Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
—Dylan Thomas
I stand there for a lost amount of time, transfixed by this night message. This missive. It seems, in the pitch black, in this lonely patch of grass, that this was somehow meant for me. Just me. A turning to this unmapped place for no reason. I look around me. Of course, there’s no one. Just me and the secret statue. Is it here at all?
I stay here for a spell, stare at the sky. Nope. No answer there.
Just these words and this moment.
I take a few steps backward, still in cahoots with the statue, before stepping out back onto the path. This path winds its way into town, away from groves of quiet contemplation and toward raucous obliteration. Toward forgetting.
In town, there’s a row of bars—the Night Owl, Footsies, the Gold Room, the Lamplighter, the Short Stop—the kind of bars with red benches, lots of locals, regulars, and college kids mixed in. Sometimes even a drunken brawl. Townies vs college kids. The townies usually win.
Ten blocks farther, solemn and staid, a converted Tudor estate, a hotel on the hill, hidden by the foliage, little dark lanterns through the leaves.
Before I know it, I’m on that path. On that path, past the bars. Definitely not going into any of those bars. Last thing I want is to see someone from school. Or, worse, to see one of my nonboyfriends with some girl. That would be depressing. Or, at least, awkward.
No, the hidden hotel it is.
This place is called the Tillington.
Established in 1863.
I guess it’s called the Tillington because that was the original family, the original estate. Who knows where they are now, but they sure left behind a nice place.
It’s kind of an old standby for me. The place is Tudor, so everything is kind of dark and brown inside. There’s candles everywhere, so you could really spook out here. There’s a formal white-tablecloth dining room avec fireplace and dark wood rafters above. There’s a casual bistro for sandwiches. And an atrium brunch room with giant windows and cherry blossoms all around. Very romantic. But right now all of those places are closed. Nope. The only thing open is that hovel of a bar, smelling of one hundred and fifty years of scotch. The walls in here are dark oak and glen plaid. Because, preppy.
There’s a tradition at Bryn Mawr of handing down your old or lost or fake driver’s license, and I have a confession to make. I am benefiting from that tradition. The bartender tonight is new and there’s something sort of lumbering about him. He’s not unattractive. You get the feeling he might own a cat. Sensitive.
At first, it’s just the two of us making small talk. But then an unusual kind of guy for a place like this comes swaggering in. He’s squat and wearing a suit, tie loosened and face red. He definitely looks like he’s had enough to drink already.
“Whiskey. Neat.”
The bartender nods, pours him a drink. There’s a heaviness to the room now. The bartender steps out, to do whatever bartenders do, maybe call his cat sitter.
The ruddy-faced guy turns to me.
“Whassa pretty gal like you doing all alone?”
This is the kind of person I spend my life avoiding. Red-faced and gin-blossomed. Entitled.
I shrug. This means, Stop talking.
“You got a boyfriend?”
Ugh. I barely shake my head no. Please stop talking. Please come back, bartender.
“Ya want one?”
He smiles sloppy, leaning in.
Oh God.
“Look, um, I’m really not interested . . .”
He should’ve known that from all the signals I was giving, but nooooo, he had to make me say it.
And now he’s mad.
“Fine. Like I was interested anyway. You’re not even that hot, sugar-tits.”
Well, this is relaxing. The idea here was that I was going to go to a quiet place and be alone/not alone, but now I get to be hit on and then insulted by a drunk lobster. Ain’t being a girl just grand?
I’m not just annoyed now; I’m mad. I’m actually mad for every girl in every public space that has to put up with this hit-on/insult combo. It’s unbearable because you can’t win, you don’t want it, you don’t ask for it, but it happens every time. Not just in a bar. Walking down the street. And it happens to all of us.
I turn to the man.
“My tits aren’t made of sugar.”
I down my drink.
“You’re thinking of my chocha.”
I gesture pantsward. And then I walk by this douchebag and out the door, and there is nothing more satisfying in the whole world.
Yes, I know that was kind of extreme, but fuck that guy.
I’m halfway out the posh but understated lobby of the Tillington Hotel when I see him.
The suit.
Not the drunk suit. The skinny suit. From the interview. Sitting down.
What was his name?
Madden.
Fine. I am revved up, and it’s obvious that fate has put him in my path for a reason.
It’s time for some clarity.
8
Hey! Nice fake interview, psycho.”
He smiles at that. I should just walk past him and call the police, but somehow my feet have another idea.
“I knew that might seem strange.”
“Strange? Oh, no. No, it’s totally fine. I go to fake military-industrial-complex interviews every day.”
“Touché.”
His laptop sits on the table. He turns it toward me and there’s video there, on pause. He presses play.
“This is my favorite part.” He smiles, looking at the screen.
It takes me a second to realize that’s a surveillance video of a girl, in a fight, in a restaurant waiting area.
And that girl is me.
“What the—”
“This part’s not bad either.”
He points at the screen as I flip Hot Dog over my shoulder.
I can’t help but watch as the video plays out. All the way to the end, to the part when I walk out the front door of the Applebee’s.
“Nice line, by the way.”
“Excuse me?”
“About George Washington. Nice touch.”
I look at him. Am I dreaming this? I mean, seriously, WTF? I’m starting to feel seriously unsafe.
“Okay, I’m calling the police now.”
“Good luck.”
There’s something about this guy, a kind of calm, easy confidence that doesn’t point to itself but nevertheless somehow prevails.
Maybe it’s a trick, but for some reason I’m not scared of him. By all accounts, I should be. Considering he’s stalking me in a quite specific way.
“Right. So, I’m leaving. Nice to see you again, weird stalking person. I have no doubt the next sound you hear will be the opening line of your Miranda rights.”
Again, he smiles.
“Don’t you want to know how I got this?”
Well, he’s got me there. Because I definitely do want to know that.
Along with a bunch of other things.
“Maybe.”
“Well, for your information, this was up on YouTube. One hundred hits before it was brought to my attention and I took it down. You’re welcome.”
“Brought to your attention?”
“Unless, of course, you were hoping to become a viral sensation, which I think might have been quite possible. Sorry if I thwarted your dreams.”
“Okay, number one: What are you talking about? And number two . . . What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about a girl who speaks five languages, is a black belt in jujitsu, has a rather high IQ—”
“It’s Eskrima. And, wait, how do you know my IQ? I certainly didn’t put that in my résumé.”
He grins like some kind of Brooks Brothers–styled Cheshire cat.
“This is a giant bluff. You’re making it all up.”
“One fifty-three.”
“What?”
“Your IQ score was one fifty-three. You took the test when you were four. In Berkeley. In two thousand one. Before September eleventh, of course.”
“Okay, so this is getting weird, and I am officially going.”
I walk out the front doors of the Tillington and make a quick break to the right. I should’ve known this guy was a sociopath. He probably has a basement full of human organs in mason jars. Somewhere in the background, lots of hooks and pulleys. What was I thinking, engaging him like that?
I’m halfway to campus when I look back. No one there. Either I lost him or he didn’t bother. Not sure why.
I’m still paranoid walking all the way across the green, the moon shining through the leaves, a canopy above. Not until I lock the dorm door behind me do I let myself breathe a sigh of relief.
It’s a long hall and then a left to my room. And that would be peaceful and quiet except I turn the corner and he jumps out at me.
“Boo!”
I jump five miles into the air.
It’s not the sociopath, thank God.
It’s bachelor number one. Aaron.
“Good evening, fine lass. I am here to solve the mystery of the missing freshman, aka you.”
“Jesus, you scared me. Don’t do that. I think I might have just died for two seconds.”
“These are the consequences of unanswered texts. And now, to your room!”
It’s hard not to like Aaron. He definitely rolled an eighteen in charisma. Yes, that’s a Dungeons & Dragons reference. Don’t judge me.
Before I know it, Aaron is making out with me up against the wall. And that’s okay. In fact, that was what I wanted.
A boy. A distraction.
And still, I can’t stop thinking about that stupid sociopath.
9
This is what it looks like. My dream. I’m out in the middle of a wide, black ocean. In a tiny little boat, the sky is twinkling a million stars and everything is kind of glimmering.
I look out over miles and miles of gentle sea, almost like a pane of black glass, spread out. Not a cloud in the sky. But the air is cold. There’s a chill, and I can see my breath. My lips are purple. I am in myself and out of myself. First, I am me, then I am looking at me, and back again.
I squint out over the horizon and see land. Land! I catch my breath. I grab the oars and try to steer toward the land. But there’s no reason to. The wind is behind me, drifting me there slowly, gently.
As I get closer to the land I realize it’s not land at all, but an archipelago of little islands, hundreds of them, the sea drifting among them.
Then. I get even closer and realize that is not a collection of little islands. That is a collection of bodies. Thousands of them. A kind of floating graveyard.
And now my tiny wooden boat is going through them, making a river of space through them, and I try not to look.
They are horrible. Purple faces, open eyes, staring up at me. Their mouths agape.
And I want to scream or cry out or do something, but there’s nothing I can do. No sound is coming out. I’m silenced.
And then a body drifts into the side of the boat and I see who it is.
My father.
Drifting in the sea of bodies past me, and I go to try to catch him or do something but he drifts on, drifts past, away into the tide of lost souls. And then she drifts by, too.
My mother.
Her eyes staring up at me. Her long beige hair like seaweed flowing out from around her head.
And that is the moment I wake up with a gasp. I wake up, my whole body covered in sweat, shivering and choking down the air.
For a minute I feel like this bed is a raft, like I’m still in the dream.
But the walls come back in and the floor and my phone on the bedside table.
Three a.m.
The witching hour.
Three a.m. is the best time to hold whoever is in your bed like you’re holding on to a life raft.
Three a.m. is why you call that person in the first place.
10
Four days later I get a note from the dean. I’m supposed to meet him in Royce Hall on Tuesday. That’s the administration building. I had my admissions interview there, but that’s usually the only time any student sets foot in there.
I can’t help but wonder what it’s all about. Is there something wrong? Did I do something wrong? My imagination teams up with my neurosis to think of all the myriad ways I could be in trouble. So far the only thing I can think of is that fake ID. It can’t have to do with my grades or my curriculum. No one is as anal as me when it comes to making sure everything is by the book, all Ts crossed, all Is dotted.
But there it is, the nonspecific note to meet the dean.
“Maybe they want to award you the Weirdest Girl at Bryn Mawr prize.”
That’s Teddy. Who happens to be lying in his bed in his underwear. I know because I’m lying beside him. In my underwear.
“Thank you. That is very flattering.”
“Maybe they want to offer you some kind of grant or something. I mean, aren’t you, like, little miss four-point-oh or whatever?”
He leans in to kiss my neck. “Maybe like a sexy grant. Because you’re so sexy. Like a grant to have sex with me.”
“Hmm. That sounds like a prestigious award.”
“Oh, it is. Highly prized. The only thing higher is the Girlfriend Grant. You should try to go for that. The only requisite is meeting the parents.”
I look at him. He raises an eyebrow.
Teddy wants me to be his girlfriend. He wants this because he is a Nice Boy from California with a mother who raised him well. He’s healthy and able to make normal connections with other human beings.
Fascinating, isn’t it?
“I would be honored to be offered that grant, but I’m unsure if I’d be able to meet the requirements.”
He rolls his eyes and gets up to close the window.
“Getting kind of cold in here.”
I think that meant a lot of things at once. When he comes back he’s WAY on the other side of the bed. No more human contact.
Okay, then. The solace of the screen! Back to binge-watching Borgen. It’s a Danish series we both somehow got addicted to. I don’t know how because the description sounds incredibly boring and the show moves at a rate that a snail could outpace. But boy, are we hooked.
It’s three hours later when I emerge from his dorm, well versed in the ins and outs of Danish parliamentary politics.
I’m halfway across the green when Patrice appears. A scarf casually yet perfectly draped around his shoulders and neck, of course. I think he was born in that scarf. He looks very serious. Somber.
“Patrice?”
He raises his hand in listless greeting.
“Why are you here? Are you okay?”
“Yes. Um, is it okay? I have something to tell you.”
“Um. Sure. What is it?”
“I am breaking up with you.”
“Wait! What? Why didn’t you tell me?!”
H
e looks confused.
“I am telling you now.”
“But . . . why?”
“Because you are too American.”
“Are you serious? I speak five languages! I detest chain restaurants. I—”
“You are more American than you think.”
“Oh, really? How so?”
“Everything is disposable to you. There is no heart. Nothing. Just accomplishments. En fait, you are neurotic about those accomplishments. It’s all you think about. You cannot live in the moment. You won’t let yourself. You are too busy thinking about the future. Trying to control it. But, you see, there is no control. There is nothing. There is no past. There is no future. There is only now.”
Wow. I guess he’s been thinking about this for a while. This little speech is . . . really something.
“Okay . . . anything else?”
“I have met someone. She is French.”
“Oh.”
“I am sorry.”
“Does she speak five languages?”
“No.”
“How many languages does she speak?”
“French. And a little bit of English.”
“Ha!”
“You see? That is the most infantile response I can imagine. You really are a true American.”
“You know what? Fine. Yankee Doodle. Grand Old Flag. Coca Cola, whatevs. Give me Starbucks or give me death! You’re right. I’m crazy for all of it. Whereas you are just crazy. Thanks for the heads-up or whatever.”
He nods and walks off.
“You should really teach her to speak English!” I yell across the green. “It’s the language of commerce! And science! And petrodollars! You realize how important petrodollars are, don’t you? They’re why we toppled Saddam and Gaddafi! And that’s just for starters!”
He rolls his eyes and walks off.
Well, fine. Fine! If he wants to go be French with some French girl, that’s fine with me. They can eat baguettes and cook snails and despise Americans together.
I shouldn’t care. There’s no reason to care. He wasn’t even my boyfriend.
“It’s just your ego, Paige,” I tell myself. “That’s all. This is ego.”
Someone walks by while I’m talking to myself.
I wave halfheartedly. “Hi there. Just talking to myself.”
They don’t acknowledge me.
Liberty Page 4