Forks, Knives, and Spoons

  The night before returning to campus, Amy told Veronica about her day in Westchester County visiting Matt and his family in Tuckahoe.

  “Matt’s mom has a beautiful collection of Santa figurines. She told me all about the history of Saint Nicholas, his secret gift giving, and how he represents the spirit of good cheer at Christmas.”

  “So should Andrew be worried about Matt?” Veronica chided.

  “Seriously, V? You know he’s just a friend, cut it out. Anyway, Mrs. Saxon is the sweetest lady. She makes you feel welcome and loved just being near her, sort of like Santa Claus…”

  When she hung up the phone a while later, her father entered the room smiling. “How can you two have anything else to talk about? Didn’t you and Amy talk last night for an hour? And the day before that?”

  “An hour a day is still at least twelve hours less than we’re together every day at school.” She kissed her dad on the cheek and headed upstairs to pack.

  In the hallway, she reached high on a shelf for the antique Santa Claus that she used to play with at Christmas as a child. She and her brother would hide it for each other to find until their mother scolded them, taking it away because it was fragile. There’s so much in life that is fragile, she thought, but it only means you should love it more, hold it closer, instead of keeping it at a distance worried that it will break your heart.

  THE SIGMA CHI WINTER formal was an antidote to the January drabness. “Amy! Amy!” Jenny waved from the back of the idling school bus waiting to take them to the Finger Lakes Country Club. Her blond hair contrasted with her ink-black dress, which dipped so low in front that her chest risked full exposure. Andrew walked down the aisle behind Amy, holding her hand, her taffeta strapless dress shimmering between black and violet in the dusk lighting. He leaned forward and whispered, “Go ahead, looks like there’s a seat in front of them.” He squeezed her fingers in a private communication.

  “Amy, this is Keith. Andrew, of course you two know each other.”

  Leaning over the back of the green plastic seat, Amy quietly spoke to Jenny as the guys pounded fists and fell into conversation. Back on campus between Thanksgiving and Christmas breaks, the girls had fallen back into their separate schedules. The thread that bound them over one long weekend was stretching despite an unspoken connection. The temporary closeness had faded with the leaves.

  “So, Keith, huh? What about the fireman? Thought things were hot and fiery with him,” Amy joked. Jenny had started dating one of the firemen who had escorted her out of the latest fire alarm, alone, draping a reflective slicker over her bare shoulders.

  “Smoldering! He stokes my embers. He’s got a great hose.” Jenny cracked up delivering the string of punch lines. “Stevie’s smoking hot, but no biggie, he totally gets that Keith and I are just going as friends.” She ducked behind the high back of the seat and took a gulp from a silver flask, then slipped it back into the pocket of Keith’s sports jacket. “Besides, it’s not like we’re exclusive or anything.”

  At the country club, Andrew helped Amy check her wrap and left her to join the mass of bodies clumped in front of the bar. She glided closer to a girl in red, also standing alone. Her hair was crimped high, her bangs curled under across her pale forehead. Her ruby dress reflected red on her face, giving her a splotchy appearance.

  “Hi, I’m Amy.”

  “I’m Stacy,” the girl’s red lips said. “Who’s your date?”

  “My boyfriend, Andrew Gabel.” Amy glanced toward the bar, searching to point him out to Stacy. She saw his profile, his face creased with the smile she loved. A fraternity brother stepped toward the bar, and in the snip of time before someone filled the space, Amy saw Bree O’Connell. Andrew’s high school girlfriend twinkled back at him in a jewel-toned dress that highlighted her everything. She looked beautiful, as always. In the months since meeting her, Bree was friendly and Amy liked her, but she often felt a small stab of envy. Their history made Amy feel like she was on the outside of something when Bree was around.

  “Which one is he?” Stacy spoke, reminding Amy that she was in a conversation.

  “Oh, right. Over there, the cute guy in the green tie.” Amy hadn’t thought to tell Andrew the color of her dress so they could coordinate like most of the other couples at the formal. His tie would’ve looked better with Bree’s emerald gown than it did with her midnight-purple dress.

  “You mean the guy talking to that knockout in green?” Stacy didn’t mince her words, and they poked right into Amy’s weakness.

  “Um, yeah, that’s his, um, friend from home.”

  “You’d better hope they stay just friends, he’s pretty hot himself.”

  “Who are you here with?” Amy asked through a forced grin, George Michael’s “Faith” bopping in the background.

  Stacy’s lips pursed, ready to speak, then instead she pointed behind Amy. “Oh, here he comes now.”

  Amy turned and was face-to-face with Paul.

  Fear pumped through her chest. There were no thoughts, only feelings coursing through her. She ran. She ran out of the banquet room, down a corridor to the country club’s lobby, and she burst outside into the frigid night. Panting, she paced right, left. She looked behind her.

  Uncertain of herself, her body moved without direction and without mental instructions until she settled on a stone bench nestled among leafless brown plants. Her blood was thumping loudly in her ears; she was sure she could see her heart beating through her bones and skin. Trembling from the inside, she was barely aware of the icy granite beneath her.

  She gripped the stone, a hand on either side, buttressing herself against invading images. She was sure she smelled grape candy and sweat in the frosty night air. She exhaled deliberately, slowing her breath; a puff of vapor obscured her vision and vanished. Why hadn’t she expected to see him at his own formal? Thoughts of that night penetrated her sleep and pierced her security, yet, in preparing for the evening, he hadn’t even crept into her mind. She leaned her head onto her palms and pressed hard into the bones above her eyes. Her elbows dug into her thighs but she pushed harder.

  Without knowing how much time had passed, she emptied her lungs as if snuffing out a small flame. Her skin was pink and textured from the cold, her nipples stiff inside her bra. She smelled distant smoke in the late January air.

  Standing, she swept her hands down the back of her dress then went to find Andrew. As she walked past the tastefully upholstered couches of the entryway, she felt on edge, like a spy, hunting for one man while hiding from another. Every sense was heightened, her breath felt thick, and she tasted bitterness at the back of her tongue. She swallowed and walked toward the ballroom.

  “Amy! There you are! Thank God!” Andrew jogged toward her and brought her body into his embrace. “You’re freezing. What’s going on, Aim?” He hung his body-warmed jacket over her small shoulders.

  Bree rounded the corner, joining them in the hall. “Oh, you found her,” she said with genuine relief. “Are you okay, Amy?”

  Amy nodded then shook her head, still unable to speak.

  “Need anything?” Bree asked Andrew, lightly resting her hand on his arm. He shook his head without releasing Amy, and Bree reentered the darkened party room where music thrummed with vigor.

  Andrew led Amy away from the ballroom into an unoccupied event room. The only light seeped in through the edges of the door. He pulled two chairs from a stack in the corner and sat her down across from him, knee to knee, holding her icy hands in his.

  “What’s up, Aim? Tell me.” His voice was like baby powder on a hot summer day.

  “Paul.” It was the first word she’d spoken since meeting Stacy.

  “Oh, shit!” He hammered the air with a fist. “Shit, Aim, I’m so sorry I left you alone. I didn’t see him getting on the buses, I didn’t think . . .”

  She shook her head and pressed her palm onto his chest. “It’s not your fault . . .”

  Whispered giggles then a shush came from the dar
kness. Even with their eyes adjusted to the dimness, they couldn’t see anyone but knew they had interrupted. Andrew took her hand to lead her out. The clank of the door lever echoed and a channel of light spotlighted Jenny and Keith, who toppled into the room, already locked at the mouth.

  The chords of Dire Straits pulsed as Amy and Andrew returned to the ballroom to dance away her angst. Amy held on to his arm. “Stay with me, please.”

  “I won’t leave you. I promise.”

  RED HEARTS DOTTED THE windows of the school store, peppered the walls in the dining halls, and dangled from the ceiling in the dorm lobby. Amy left the outdoor darkness for the artificial brightness and went directly to her mailbox. She turned the key and nearly shouted aloud when she saw the red and pink envelopes. A single slip of paper fell loose from the pile and fluttered to the floor. The photocopied poem with her name handwritten on a blank line read:

  A.M.Y. Amy York—Brewster 808

  Roses are red,

  Violets are blue,

  Happy Valentine’s Day!

  From, Can you guess who?

  Please see the mailroom for a flower from your secret admirer.

  AMY ROUNDED THE CORNER and handed the note to the student working in the glassed-in booth.

  “Oh! You’re so lucky! I’ve wanted one of these for two years now,” she said, looking at the Secret Admirer Ticket and disappearing into a side office. She returned with a single red rose wrapped in cellophane and tied neatly with a red bow.

  “Can I interview you about balancing work and school for the D.O.?”

  “Sure, any time, stop by. Here you go. Happy Valentine’s Day!” Then Amy heard the girl say quietly to herself, “She’s so lucky.”

  Amy grinned; she felt lucky. Andrew was so thoughtful. How happy she was that he was hers. She was proud at how involved he was on campus; besides being an honors student and president of his pledge class, he served on the student government, led an Interfraternity Council committee, and managed an intramural football league. She couldn’t wait to see what he had planned for their first Valentine’s Day, and she staccato-pressed 8 on the elevator button, willing it to move faster. She clutched her mail with that familiar anticipation: there were cards she couldn’t wait to open.

  There was a detail she wanted to return to, and she reread the note attached to the rose. Her initials were there before her name: A.M.Y. As a kid, she had loved that her mother’s name, Melissa, was her middle name and that her initials spelled her name. She had created a special logo-like way to sign it, with the loop of the Y encircling the A and the M. She had an AMY necklace and an incorrectly monogrammed sweater, because if you monogrammed the right way, the Y ended up in the middle. Amy proudly told anyone who would listen, and any new acquaintance, that her initials spelled her name. She signed her class papers in all capitals, pleased that she could be known in her small Newtown school by a single name. Then she turned thirteen and it felt childish, and she quietly became Amy with only the A capitalized.

  No one at college knew, so how was this on the note? Analyzing the facts like a reporter, she supposed someone could figure it out from a class schedule or her student ID, which listed her middle initial. But no one really sees those and no one had pointed it out to her like everyone did once they figured it out.

  As the elevator doors parted, Amy saw Andrew sitting with his feet on the Formica coffee table. Beside his heels was a patch of glittery neon purple where Jenny had spilled nail polish and smeared it trying to clean up. Andrew turned toward the sound of the elevator and she bounded to him, surprised he was there. He sat up, put his feet on the floor. His smile didn’t reach his eyes and he patted the couch to his right. Silently, Amy sunk into the maroon cushion, allowing her knee to fall into his.

  Amy eased words into the quiet. “Thanks for the flower.”

  His shoulders and eyebrows rose in unison. “But it’s not—”

  “It’s not from you?”

  “Geez, Aim, shoot, no. I didn’t think, I mean, I couldn’t . . .” He rubbed his forehead. “I forgot.”

  Amy didn’t understand. He forgot to order a flower? The student government fundraiser tables had been set up in the dining halls and student union buildings for weeks, and he was on the student government. How could he possibly forget?

  “I’m sorry, Aim, I forgot about Valentine’s Day being today. I have this huge project due and I’m really behind on it. That’s why I came over here, to tell you in person.”

  Amy couldn’t help her chin dipping to the hollow in her chest. She blinked quickly as she adjusted her mind to the news. Andrew tucked his thumb beneath her jaw, tilting her face toward his. Now that he’d told her, he went on with urgency to explain. “I don’t know how I messed it up. I wanted to take you out for a special dinner—I am going to take you out to a special dinner. We’ll go out this weekend, okay? I promise.”

  She nodded. “It’s fine, Drew, I’ve got a few pieces to work on for the paper and I’m pitching a story to the Syracuse Post-Standard—I’ll work on that.” Then she laughed a little too loudly and forced a lighthearted tone. “It’s a bit ironic, really, that I finally have a boyfriend on Valentine’s Day and I’ll be home alone.”

  “It’s just a day, we’ll go out Saturday,” he said with a hint of dismissiveness. “I need to finish this project for my consumer behaviors class. It’s taking longer than Bree and I expected. We’re going to have to pull an all-nighter to get it done.”

  Amy stared at him; her ears prickled and that ugly gnaw of jealousy punched her gut. He was spending Valentine’s Day with Bree, not with her? Disappointment pressed down on her and twisted inside until she felt dizzy. She would have been fine, until she learned about Bree. He looked sincere and Amy was sure he felt sorry, but she fought to make her heart understand. His words poured into the space between them, each one bouncing off Amy’s heart, barely being absorbed.

  Don’t cry, she told herself as a tear fell onto the cards in her lap, darkening a spot of red.

  “Oh, Aim, I’m so sorry. I promise I’ll make it up to you.” Andrew pulled her to him, the clear wrapping of the rose crinkling between them.

  “It’s fine. It’s just a day,” she lied.

  “I love you,” he told her, speaking the syllables right into her ear, giving them a direct route to her heart. The words filled her veins, her organs, her bones. She nodded into the crook of Andrew’s neck and held those words tightly. It was the first time he’d said them.

  AMY RETURNED TO HER room to find Veronica dressed in classically tailored black velvet pants, a red satin top, and a black cashmere wrap draped around her shoulders. She dumped her stuff onto her side of the room and plopped onto Veronica’s bed, telling her about the unexpected change of plans. With supportive nodding and definitive words of agreement, Veronica affirmed Amy’s emotions like only a girlfriend could. Soothed, Amy diverted the conversation as she changed into pajamas.

  “Did you see Cupid run across campus today?”

  “No, I missed him, but I heard a Delta Tau Delta brother does it every year. Oh! I heard it from you. I read your interview with him in today’s paper. Great story.”

  “Thanks. It was hilarious seeing this guy dressed in boxers with hearts, a DTD baseball shirt, and sneakers with red socks running after all the girls. I think he kissed almost every girl on the quad.”

  “He got you, too? I wonder what Cupid’s kiss means.”

  “Not much, since I’m home alone on the day that’s meant for sweethearts.”

  Veronica sprayed her perfume, ready for her date. Since her breakup with Eric, Veronica was enjoying the freedom of not being in a relationship, and when she was invited to the Valentine’s semiformal by a classmate, she accepted. Amy was happy for her friend having a Valentine’s Day date, but surprised that suddenly she didn’t.

  Veronica hugged her friend and headed out, her floral scent clinging to Amy’s pajamas. She wore the set Aunt Joanie had sent her last Valentine’s Day. The f
itted camisole dappled with hearts and cozy flannel bottoms were unintentionally perfect for the overheated dorms. For as long as she could remember, on Valentine’s Day, her dad would set the dining room table with a tablecloth, linen napkins, and red and white candles, and he would do his best to prepare a special dinner for the two of them, from appetizers to desserts. Her place always had a single package tied up in ribbon.

  “Love is in the details,” Thomas York would say.

  Amy sat on her bed, twirling her poker-straight hair. Love is in the details. She remembered her cards and found the fan of mail on the floor, along with her bag and coat. Leaning to gather them, she noticed the stem of the rose beneath the pile. The rose she’d been so giddy over, forgotten in her disappointment. Amy held it to her nose, carefully untied the bow, and wondered whom it was from; she had been so certain it was from Andrew. Searching for something that would work as a vase, her gaze landed on the tall glass etched with SIGMA CHI WINTER FORMAL 1989. That didn’t feel right to use, since the rose wasn’t from Andrew, so instead, she tucked it into her SU mug sitting on her desk with an inch of stale water at the bottom.

  Spreading out the envelopes on her bed, she felt like a third grader examining the valentines from her classmates. Which should she open first? She picked the one with her dad’s handwriting and smiled: of course he had sent something. A check floated to the floor as she pulled the card out. “Thanks, Dad,” she said aloud, grateful for some extra money.

  There were cards, right on time, from her aunt and her best friend from home. Last, she opened the one without a return address. The envelope was a perky pink and the writing familiar. She saw his neat handwriting, artistic almost, perfectly angled but not severe. Amy had admired it when he jotted notes for her, listing some series of computer strokes she needed to remember. Her notebook had his steady print sprinkled throughout. She smiled and carefully tucked her thumb under the corner of the sealed flap. She unstuck the triangle and wiggled out the Hallmark card. She felt a tug at her heart. Was she allowed to feel so attached to a friend if that friend was a male? Was she feeling warmer toward him because Andrew had left her alone on Valentine’s Day?