I finish unpacking as the shadows of the trees lengthen. Far across the lawn, the sun bathes the maple leaves in a peachy glow, obscuring Grant’s dorm.
I wander into the common room, looking for Charmindy. She probably had to go comfort an already-homesick freshman. Surrounded by students and families, once again, I feel alone. The chatter and laugher reminds me of the power of family to provide a sense of belonging, a frame of reference, and the lingering hug that says they’re just a phone call away.
My arms are wrapped around my chest when Charmindy enters, sans parents or puffy-faced, teary freshman. “My parents just left, we got here yesterday for dorm-assistant orientation. Settled in?” she asks.
“Sure,” I say.
“What do you think of our new room?” she asks.
“Already feels like home,” I answer.
“I’m glad I don’t have to live in Terran’s old single. Bad vibes in there. Oh hey, did you hear her necklace turned up, just before the end of school last spring? Crazy, huh. I guess it fell behind her dresser or something.”
“Yep, crazy,” I reply, recalling seeing it around her neck before graduation. “What’s the story with the other DA? I thought it was supposed to be Abbie, right?”
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I applied, but yeah, they selected Abbie Friedman. Then over the summer, I got a call asking if I was still interested; I guess I was the next pick. Her parents divorced, and it looks like she’s not coming back. I sent you a few emails, but you never replied. I didn’t know how else to get in touch with you.”
During the rush of months in New York, I never thought to check my Laurel Hill student email. I’m essentially the only person on the planet without a phone, so it’s not surprising we fell out of touch. I feel like a jerk because all I’ve been thinking about is myself. Now, with Charmindy before me, I sense she’s changed. Aside from having generally stretched out and cutting her hair shorter, it’s like she’s sharper, more mature, and edgier, as though she left the lavender and perfumed veil of innocence in India.
“Are you going to dinner?” she asks.
Although I’m sure Grant would have stopped by my dorm before going to the dining hall, I hope he’ll arrive hungry, find me out of my dorm, and appear, wrapping his arms around me.
Charmindy and I fill our trays with lasagna and garlic bread and sit at a small table for two. “Tell me all about Parsons,” she says.
I wouldn’t have shared the extent of the craziness before, but now that she’s dorm assistant, an authority figure, I guard the secrets more closely. “Parsons, epic design program, mostly I focused on fashion. And Manhattan, loads of history, great restaurants and museums . . .” I say carefully, unsure if I have a Laurel Hill version of an FBI file with notes to keep watch over me. “You?”
Charmindy’s eyes flicker, her eyebrow lifts, then she says, “I sweated my ass off in Chennai. Obeyed my parents’ every whim, studied, and volunteered,” she says with candor. “In a word, my summer was shit.”
Water nearly comes gushing out my nose. I grab my napkin and try to stifle a great, snorting laugh. “I’ve never heard you swear, the most you’ve ever said was darn if you stubbed your toe. What—?”
She suppresses a grin, but says, “Listen, according to my test scores I’m more intelligent than ninety-seven percent of the students here, but there is another kind of smart you might not expect me to have. Despite the fact that I come from a wealthy family, am wrapped up in my studies and achievement, I’m not stupid or blind. I know you had a hard time last year. I know you were generous with the pills prescribed for your cough or whatever. I know you snuck out and partied with Sorel . . . And I turned the doorknob to let Grant in when you needed him by your side.”
I don’t know what to say. The boisterous greetings of returning students, the shushing of the dishwasher behind the wall, the rushing in my ears, it all goes quiet, because I realize Charmindy didn’t turn her back on me; in fact, she may have been watching out for me all along. Warmth spreads across my skin like a hug, but I’m still not sure how to respond to this kind, bighearted, understanding, and forgiving friend of mine. A real, true friend.
“So your summer was shit? Your poise and academic accomplishments don’t suggest the word shit is part of your vocabulary. I never expected you to say that. Junior ambassador to the UN or something, but not shit, that’s my territory.”
“Wait, I wasn’t done. And your big, bad I-don’t-give-a-shit attitude suggests that you actually do care, a lot. Plus, as senior dorm assistant, my first point of business was enacting equal opportunity vocabulary usage.”
We burst into laughter.
“There are probably a lot of things about me that would surprise you,” she says, straight-faced, but a smile hints at the corners of her mouth. “I also know there’s more to your story, but first I’ll tell you about mine. Back to the shit . . . I volunteered for a charity organization this summer, back home, and saw some real-life shit. It made parts of me harder but softened others. It made me clearer on who I am, and what I want to do during this lifetime, and it isn’t turning my back on people, especially people I care about.”
“Thanks for not getting me in trouble last year.”
“I probably should have been more available to you.”
“No worries, Char. The fact that you were there at all speaks volumes.”
Back at Vivian Brookwood, with still no sign of Grant, along with the other girls, I crowd into the common room for Connie’s welcome spiel. My mind and heart scale the possibility that Grant isn’t coming. I plummet into fears of a dark and lonesome senior year without him. Pepper and I can start a lonely hearts club.
Charmindy’s deliberate voice cuts through my thoughts. “I’m Charmindy, the senior dorm assistant. If anyone has any questions, needs someone to talk to as you get used to boarding school life, please don’t hesitate to ask. My door is always open.”
Usually senior dorm assistants get a single. Did she opt to stay with me, or did Connie want to keep the single open in case Abbie returned? I wonder if Charmindy can assist me with how to fill a growing sense of emptiness or how to survive without Grant.
Later on, Charmindy paces the floor in our dorm, wringing her hands. She stops, levels me with her gaze, and then drops the news that Brett Fairfax visited her for a week. “I left that part out, huh?”
Once more, she leaves me nearly speechless. “He visited you in India?”
She gushes. “I don’t know how you keep things from me. I was about to explode if I didn’t tell you. I’d mentioned the charity program to him last spring, and he signed up. It was a big surprise to see him standing there at the first meeting. He was the only one smiling and holding a box of chocolates. It was sweet. We shared them with these little kids who’d never eaten anything like that before. We were in Mumbai together for a week.” Her cheeks blossom pink. As the minutes tick by, punctuated by Brett this and Brett that, my heart feels exposed by my own uncertainty.
Lights-out casts me into nervous worry. I contemplate sharing the situation with Charmindy, but still jet-lagged and exhausted from her new role, she’s already breathing deeply across the room.
Tension spreads through my neck and shoulders. I toss in bed, feeling insecure and abandoned. Moonlight illuminates the Frida Kahlo poster over my bed; only, I don’t feel like she’s watching me anymore, but rather, watching over me.
I rub my neck, and under the heel of my hand, I feel the slightly raised tattoo of the swallows. I trust they won’t lead me anywhere but to the home in my heart. Shale’s words, rusty, from before the summer come back, bit by bit, in his clipped yet clear accented English. “The only enemy you have is yourself. Stay there, with her, until you aren’t enemies anymore.” Fear. Rejection. Abandonment. The triumvirate makes me brittle. When I connect the dots, obviously, my perception of inadequacy carries over to my relation
ship with Grant. Shale would tell me that I have to forget the what-ifs and think about what is. I stay there, with the script of all the things that could go wrong, the wildly ridiculous scenarios that have been playing in the background of my mind all day, until one by one they slowly start to dissolve.
I roll over and stretch my legs, pleased that there are enough brain cells remaining in my head to arrive at a reasonable response to the very strong fear that everything is about to suck.
Chapter 41
As I summon sleep, a tapping sound merges with my predreams. I ignore the old building’s creepy shifting noises for a moment and focus on the source of the tapping.
I go to the window. My heart skips a beat. Grant, tall and smiling, with notably shorter hair, peers up at me, illuminated by the full moon. I slide over the sash and touch lightly down on the bulkhead before bounding onto the grass and into his arms. I feel him smiling as his cheek presses against mine. I put my hands on either side of his neck and draw my lips to his. I purr with excitement, relief, and joy.
The frogs and crickets chirp loudly from the woods. Hand in hand, we scoot back to his dorm room. The campus is quiet, and I’d almost rather stay outside under the stars, but it’s too risky. Pepper snores loudly and rolls over when we pass.
Grant and I lie down, facing each other on his bed.
Anticipation hums in my cells, causing my words to vibrate. “Where have you been? What happened?” I want to add that I missed him, but the words weld themselves to the roof of my mouth.
“My father. It’s a long story that involved going to Gavin’s, watching a soccer match, among other things. Do you want to hear about it now or later?”
I reach my lips to his by way of answer and feel myself melting into him, closing the space wrought by time and the Atlantic. He feels so right. His hand skims the small of my back as we press into one another. Our breath gets heavy. Then an alarming thought slices through the moment. Matteo. The last lips that touched mine belonged to Matteo. The last person who touched my bare skin was Matteo. Guilt and an avalanche of uncertainty crash down on me. I retract.
“What’s the matter?” Grant asks.
I hesitate; in my head, honesty smiles dutifully, telling me to do the right thing. Excuses, demanding that I not tell him the truth, throw a tantrum like a petulant child.
“You go first,” I say, postponing my decision.
“For one, my hair.” He rubs his hand through his short, messy hair, then tiredly over his face.
“Why’d you cut it?”
“From the moment my plane landed in Glasgow, my father lectured me about everything from my appearance to my future. He started in with a carefully laid plan of feigned patience and appealing to what he thought interested me, but when I didn’t agree with his ideas, he did a one eighty. We fought, but like I’d planned, I went to the summer cottage, alone. When I went back to Glasgow for a few days before my flight here, he was like a madman. He came at me with scissors and cut off a hunk of it. Who does that?” His voice tremors and then he goes on, solid rock once more.” Then, after a few days, I couldn’t stand it anymore. I left, changed my ticket, and went to Gavin’s. I tried calling.”
I recall the note on my door.
“He doesn’t understand me. He has this idea of who he wants me to be, based on who he never became, like he wants me to make up for his shortcomings. And the idea of who I want to be—” He pauses and takes a breath. “Is the person he isn’t. Does that make sense?” His accent nips at the words.
“Yeah,” I whisper. “You want to pursue your own dreams. If you live your father’s version of a life, it would be a lie and will make you unhappy. That’s what matters, right? That you’re happy?” Inside, I wither.
“Exactly. My brother more or less satisfied him, but he wants more, me. Gav has a cushy job, is clean-cut, and is making a good name for himself. We knew his scientific mind would take him places, but I’m almost the opposite, or the other half, physical and artistic, like our mother—” He runs out of words.
I’m reminded there isn’t anyone who has expectations of me.
After a thoughtful moment, he continues. “Then my dad appeared in New York—sorry, I don’t mean to go on about this. I’m spoiling our first time back together.”
“You aren’t.” My confession is about to royally mess things up. I lift my chin to kiss him one more time. Part of me fears it might be the last.
He brushes my bangs from my eyes, and my heavy eyebrows scrunch together. “Tell me about your summer,” he says.
“At Parsons—” It’s as if I have sand in my mouth. “My roommate, Kiki, she sort of reminded me of Sorel, if Sorel was basically the opposite of the way she is and—” I’m not making sense. What I did doesn’t make sense. “We partied a lot. It got kinda heavy, Grant. Sort of outta control.”
He moves back from me a fraction as if he senses what’s coming.
“I didn’t mean for it to. It was just there, and I overdid it.” Each word brings me closer to loss.
“What are you saying?” he asks plainly.
“At a party, I kind of kissed someone. Well, he kissed me. I was pretty high and drunk. It didn’t mean anything, and I realized what was happening and stopped it.”
The words, reluctant before, can’t come fast enough. I want him to hear my apology before he pushes me away. I want him to understand and forgive me. “We kissed again, but it was really messed up. Kiki, she kinda kissed me too. The whole thing, it was the worst mistake ever.” I start to cry. “I’m so sorry, Grant. I am so, so, so sorry.”
He stiffens and pulls his arm from around me. “So, what you’re saying is you were with someone else?”
“We didn’t have sex. It was just kissing,” I say pleadingly. Tears spill from my eyes.
“You said you kind of kissed someone. You either did or didn’t.”
I can’t look at him, and that is enough of a response.
“You were effed-up on what?”
“Kiki had all kinds of alcohol and pills, and then those guys gave us coke. I didn’t mean to, it was just there, and I missed you and—” Whatever words I try, I know they won’t suffice.
“She made you take these drugs, and then somehow your lips just ended up on someone else’s?” he asks sarcastically, straining not to raise his voice, but the Scottish accent clips his words. “No, PJ, you made a choice. You took the drugs or the booze or whatever, and you were with someone else?” He sits up. His elbows rest on his knees, and his hands run through his hair. “I don’t understand why. What about—?”
“I know it was wrong. I missed you, and being back in New York with all the memories was so hard. I just wanted to escape it all. I just wanted to have fun and forget everything.”
“Including me, huh?”
“No, not you. That’s why I wanted to tell you. I don’t want secrets between us. I want to be honest with you. I wanted—I—” Words of substance to replace my flimsy excuses and irrelevant reasoning fail me. “I messed up.” I position myself beside him, but already see the gulf forming between us. I don’t want to leave. I’m not ready to let go of the one good relationship I’ve ever had.
Grant sniffles. “PJ.” He whispers as though he’s trying to keep himself from falling apart. “That’s shite.” It’s the voice of hurt. We’re mere inches apart, but he may as well be miles away, back across the ocean. “I think you need to leave.”
“I don’t want to. I don’t want to give you up. I don’t want to hurt you. This hurts me too, to know I failed myself, that I failed us. It was so wrong. It was foolish, and I would never do it again.”
His silence is like a dry riverbed. Then he says, “That’s right. You won’t.” His tears are gone, his voice desolate.
“Grant, please. I’ll—”
The vacancy in his eyes tells me words are useless. I’ll never do it again
because there will be no us. The finality with which he spoke disgraces me. I slowly sit up.
“I’m so sorry. If you’ll ever forgive me, please—” I whisper, but I say no more. My head feels like it’s clamped in a vise, with the threat of releasing in a fit of hysterical crying. I have to be quiet, or I risk getting us both in trouble on top of everything else. I force one leg in front of the other as I creep past Pepper, fast asleep, probably dreaming of Sorel, to the window.
When I make it back to my bed, I bury my head in the pillow and cry, a muffled, pathetic sound. I cry for what I’ve done wrong. I cry for loss. I cry for my heart. My mother broke it once, and now I’ve done the dirty job of breaking it again, along with Grant’s. I think about Janet and the innumerable boyfriends whose hearts she crushed. How am I any different? Why should it matter? Be young, wild, free; do what you want, a loathsome voice in my head hedges. I disgust myself. I want to escape myself. I want . . . No, Pearl. Stay where you are. It will pass, another voice says, unbidden, sounding like a Norwegian translation.
The racing in my head stops. My mind quiets to the beat of my heart and the sound of my breath, like the breath of the sea inside a conch shell.
I remain in a place of lucid questioning. I listen and wait. The sky starts to lighten. A story, written in invisible ink, based on the script from my childhood, slowly reveals its letters. Pieces of it start to fall into place as Charmindy stirs across the room. I’m not ready to leave this magical and mystifying place where I’ve discovered what I thought was true isn’t fixed in place.
Grabbing a pair of jeans, my boots, and a sweatshirt, I quietly steal out of the room. I need to continue to think. I doubt anyone will miss me if I don’t appear at the Head of School Welcoming Ceremony.
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