Forks, Knives, and Spoons

by Leah DeCesare

  “Why are you smiling?” Andrew asked, taking her hand and following the hostess to their table.

  “I’m happy.”

  Everything was perfect. Amy watched the candle reflect in Andrew’s eyes, and she savored the feeling of his hand on hers. She leaned across the narrow table and he met her in the center with a kiss that tingled her heart and between her legs. Yes, she was happy.

  Andrew fished in the pocket of his navy blazer and presented a cube-shaped box to Amy, a card in a red envelope beneath it. Her chest fluttered and she gingerly opened the envelope, her eyes searching past the printed sentiments to his words.

  Dear Amy—

  I love you. I love us. I hope you accept my way of asking you to Be Mine. Happy Valentine’s Day!

  Love,

  Andrew

  Tears welled in her eyes and she whispered, “I love you.”

  Carefully peeling the tape off the thick wrapping paper, Amy unwrapped the box, lifted the lid, and peered beneath it. Stuck into a cushion was a pin with the Sigma Chi cross symbol. The Greek letters were centered in the cross and the pin was edged in tiny pearls. Amy gasped and a youthful squeal escaped her.

  “Pinned for Valentine’s Day! Drew, it’s the best gift!”

  As a show of commitment, a fraternity brother could give his girlfriend a lavaliere or, more rarely, a brother would take it to the next level and give her a pin—and then suffer the wrath of his brothers. Earlier in the year, after a Sig Ep brother lavaliered one of Amy’s Kappa sisters, the poor guy was dunked naked into the icy autumn water of the Clinton Square fountain in downtown Syracuse. What was it with college boys and nudity? As Andrew leaned across the table and pinned his letters on her, she wondered what humiliation it would trigger for him.

  For the girls, being pinned or lavaliered resulted in a different kind of event. Without sharing who it was for, one sister would arrange a candle-lighting ceremony, and with everyone singing softly in a circle, a candle was passed. The white candle circled once for friendship and sisterhood, the second time around was for a lavaliere, a third time around meant a pinning, and if the candle looped a fourth time, someone was engaged. When the flame reached the girl being honored, she would reveal herself by blowing out the candle, which filled the dim room with shrieks and a swarm of hugs.

  Andrew had given Amy a lavaliere for her birthday junior year, and he endured the embarrassment of being delivered, stripped and bound with duct tape, to the front porch of their sorority house after the candle lighting. Veronica had organized the ceremony and sat beside Amy, breathless, as the candle circled the group. After the reveling and excitement had simmered, the doorbell rang persistently until the sisters still lingering opened the door and screeched for Amy to come. Andrew lay trembling, curled on his side on the slate steps, frosty in a Syracuse November, his eyes seeking the one he suffered for. Amy gathered a blanket to wrap him and scissors to unwrap him, yanking at delicate skin and hairs as she went. Andrew had been a sport, and “I love you” were his first words as Amy unstuck the silver tape from his mouth. That night, Veronica had said approvingly to Amy, “Andrew really showed his commitment tonight. He’s got to love you to go through that!”

  Amy would get to have another candle lighting. It was a dream Valentine’s night, just like a movie scene. She stood, held Andrew’s face in her hands, and kissed him. “I love you.” She felt his hands on her hips and a tap on her shoulder.

  Jenny stood grinning at them. “Oh my gosh! I can’t believe I’m seeing you two here!” She gushed a little too loudly for the serene restaurant.

  Before Amy could ask, Jenny continued. “Isn’t this just the best place? This is my second time here with Frank.”

  She tipped her head and darted her eyes to her right in an action meant to be subtle but bubbled out of her in full Jenny grandness. Andrew and Amy looked to the corner, where an older man, perhaps in his late forties, sat alone leaning back and peering at the menu an arm’s length away. He adjusted his glasses with his other hand and squinted.

  “Is that your father?” Shocked at her date’s age, Andrew blurted the question with a hush in his voice.

  Amy pinched him and Jenny winced just a bit before gleefully jumping to share the tale: “I needed some help with a scene, so I was waiting outside in the hall for office hours—”

  “He’s your professor?” Amy whisper-shouted, surprised that she could still be surprised by Jenny’s male selections.

  Seeming pleased, Jenny continued: “So we were in his office and Professor Howard—I mean Frank—told me how impressed he was with my work. I wanted his advice on how to portray my character’s feelings of shame in my monologue. He was so helpful, he closed the door and worked on it with me for a whole afternoon.”

  Amy stole another glimpse to where the professor sat. His hair was thinning on top, but combed straight back, it pooled into a clump of longer hair at the base of his neck. His nose was prominent—huge, actually. What does Jenny see in this guy? At that moment, as if he knew eyes and attention were on him, Frank Howard looked directly toward the threesome. His mouth tugged on one side, then pulled into a full but crooked smile, exposing large teeth that crowded against one another. When he stood and walked over, his height shocked Amy; he couldn’t be more than an inch taller than she was at her petite stature. Jenny, who was a head taller than Amy, had to look down to the short and skinny professor.

  “How do you do?” Frank darted his hand out to Amy first, then Andrew, the four of them standing awkwardly among the tables and drawing stares. Frank’s voice was deep with a slight raspiness that didn’t fit the rest of him, and his posture and stance emitted a confidence that bordered on arrogance. Jenny rushed to fill the gap of silence.

  “Frank has been with the VPA program for almost twenty years.”

  VPA, or the School of Visual and Performing Arts, was the same school that Matt’s friend Laura would be in as a theater major, Amy realized; she was still one of the few female names Matt had ever shared.

  “Isn’t that amazing?” Jenny brushed her fingers across his chest and the professor pulled himself taller under her touch. His shoulders were deliberately held back so that it pushed his breastbone forward. Amy envisioned a swaggering, cocky cowboy firing a toy cap gun and pressed her lips together to keep from smirking. The professor’s stance seemed superior and dismissive, and Amy chuckled in her head at the complete juxtaposition between his actual appearance and what he was projecting. Maybe VPA was right where this spoon acting like a fork belonged. Frank Howard was a spork in the flesh.

  “We laugh about how I was a new professor the year Jenny was born,” Frank burst into a snorting, cackling laugh, and his off-center smile widened beneath his tremendous nose. Amy smiled politely, and she noticed a faint flinch from Andrew at the piercing sound of Frank’s laugh. Before the talk could continue, Andrew graciously wished them a good meal and he pulled out Amy’s seat.

  On the drive home, Amy fingered the Sigma Chi pin on her chest and shifted deeper into Andrew’s side. She was snuggled in, shivering as the borrowed car heated.

  “I just don’t get it, I mean, I know her dad left them and I can’t imagine how terrible that must feel, but I still don’t get how she can just flit between so many guys. How can that make her happy?”

  “It’s like she’s searching for something,” Andrew said.

  “Or someone.”

  IT WAS DANCE MARATHON weekend, when students would stay awake and moving for thirty hours to raise money for the Muscular Dystrophy Association. Students and local bands performed and entertained the crowd while monitors ensured that no one slept, chasing people from between bleachers or stacks of tumble mats.

  Entering Manley Field House on Friday evening, Amy, Veronica, and the Kappa Kappa Gamma Dance Marathon team stomped off the late March snow and opened their bags for inspection. Having neither Jolt Cola nor alcohol, the girls were permitted to enter the darkened gym. They wove through the milling crowd to the Sigma C
hi and Kappa meeting place as the thick bass of the Beastie Boys pulsed around them. Sigma Chi pledges scurried to help Amy and her friends with their bags and added them to the pile as Andrew twirled Amy in their first big dance move of the event.

  All around, guys were scamming on girls, who acted ditzy and flirted back, until a squealing microphone corralled the students. “We are taking on the challenge of dancing for those who cannot,” began the opening ceremonies, which droned on with emcees, Muscular Dystrophy Association representatives, and student council officers giving speech after speech. The participants undulated with anticipation and the volume increased, until a special guest hushed them. A toddler stricken with MD slowly walked onto the stage crutched by his parents. His frailty contrasted the vibrant student body. With the reason they were there clearly before them, the marathon began.

  Hours of music of all kinds stretched before them. Steel drums followed rap groups, Garth Brooks crooned after Salt-N-Pepa. The Divinyls touched themselves, R.E.M. lost their religion, and Madonna justified her love. New wave fans jostled against head-bangers, dance teams rocked it to Janet Jackson and Paula Abdul, and Sinéad O’Connor drifted into En Vogue. Finally, around three in the morning, it was Matt’s turn to perform. Amy grabbed Veronica and some sisters and made her way to the front of the stage. Matt’s acoustic versions of classic rock ballads soothed the sleepy room, and people slowly puddled to the floor. A few groups waved their arms to keep moving. Amy beamed up at Matt, solo and confident onstage, gifting the audience with his voice.

  Dawn Nichols, a Kappa from the pledge class behind hers, turned to Amy. “Oh my gosh! I totally pegged Matt as a spoon, but up on that stage it’s like he’s transformed into the coolest steak knife. His music is clutch!”

  Amy was taken aback at her assessment. She found herself slightly offended at Dawn calling him a spoon, even though she had also given him that label. It felt negative and accusatory coming from someone else.

  “What do you call that? Maybe he’s a spife or a knife-oon? Or a temporary knife? What about a masquerading spoon?” Dawn cracked herself up, doubling over as Matt crooned on, mesmerizing the room.

  Veronica shook her head, amazed at how Amy’s UCS had endured and been handed down like precious family traditions. Amy didn’t like any of Dawn’s labels for Matt and a protectiveness swelled within her. As he finished his set, she went backstage to find him.

  “That was awesome, Matt. I love hearing you sing.”

  “Thanks, Amy. Come on, I need some water.”

  The DJ tried to rally the crowd, and the organizers from the Greek Council worked to get people back on their feet. With the help of Vanilla Ice, the dancing resumed. Matt and Amy leaned in a vacant corner, talking easily.

  “What time are the Vampires playing?” Amy asked, wanting to see him perform again.

  “I think around lunchtime tomorrow, or I guess it’s today already.”

  “I can’t stay up all night like you guys do. This no-sleep thing is killing me.”

  “Midnight rehearsals work. Schoolwork, then jam time.”

  “It’s a good thing you’ve got the whole house to yourselves.”

  “Amy! There you are,” called Dawn. She was still dancing to “Goody Two Shoes,” an old Adam Ant song, as she approached them. Her face was red and her hair matted to her forehead, defying its perm. “Come on, you’ve been gone forever. Andrew’s looking for you. Hi, Matt! You did a sick job up there,” she cooed.

  Dawn yanked her arm. With a wave back to Matt, Amy dug for some energy and rejoined the dancing. In a mob within the mob, she danced with Andrew, Veronica, Dawn, a crew of Kappas and Sigma Chis, and a mingle of friends. David Bowie blended into Huey Lewis and the News, INXS gave way to Yaz, and Billy Idol mixed into Marky Mark. Taking breaks, she jotted down notes and interviewed people for the school newspaper and magazine stories before dancing again. People stumbled from drinking smuggled booze, and the crowd shouted lyrics from early ’80s favorites. As the synthetic sounds of “Electric Avenue” squawked, a girl in Dr. Martens deliberately shoved Amy, sending her stumbling. She righted herself as the girl’s group formed a force, draped in black clothes, and advanced toward Amy. Seeing the mob of pink-streaked hair, Andrew raced to her defense.

  “Back off! What do you think you’re doing?” he yelled, raising his voice above the leather-clad local band.

  “She stole my boyfriend. Saw ’em kissing in the corner.”

  “What?” Amy said as Andrew spun toward her, asking the same question.

  “I don’t know what she’s talking about, Drew.”

  His face was stern.

  “I swear; I haven’t kissed anyone but you!”

  He turned and barked at the accuser. She jingled a chain at her side and took several steps closer to Amy. Her spiky black hair poked toward Amy’s face and she smelled of alcohol and Poison perfume. Suddenly, the girl’s black-rimmed eyes widened and she sobered for a moment.

  “Oh. It’s not you. Shit.” She stormed off, her posse stomping behind her.

  “What was that about?” Andrew demanded. “Did you kiss someone? Why did she think you kissed her boyfriend?”

  “I don’t know, you heard her, she made a mistake. She’s drunk. Don’t you trust me?”

  His shoulders relaxed. “I do. I trust you, Aim, sorry. I was embarrassed and for a minute it felt like freshman year after spring break.”

  “There’s been no one since that one time, I promise. I’ve always told you the truth. You can trust me.”

  “I know. I know.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Why are you laughing?”

  “Listen.” The Violent Femmes and the Syracuse dancers sang “Kiss Off.”

  “That waste-oid can go kiss off!” Andrew pulled Amy to him and they joined the chanted counting.

  And three, three, three for my heartache.

  They were still dancing as the smell of coffee veiled the middle-school-boy odor that pervaded the field house, and the scent of soap mixed with bananas and breakfast as the locker room showers filled with sweaty dancers getting clean. There were still seventeen hours to go.

  AS THEY HIKED UP the front steps to the house already vibrating with noise, they noted the symmetry. Their last fraternity party of senior year and first big party of freshman year were both at Sigma Chi, neatly bookending their college days.

  “Our last Syracuse party. Let’s hope that tonight is nothing like that first time,” Veronica said.

  “It still shakes my insides thinking about it, especially when I wonder what would’ve happened if Andrew wasn’t there to save me.”

  “We’ve also had tons of good times here, so let’s make tonight like those and avoid the P-word.”

  “Thank God he’s gone and graduated.”

  Every brother knew Amy and greeted her with broad smiles, friendly hugs, and pecks on the cheek. She’d been selected the Sigma Chi Sweetheart for her senior year, an honor voted on by the entire fraternity and awarded only when there was someone special to choose. Amy was treated like royalty among the brothers, the house sweetheart and their fraternity president’s girlfriend. She participated in their philanthropic events and was invited to formal dinners at the house to which the guys always wore jackets and ties.

  Amy heard a familiar voice call out her name above the bass beat that palpated her heart.

  Veronica saw Jenny first and let out a little mumble: “Oh, boy, I’ll go get us some beer.”

  “Amy! Amy!” Jenny bobbed up to her. Her breasts greeted Amy first, perky and escaping from the tank top she wore under her overall shorts, one shoulder strap fastened, the other hanging loose. Her pink eyelids accented her green eyes, her lips glistened a sultry mauve, and her bare feet were tipped in bloodred. She was a mélange of trendy colors unfashionably mashed together.

  “Hi, Jenny, I haven’t seen you in a while.” Amy thought of their February meeting at the restaurant with Professor Spork.

  “Yeah, not since the night we ran into y
ou and Andrew at Varsity Pizza,” Jenny recalled without hesitation.

  Amy raised her eyebrows and thought back. Oh, yeah, we did see her there. When was that? Jenny had been with a guy who looked like a fork without him even opening his mouth. She seemed to have collected all the forks around campus in her time at Syracuse. The guy at Varsity wore a flannel shirt with the sleeves torn off at the shoulders, combat boots, and a smirk on his face that screamed out, I’m a cocky son of a bitch; you’d be lucky to be with me. Amy had to refrain from rolling her eyes when Jenny introduced them.

  “So are you still with . . .” There was no glimmer of a name in Amy’s mind for Lumberjack Fork. “Are you two still together?” Amy asked, already knowing the answer.

  “Oh, Corey, no. He met some bimbette on spring break. But he can bite me. He wasn’t my type anyway.”

  Amy forced the corners of her lips to stay neutral.

  Jenny leaned into her secretively. “He was a shrimp fork!” She burst into laughter and cracked her gum near Amy’s ear. “A big asshole with a little, tiny dick! Get it? A shrimp fork!”

  Amy joined her laughing; she loved the additions to the Utensil Classification System and how it had grown since her father created it that night at Bella’s. She grieved only her best friend’s continued rejection of the system. For all of her tidiness, how could Veronica not see the usefulness and accuracy of the UCS? All four years, guys neatly fit the definitions: Eric was a giant serving fork, Doug (and Zach) were knives, Andrew, of course, was a steak knife, and computer-pro Matt was her sweet nerdy spoon friend. It all matched up.

  “No, now I’m seeing Dennis,” Jenny said. “You must know him, being the Sigma Chi Sweetheart and all.”

  Amy’s head moved up and down while her mind searched for words to respond. Of course she knew Dennis. He was the typical player, the classic mack daddy, the very definition of the highest order of forks. Dennis was a pitchfork squared.