulating juniors in sports coats who flank him, their mouths moving almost as rapidly as their arms. Then I see the pear-shaped Larson in earnest conversation with a First Boston representative, who wears an expensive-looking navy-blue suit with an equally expensive-looking paisley tie. I can’t help noticing that both he and Larson are eating cheese balls. Behind me at the piano somebody is playing “Moon River” badly.
“—and so the trader says to him, ‘Pork bellies? Well, pal, I guess that means you’re overdrawn!’”
Ned and Peter erupt with laughter, jostling me merrily with what seems like a disproportionate number of elbows. I laugh too, jabbing them back, although in the middle of a particularly high-pitched peal it occurs to me that I have no idea what I’m laughing about. Mid-giggle I look out into the foyer and see Michael going toward the dining hall.
“Michael. Yoo hoo.”
He turns. “Y’all just yoo-hoo me?” Hands in pockets, he gazes at me through the doorway.
“Yes. Hi.”
“I’m goin’ to dinner. Y’all wanna come?”
“We’d love to.” Ned gives another spurt of laughter, jabbing me again.
“Ow. He means me.”
“Oh, darn.” Peter’s fingers creep in through the rip in my sweatshirt to tickle my armpit.
“Stop it. Michael—” I realize I’m still grinning and foggily I try to stop it, but I’m afraid my face will crack if I do. “Yoo hoo.”
Slowly he comes toward me, long-legged in jeans and boots. “What’s doin’, gal?”
“Michael—”
“Ned Billings. As in Montana.” Ned sticks out his hand. “And this good-looking guy over here is Peter Ainsley.”
Peter waits for Ned to relinquish Michael’s hand before sticking out his own. “Call me Pete.”
“Howdy-do.” Michael puts his hand back into his pocket. “Some shindig y’all got goin’ here. Somebody’s birthday?”
“No, it’s—”
“First Boston, Mike.”
“That’s right, Mike. We’re looking for a few good people.”
“We’re aiming for the top.”
“In fact, we’ve already offered Marlene here a summer internship.”
“Marlene?” Michael’s eyebrows go up.
“She’ll be working in arbitrage, Mike.”
“Five hundred clams a week.”
“Starts first week of June.”
“Subsidized housing.”
“Company pays for lunches and cab fare.”
“Possibility of staying on full-time.”
“Twenty-eight thousand a year to start.”
“Plus a bonus in January.”
“Profit sharing.”
“Free checking and automatic deposit.”
“Discount membership at the New York Health and Racquet Club.”
“Neat, huh?” I say weakly.
“If y’all say so.”
Ned puts his arm around me again. “Yep, we think Marlene will be an important member of the First Boston team.”
“Very important.” Peter slaps me jovially on the back.
“Ow. Michael.” The Gold Room has begun to slowly sway back and forth. “I think I forgot to feed Edgar.”
“Edgar?” Ned asks, breathing gin and oranges into my face. “Who’s Edgar?”
“My asparagus fern.” I struggle to straighten up under the dead weight of his arm. “If I don’t water him on time, he starts dropping his needles.”
“Dropping his what?”
“Needles. Hypodermics.” I feel an abrupt urge to laugh. “You’ve got to be careful not to step on ’em, you know. They go right through your shoes.”
“Yeah, yeah, sure.” His big genial face looks perplexed.
“Didn’t I tell you that I’m pre-med?” A tiny risible bubble is expanding inside my chest. “You know. Cutting open frogs and dead people, that kind of stuff.”
“Neat!” Peter exclaims. “Frogs, really?”
“Edgar, Edgar.” Finally I succeed in freeing myself. The floor feels rubbery under my feet. “Michael?”
“Gal?”
“We’d better hurry, don’t you think?”
“Sure.”
I step forward and take hold of his arm. “Bye guys.” I try to focus on their faces. “Nice meeting you.”
“Bye, Marlene.”
“See you in June.”
“Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.” Ned winks at me.
“Don’t forget your briefcase.” They both laugh.
“Your dinner,” I say, face-down on Michael’s bed, feeling it tilt languorously from side to side. “Yoo hoo.”
He sits next to me, leaning against the wall. “I’m right here. You don’t need to yell.”
“I’m sorry. Your dinner. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t worry ’bout it.”
“Michael?”
“Yeah?”
“Did you take my shoes off?”
“Yes’m. Why?”
“I was just wondering.” The bubble in my chest has tightened into a dense little ball that’s making it hard for me to breathe. And my left arm is tingling painfully. “Michael.”
“What?”
“I think I’m having a heart attack.”
“What makes you think that?”
“My left arm hurts. They say that’s the first sign.”
“Maybe that’s ’cause you’re lyin’ on top of it.”
“Oh.” He helps me pull my arm from underneath me. “I guess maybe it just fell asleep, huh?”
“Guess so.”
The bed lists precariously, and I give a little moan.
“Kitten?”
“Huh?”
“You okay?”
“Can’t complain,” I say into the pillow.
“Good girl.”
“Michael?”
“Yes’m?”
“I only had three drinks.”
“They sure do go a long way, don’t they?”
“Empty stomach.”
“That helps too.” He laughs softly. “How’s your arm?”
“Much better.”
“Good.”
“Michael?”
“Gal?”
“I think I’d like to sit up now.”
“Okay.”
I twist over on my side and he helps me slide up against the pillows. Everything reels for a moment and then settles into a gentle oscillation.
“Michael?”
“Yeah?”
“My chest still hurts.”
“Your chest hurts?”
“Yes. Here.” I take his hand and place it on my breastbone.
“How come your chest hurts?” he says quietly. His hand rests warm and motionless right over Minnie Mouse’s face.
“Heart attack?”
“Are you okay? Tell me the truth.” I feel his breath against my face, and then I smell peppermint and Paco Rabonne.
“I’m fine.”
“Then how come your chest hurts?”
“Michael.” I curl my hand around his neck and tilt toward him. For the merest second we are kissing and then he leans away and takes his hand off Minnie Mouse.
“Honey.”
I am very still. The tightness inside me seems to have frozen into a hard cold ball.
“Honey. Look at me.”
“What?”
“Look at me.”
With an effor
t I raise my eyes. “What.”
“It’s not that—” He runs a hand through his hair. “It’s not that—I mean, it’s not that I—”
“Don’t you think it would be nice?” I say in a small voice.
“Very nice.”
“Then why don’t you want to?”
“I believe we’ve had this talk before.” His smile is half-wry, half-sad. “I’ve noticed you have a tendency to not be friends with folks afterwards.”
“It wouldn’t be that way with you.”
He touches my cheek for a moment. “I don’t think I wanna take that chance.”
“Big of you.”
“Honey—”
“Don’t honey me, buster.” I’m wheezing as I speak. “When did you become the king of discipline?”
His smile twists. “Now you’re makin’ it tougher than it already is.”
“Tougher for who?” I lean over the side of the bed and start fumbling for my shoes. “Where the fuck are they, goddam it?”
“What’re you doin’?”
“Looking for my goddam shoes. Do you goddam mind?” I locate one sneaker and shove my foot into it.
“Miranda.” He touches my shoulder, and I shake him off. I find the other shoe and jam it on. Without bothering with the laces, I take as deep a breath as I can and stand up.
“Well, thanks for everything.”
He stands up too. “Look, kitten—”
“I’ve got a lot of work to do.” I’m swaying only slightly on my feet. “If you’ll just excuse me.”
“Why don’t you just stay till you’re feelin’ better?”
“I feel fabulous,” I hiss.
“Let me walk you to your room.”
I avoid his eyes. “I’m fine, thanks.” I walk into the living room and toward the front door, carefully planting my feet as I go. At the threshold I turn my head and look just past his right ear. “Have a nice day.” Then I turn and start down the stairs, one hand gripping the rail, the other trailing against the wall for balance.
“Be careful,” he says, in a voice so sad that it’s all I can do not to turn around again. But I force myself to keep my gaze fastened on the steps, as one by one I painstakingly descend.
Shit. Shit. Shit. I’m at the house phone outside of B-entry, waiting for my eyes to refocus. I’ve already dialed two wrong numbers, and now I’m standing here blinking at the receiver like I’ve never seen one before. Shit.