by ANDREA SMITH
“My my,” I say, “you’ve gone all out on this Weston judging by the thickness of it. I’m impressed.”
“Yeah,” he replies, leaning back in the chair and clasping his hands behind his head. I notice how hot he looks in his maroon Henley with the sleeves rolled up to just below his elbow. “I think you will be impressed, Penny.”
I bend the metal clasps back so that I can open the flap. I reach inside and pull out a manila folder. As soon as I open the folder, a pair of torn, black, lace panties slide out onto my desktop.
I recognize them immediately. The ones the clown ripped off of me at the Halloween gala. I’m stunned into silence, not daring to look up.
But how did…Weston?
“Oh my God…it…it…was you?”
“Just call me Rogue Clown,” he says, his face expressionless, but the tone of his voice is so dispassionate that I would have to be an idiot not to know that he is furious. And he has every right to be.
“Weston,” I start, clueless as to what I’m going to say because anything that comes to mind sounds pathetic.
“Don’t bother, Penny---or is it Peyton? What actually is your real name?
I flush under his piercing gaze. “Peyton. My name is Peyton Lang,” I admit softly.
“Well Peyton Lang, you held a modicum of interest to me when I first laid eyes on you and acted like an ass. And as Penny Lane? You made me realize that I had a soft spot for the vulnerability you tried so hard to hide. And then there was that hot little witch who worked some spell on me sexually and sparked a connection I’ve never felt before,” he finishes with a bitter laugh. “But this? This is so ridiculously deceitful; well…there are no words.”
And I watch as he stands up, gives me one last look, and then walks out of the room and, ultimately, out of my life.
Chapter 37
Weston skated off the ice after their practice. It had gone well. Their game was tomorrow afternoon and Coach had cleared him to start.
“What was that out there?” Marcus asked, skating up beside him as they went together into the locker room.
“What was what?”
Marcus slapped him playfully on the shoulder and laughed, “I just wanted to make sure that my face wasn’t on that puck when you annihilated it with your stick, is all.”
Weston looked over at him and shrugged. “It was a face, but it wasn’t yours.”
“Good to know. You still pissed at Drake?” he asked.
“I’ll always be pissed at Drake, that’s nothing new, but as long as he keeps his distance from me and stays out of my mix, he’s safe.”
“Then what the hell is going on with you, Weston? I mean, shit, you’ve been in your own fucking world the past few days. Care to share?”
Weston hesitated momentarily; he was contemplating the value of clueing his best friend in on the reason for his recent funk. There was nothing worse in Weston’s mind than admitting to another dude that a chick had gotten under your skin the way that she had. And by she, Weston didn’t mean Penny or Peyton.
No, it was all about the witch.
He had meant everything he had said to Penny the last time he had sat across from her in their study session. Maybe ever more than what he had let on at the time. Granted, he’d been drunk, but there was just something about the explosive chemistry between the two of them that was etched in his mind.
Discovering the truth about everything had done more than simply piss him off. He had felt more than duped; she’d made a fool out of him and for what? That part infuriated him the most. What possible reason or motivation had been the foundation for the whole charade? If this had been some stupid game she’d played for the fun of it then the chick was a whack job.
Somehow, Weston knew there had to be more to it than that. He shouldn’t care. If he had any sense, he would forget about it and stop allowing it to affect his moods and take up residence in his mind. He was sick of thinking about it. Maybe that was the best reason for confiding in Marcus. Maybe his best friend could help Weston put this into some perspective that made sense, and would allow it to become just a distant memory of little importance.
Marcus was still waiting for his response.
“Got plans with Eva tonight?” Weston asked.
“No, she’s working.”
“Let’s grab a shower and then I’ll buy you a couple of beers. It’s a complicated story.”
Chapter 38
I’m curled up on my bed in the quiet of my room reading through Weston’s final paper turned in to Professor Lindquist. His paper on both books assigned over the semester is perfect. He followed the instructions to every last detail.
Lindquist’s requirements dictated that the student provide their own opinion as to what motivated both authors to write these particular classics. He also gave them latitude to draw parallels to current day situations or experiences, and offer personal opinions, good or bad on the books.
I turn to the back page of the term paper, where Weston put his personal comments. I’ve read it before.
Many times.
It’s my own form of personal torture. It’s what he meant when he told me that paybacks were a bitch. He’s calling me out. His words sting like a wasp, but I welcome them because it’s what I deserve.
I read through it again for the umpteenth time.
Land Before Her: Fantasy and Experience of the American Frontiers
This piece, having been written and published by listed author in 1984 is American fiction that represents an overall ‘escapism fantasy’ prevalent throughout women of the nineteenth century, purportedly from journals and diaries passed down from pioneer women.
It seems that as much as things change over the course of several hundred years, the more they stay the same. I was tormented while reading this piece of classic fiction by the overall fantasy throughout the book that the female characters obsessed over.
Case in point, they all shared this common need to replicate a garden, which they aptly referred to as their “Eden,” where perfection was personified. Traveling to a new frontier, these women obsessed over and were driven by the need to create this garden once reaching their destination to bring the old to the new, which made perfect sense if for the purpose of sustenance. But that wasn’t the case. The transfer of rose clippings and seedlings to plant trees was about transference of beauty rather than productivity for this symbol of Eden in the new West. The ladies focused on fantasy and the garden, as purported by the author gleaned from her sources of old letters, journals, and diaries, where the reader can only question whether Kolodny manipulated by means of inclusion those passages that represent and support her real message: moral superiority of women.
Fast forward several hundred years from the days of pioneer women. I will avoid generalizing, because that’s not my style, although I would like to share something from my own personal experience.
Many aspects contained in Kolodny’s ‘Land Before Her’ play out in this modern day scenario. I have just recently had first-hand experience with such manipulation and duplicity for the sole purpose of someone’s need to prove her moral and intellectual superiority over a male she evidently regarded as shallow, dispassionate, and undeserving of basic respect.
If females in today’s society are still inclined to play the “gender” card in order to prove some elusive point to men, or to assert that in some way they’ve been short-changed and have an axe to grind, or simply need someone else to blame for their own basic insecurities, don’t hide behind some self-imposed façade like the coward you are. Own it. Say it out loud, say it proud, but stop playing games if you ever expect to be taken seriously.
That is all.
I can’t argue with the parallel he’s drawn, because let’s face it, Kolodny wrote this book about pioneer women in the mid-1980’s. Smack dab in the woman’s rise for power in the business world. Big hair, power jackets with humongous shoulder pads, and navy blue suits with black pumps. A time of transition. Definitely the decad
e where females fought to be taken seriously in corporate America. And Kolodny’s work of fiction played into her own personal agenda of moral superiority. Women couldn’t have it both ways in that particular era, but damn if they didn’t want it all.
I read on to Weston’s next assessment. This one hurts even worse.
This classic work of fiction was more palatable than Kolodny’s book for me. While Austen’s use of irony and dialog serve to develop the characters and plot, the endless exposure of foolishness and hypocrisy is superfluous in understanding this feminist’s point which is clearly the need to fool other people or delude herself in order to detract from her own insecurities with the opposite gender. This reader can only conclude that both authors, in different ways, present these works of fiction to drive home to the reader that the female gender is far more evolved than given credit. I would dare to disagree based on my own personal and recent experiences. There are much better ways to address Venus and Mars psychology without using fantasy, irony, and foolish trite dialogue, in this Neanderthal’s opinion.
Double sting on that one, but I can’t deny his message is appropriate. I only wish that Weston had given me a chance to explain my rationale for what I had done that day.
But really, how could I explain it when I really didn’t understand it myself? In fact, I’m still working through it in my mind.
It had all seemed so justified when I set about planning this exercise for my senior thesis. It was my ticket to the Master’s Program at UC Berkeley. I had never questioned that my conclusion would support my thesis statement.
Piece of cake.
My ticket out of the place that has held me hostage for so long. Only as it turns out, the place I want to escape so badly exists in my mind more than it does in reality. It has been an excuse for all of these years to hide my insecurities and doubt---not about the female gender as a whole, but about just one.
A toddler who lost her mother before ever knowing who she was, or having her guidance in defining who she would grow up to be. A kindergartner not understanding why awards might favor one gender over the other. An adolescent seeing her father through the eyes of another woman, not her mother, and her overall influence supported women as being sexual beings first and foremost. The wicked stepbrother who reinforced that very same theory in his own disgusting and invasive way; and finally, a two-year relationship with a man who saw her as being sexually flawed but hadn’t considered it important enough or even cared enough to open a discussion about it.
I’m not pointing the finger of blame at any of those mentioned above. It’s all on me and I know this. Anyone with a modicum of self-awareness might have done things drastically different. Not me, though. In my own way, it was always easier to believe my theories than search my soul.
I own this.
No one else. And I will fix this some way, just as soon as I fix myself.
I grab my cell and pull up the university directory. I make an appointment for the following day to talk to a counselor.
I’ve taken my very first step.
Chapter 39
Everyone had gone home for Christmas break. Everyone with the exception of those athletes playing winter sports for Hardwick U. The frat house was quiet with Alex and Drake gone. It was just Marcus and Weston at the house. And Eva. She’d been spending a lot of her Christmas break at the house.
Weston wondered why she hadn’t gone home for Christmas. But then he remembered that they were supposedly in love. Marcus dug her a lot. More so than Weston had seen with any girl from his past.
When they’d had their talk last week, Marcus had listened intently before making his one and only comment: What the fuck had that chick been thinking?
Marcus’ shock and awe reaction confirmed what Weston had already known: he was clueless as to every aspect of the charade. “Hell, I thought Peyton was a really cool girl,” he’d said. “She’s gorgeous and smart, hell, Eva talks about her as if they’re closer than sisters!”
Weston had witnessed Marcus’ transition as the significance of the words he’d just spoken out loud settled in his brain.
“Shit,” he’d snarled. “No way, brother. There’s no fucking way Eva knew about this whole thing.”
“Hey,” Weston replied, “did I say she did?” He knew Marcus’ defensiveness was the result of his having just a sliver of doubt in his own mind.
“So, are you asking for permission to bring the subject up with her?”
“Do I really need your permission?” he countered.
Weston chuckled good-naturedly. “I guess not, but make damn sure you make it about your need to know. I don’t want you making it look like I’m whining about it, got it? The last thing I need is for her neurotic roommate to think I give a shit.”
“Yeah, yeah. I get it. I’ll tailor my approach carefully.”
“And for the record? I don’t want to hear shit from Drake or Alex about it. This isn’t public knowledge.”
Marcus shot Weston a glare, “Do you think I’ve got shit for brains here, dude? This is something I need to take up with my girl for my own peace of mind. Period.”
Weston smirked, “Hope you’re not disappointed in what you find out. It’ll be a cold day in hell before I let a chick in my head.”
“Oh, speaking of head,” Marcus replied, pulling on his varsity jacket, “Leanne stopped by before you got back from practice. Said she’d see you after the game with Cornell. Her sorority is hosting the after party. Did you hook back up with her?”
Weston shrugged as he turned to go upstairs, “Haven’t decided. She’s just always extending an open invitation. Tell Eva I said ‘hey.’”
Chapter 40
I’ve been pulling shifts for the other servers at Big Daddy’s over the holiday break. Since I’ve changed my game plan for the rest of my senior year, I’ve given up the tutoring gig at Hardwick. Basically, that’s because I’ve trashed my senior thesis, along with my desire to continue my major at UC Berkley.
I’ve been keeping in touch with my father, and he understands why I’m not coming home for Christmas. He sent a letter with a check. Once again, he felt the need to apologize to me. He was totally supportive when I mentioned to him on the phone that I started counseling.
I’ve had two counseling sessions with Dr. Barbara Dunmire. She’s a PhD from Yale, but I like her anyway. She’s particularly astute with female self-esteem issues as a result of obstacles in the development of the secure attachment bond. We’re working through things one at a time. I feel better just knowing that I’ve taken the initial step in taking control of my past and resolving issues. Once I’ve come to terms with all of it, one step at a time, I’ll be better equipped to plan my future career wise.
But it’s not just that which needs mending and direction. It’s my emotional and social wellbeing too. I realize that apologies are owed and I’ve every intention of handling them soon. It’s part of the process.
Starting with Weston Matthews.
I just got finished with my shower and dressed for bed when Eva comes home. I’m sitting on my bed, spraying detangler onto my wet locks when she knocks on my bedroom door.
I’m hoping like hell she doesn’t want to put up our fake Christmas tree yet tonight. I’m not feeling particularly festive these days.
“It’s open,” I call out, trying to untangle a particularly stubborn snarl in my long brown hair.
The minute I see her face I know something is wrong; terribly wrong. God, I hope she and Marcus haven’t gotten into it over something.
“Hey, what’s up?” I ask. “Are you okay, babe?”
“No,” she snaps, “I’m far from being fucking okay. I can’t decide whether I’m more angry or more hurt right now!”
I stop what I’m doing and move myself over to the end of my bed. “Oh God---is it Marcus? Why don’t you sit down…”
She cut me off immediately, “No! It’s you. I don’t even know what to think about the shit I heard today.”
&nbs
p; Oh. Fuck.
I swallow nervously and watch as her brown eyes flash a darker shade of chocolate. “What are you talking about?” I ask, even though I’m pretty damn sure I know why she’s furious.
“I think you know what I’m talking about. You know, at first when Marcus asked me if I knew about your…your…hell---I don’t even know what I should call what you did---I thought he was off the fucking wall. The longer he talked, the more I knew that everything he was telling me wasn’t a rumor or a joke. I’m supposed to be your best friend, Peyton. This is…this is like I don’t even fucking know you!”
I leap up from my bed and go to stand next to her. I want to hug her and ask her to please calm down, so at least I can try to explain…but she isn’t giving me that opportunity, because now that she’s caught her breath, she’s not close to being finished with me.
“Don’t even try to explain this mess to me, because there’s no way in hell there’s any logical explanation for the games you’ve played and the way you’ve fucked with everyone’s minds here, Peyton!”
“Stop!” I finally yell back. “Look, I get that you’re pissed and hurt, Eva. And I swear to God I don’t blame you, but before you write me off as a friend, will you just please give me a chance to explain?”
She takes a calming breath, and shakes her head. “Not tonight. I’m just that pissed right now,” she says, turning her back to me. “And it’s not just what you’ve done. It’s the fact that my own boyfriend had to ask me whether I knew about it. I’m just so fucking disappointed in the both of you.”
The last part of her sentence comes out like a plaintive wail, and I know that she’s starting to cry, something she almost never does. She’s stronger than I am, and for her to be this distraught, I know that she’s feeling more than just disappointment.
“I’m sorry, Eva!” I call out loudly after she’s stomped out of my room. “I really, really am,” I finish softly as I hear the door to her room slam shut.