by Meg Cabot
The British guy, Chaz had said about someone…someone I now realize was Andrew. The one who was running the illegal poker ring on the seventh floor.
“That was you?” I’m staring at him. “But…but you’re an R.A. Gambling in the dorms is illegal.”
Andrew shoots me an incredulous look.
“Right,” he says. “Well, maybe, but everybody did it…”
If everybody suddenly started wearing epaulets, would you do it, too? I start to ask…then stop myself just in time.
Because, of course, I know the answer.
“Anyway,” Andrew says, “I got involved with a game here not long ago, and…well, the stakes were a bit higher than I’m used to, and the players a bit more experienced, and I—”
“You lost,” I say flatly.
“I told you I was a bit overconfident and thought I could clean up at that game I got into…but instead I got my arse kicked, and lost the money for my matriculation fees for next semester. That’s why I was working so much, see? I can’t tell my parents what happened to their money—they’re dead set against gambling, and they’d probably kick me out of the house…I’ve barely got a bed there as it is, as you well know. But if you can spare it…well, then I’m golden, right? I won’t have to work, and then we can be together all day”—He snakes out an arm, wrapping it around my waist and pulling me to him—“and all night, too,” he adds with a suggestive wag of his eyebrows. “Wouldn’t that be brilliant?”
My head is still spinning. Even though he’s explained, somehow none of this is making sense…or rather, it is…
But I don’t think I like the sense it’s making.
I blink at him. “A few hundred? To pay your matriculation fees?”
“Two hundred quid or so, yeah,” Andrew says. “Which is…what, five hundred dollars? Not so much if you consider it’s all going to my future…our future. And I’ll make it up to you. If it takes me the rest of my life, I’ll make it up to you.” He lowers his head to my neck, to nuzzle it. “Not,” he adds into my hair, “that spending the rest of my life making it up to a girl like you will be such a hardship.”
“Um,” I say, “I guess I can spare it…” Inside my head, though, a voice is screaming something entirely different. “We could…we could go wire it to the university after we leave here.”
“Right,” Andrew says. “Listen, about that…It might just be better if you gave me the cash and I sent it. There’s a bloke I know at work, he can get it there for nothing, no fees, no nothing…”
“You want me to give you cash,” I repeat.
“Right,” Andrew says. “It’ll be cheaper than if we wired the money from here in town. They kill you with fees…” Then, hearing footsteps in the hallways outside the little office, he says quickly, “Listen, tell that wanker, when he gets in here, that you were wrong about my having a job. That you misunderstood. All right? Can you do that for me, Liz?”
“Lizzie,” I say in a sort of daze.
He looks at me blankly. “What?”
“Lizzie. Not Liz. You always call me Liz. No one calls me that. My name’s Lizzie.”
“Right,” Andrew says. “Whatever. Look, he’s coming. Just tell him, will you? Tell him you made a mistake.”
“Oh,” I say, “I will.”
But the mistake, I realize, was not about Andy’s employment status.
While the Elizabethan age is considered by many historians to be one of enlightenment, given the rise of such geniuses as Shakespeare and Sir Walter Raleigh (see: cape in the mud, etc.), there is no question that Elizabeth, toward the end of her reign, began to behave in an unpredictable and skittish fashion. Many believe this may have been due to the copious amount of white foundation she wore upon her face in order to give it what was then considered a youthful appearance. Unfortunately for Queen Elizabeth, there was lead in her face paint, which may have caused lead poisoning, affecting her brain.
Elizabeth I is not the last to suffer hardship in the pursuit of beauty (see: Jackson, Michael).
History of Fashion
SENIOR THESIS BY ELIZABETH NICHOLS
Chapter 8
Women speak because they wish to speak, whereas a man speaks only when driven to speak by something outside himself—like, for instance, he can’t find any clean socks.
—Jean Kerr (1923–2003), U.S. author and playwright
I don’t know what made me do it.
One minute I was asking Mr. Williams—the supervisor of the man who’d escorted us to the little back office—if he could direct me to the ladies’ room (although here in England they apparently call it a toilet, since it took some seconds before I could make anyone understand what it was that I needed), and the next I was making a run for it.
That’s right. I left. I left the Job Centre—and Andrew. I pretended like I was going to the women’s toilet.
But instead I exited the building, hurrying out onto the busy London streets with no idea where I was going, let alone how to get there.
I don’t know why I did it. I’d said what Andrew had told me to say—that I’d been mistaken about his having been at work. I suppose that since Andrew gets paid under the table, the Job Centre people have no way to check on whether this is really true. So it wasn’t as if Mr. Williams could really do anything to Andrew…like have him arrested.
In fact, all Mr. Williams was doing when I interrupted to ask where the bathroom was was giving Andrew a lecture on how wrong it is for people who don’t truly need the welfare system to abuse it.
That’s when I left.
And I never returned.
Which is why I’m wandering the streets of London, with no idea where I am. I don’t have a guidebook or a map or anything. All I have is a purseful of British money and a sinking feeling that Andrew isn’t going to be too pleased to see me when I get back to his parents’ house—if I can even figure out how to get back there.
Maybe I should have stayed. It was wrong of me just to leave like that. Andrew’s right, it really is hard for students to make ends meet…
Although obviously it doesn’t help if they gamble away their savings.
And what about the money? I promised him five hundred dollars for his matriculation fees and then I just…left. How could I walk out like that? If Andrew doesn’t pay his matriculation fees, he won’t be able to come back to school in the fall. How could I just turn my back on him like this?
But how could I stay?
It isn’t the money. It isn’t. I’d gladly give him every cent I have. Because the truth is, I really can put up with the fact that he thought I was fat.
And I can put up with the fact that he apparently complained about my fatness to his family.
And I can put up with the gambling, and even with the fact that he pretended like he couldn’t come so I would give him a blow job.
But defrauding poor people? Because that is basically what someone who takes unemployment while having a paying job is doing.
That I cannot tolerate.
And he wants to be a teacher! A TEACHER! Can you imagine a man like that molding the minds of impressionable young people?
I’m such an idiot. I can’t believe I fell for his whole “I want to teach the children to read” thing. It was all so obviously just an act so he could get into my pants—and, later, my wallet. Why didn’t I see the signs? I mean, what kind of man who wants to teach the children to read—really and sincerely—also e-mails photos of his naked butt to innocent American girls?
I’m so stupid. How could I have been so blind?
Shari’s right, of course. It was his accent. That has to be it. I was completely swayed by his accent. It’s just so…charming.
But now I know that just because a guy sounds like James Bond doesn’t mean he’s necessarily going to ACT like him. Would James Bond collect unemployment while also working? Of course not.
Oh God, and to think I wanted to MARRY him!!! I wanted to marry and support him for the rest of my life. I want
ed to have children with him—Andrew Jr., Henry, Stella, and Beatrice. And a dog! What was the dog’s name?
Oh, never mind.
I’m the biggest idiot this side of the Atlantic. Possibly both sides. God, I wish I’d figured that out before I gave him that blow job. I can’t believe I did that.
You know what? I want that blow job back. Andrew Marshall isn’t worthy of a blow job by me. That blow job was special. It was my first. And it was meant for a teacher, not a welfare fraud!
Or a dole fraud. Or whatever they call it here.
What am I going to do? It’s only two days into my trip to visit my boyfriend and I’ve already decided I never want to see him again. And I’m staying with his family! It’s not like I can avoid him there.
Oh God. I want to go home.
But I can’t. Even if I could afford it—even if I could call home right now and have them buy me a ticket—I’d never hear the end of it. Sarah and Rose—Mrs. Rajghatta—even my mother—everyone. They’ll never let me live it down. They all told me—ALL OF THEM—not to do this, not to go all the way to England to visit a guy I hardly knew, a guy who’d, yeah, okay, saved my life…
But chances are I wouldn’t have died. I mean, eventually I’d have noticed the smoke and gotten out on my own.
They will never let me forget the fact that they were right. God! They were all right! I can’t believe this. They’ve never been right about anything. They all said I’d never graduate…well, I have.
Well, okay, almost. I just have to write one little paper.
And they all said I’d never lose my baby fat.
Well, I did. Except for those last five pounds. But they’re hardly noticeable to anyone but me.
They said I’d never get a job or an apartment in New York—well, I’m going to prove them wrong about that. I hope. Actually, I can’t think about that right now or I’ll throw up.
All I know is, I can’t go back home. I can’t let them think they were right about this.
But I can’t stay, either! Not after walking out like that—Andrew will never forgive me. I mean, I just left. It was like my feet developed little brains all their own and just took off, trying to put as much distance between Andrew and me as they could.
It isn’t his fault. Not really. I mean, gambling is an addiction! If I were a decent person, I would have stayed and tried to help him. I’d have given him the money so he could come back in the fall and make a fresh start…I’d have been there for him. Together, we could have worked to lick it…
But instead I just left. Oh, good job, Lizzie. Some girlfriend you are.
My chest feels tight. I think I might be having a panic attack. I’ve never had one before, but Brianna Dunleavy, back in the dorm, used to get them all the time, and end up at the student health center, where they’d give her a note to get out of her exams.
I can’t have a panic attack on the street. I can’t! I’m wearing a skirt. Supposing I fall down and everyone sees my underwear? It’s true they’re the cute polka-dot ones with the bows from Target. But still. I need to sit down. I need to—
Oh—a bookshop. Bookshops are excellent for panic attacks. At least, I hope so, never having had one before.
I plunge past the latest releases and the checkout counter, deep into the bowels of the store. Then, spying a leather chair in the self-help section, which is otherwise empty (British people evidently don’t feel the need for much self-help. Which is too bad, because some of them—namely Andrew Marshall—really need it), I sink down into it and put my head between my knees.
Then I breathe. In. Out. In. Out.
This. Can’t. Be. Happening. I. Can’t. Be. Having. A. Panic. Attack. In. A. Foreign. Country. My. Boyfriend. Can’t. Have. Lost. All. His. Grad. School. Money. Playing. Texas. Hold’em.
“Pardon me, miss?”
I lift up my head. Oh no! One of the bookstore clerks is looking down at me curiously.
“Um,” I say, “hi.”
“Hullo,” he says. He seems nice enough. He is wearing jeans and a black T-shirt. His dreadlocks are very clean. He doesn’t seem like the kind of person who would kick a woman who is having a panic attack out of his shop.
“Are you all right?” he wants to know. A tag on his shirt says his name is Jamal.
“Yes,” I squeak. “Thank you. I’m just…I’m not feeling very well.”
“You don’t look well,” Jamal confirms. “Would you like a glass of water?”
I realize then how incredibly thirsty I am. A diet Coke. That’s what I really need. Is there no diet Coke in this benighted country?
But I say, “That would be so nice of you,” to Jamal’s offer of water.
He nods and goes off, looking concerned. Such a nice person. Why can’t I be dating him instead of Andrew? Why did I have to fall in love with a guy who claims he WANTS to teach children to read, as opposed to one who really is helping them to do it?
Well, okay, Jamal doesn’t work in the children’s department.
But still. I bet there are children who have been in this shop that he’s encouraged to read.
But maybe I’m just projecting. Again. Maybe I’m just believing what I want to believe about Jamal.
Just like I wanted to believe that Andrew is really an Andrew and not an Andy. When in reality he’s the biggest Andy I’ve ever met.
Not that there’s anything wrong with the name Andy. It’s just that—
Suddenly I know what I need, and it’s not water.
I don’t want to. I really don’t want to. But I realize I have to hear my mother’s voice. I simply have to.
With trembling fingers, I dial my house. I won’t tell her about Andrew, I decide, and how he’s turned out to be an Andy. I just need to hear a familiar voice. A voice that calls me Lizzie instead of Liz. A voice—
“Mom?” I cry when a woman picks up the phone on the other end and says hello.
“What the hell are you doing calling so early in the morning?” Grandma demands. “Dontcha know what time it is here?”
“Grandma,” I say. I close my eyes. My chest still feels tight. “Is Mom there?”
“Hell no,” Grandma says. “She’s over at the hospital. You know she helps Father Mack give out communion on Tuesdays.”
I don’t dispute this, even though it isn’t Tuesday. “Well, is Dad there, then? Or Rose? Or Sarah?”
“What’s the matter, I’m not good enough for you?”
“No,” I say. “You’re fine. I just—”
“You sound like you’re coming down with something. You catching one of those avian flus over there?”
“No,” I say. “Grandma…”
And that’s when I start to cry.
Why? WHY??? I’m too angry to cry. I already told myself that!
“What’s with the waterworks?” Grandma wants to know. “You lose your passport? Don’t worry, they’ll still let you come home. They let anybody in here. Even people who want to blow us all to kingdom come.”
“Grandma,” I say, “I think…” It’s hard to whisper when I’m sobbing, but I try. I don’t want to disturb the bookstore customers and get kicked back out onto the street. I know Jamal will be coming back with my water at any moment. “I think I made a mistake in coming here. Andrew…he isn’t the person I thought he was.”
“What did he do?” Grandma wants to know.
“He…he…told his family I was fat. And he gambles. And he’s defrauding the government. And he…he…he said I liked tomatoes!”
“Come home,” Grandma says. “Come home right now.”
“That’s just it,” I say. “I c-can’t come home. Sarah and Rose—everybody—they all told me this was going to happen. And now it has. If I come home, they’ll all just say they told me so. Because they did. Oh, Grandma.” Now the tears are coming even faster. “I’m never going to get a boyfriend! A real one, I mean, who loves me for me, and not my savings account.”
“Bullshit,” Grandma says.
Star
tled, I say, “W-what?”
“You’re going to get a boyfriend,” Grandma says. “Only unlike your sisters, you’re choosy. You’re not going to marry the first asshole who comes along who tells you he likes you, then knocks you up.”
This is a very sobering assessment of my older sisters’ relationships. It has the effect of drying up my tears instantly.
“Grandma,” I say, “I mean, really. Isn’t that a little harsh?”
“So this latest one turned out to be a dud,” Grandma goes on. “Good riddance. What are you going to do, stay with him anyway until your flight leaves?”
“I don’t see what choice I have,” I say. “I mean, I can’t just…leave him.”
“Where is he now?”
“Well,” I say, “he’s back at the Job Centre, I guess.” Would he have come looking for me?
Yes, of course. I have his five hundred dollars.
“Then you already left him,” Grandma says. “Look. I don’t get what the big deal is. You’re in Europe. You’re young. Young people have been going to Europe on a shoestring for a hundred years. Use your head, for God’s sake. What about your friend Shari? Isn’t she over there somewhere?”
Shari. I forgot all about her. Shari, who is right across the English Channel, in France. Shari, who actually invited me, just last night, to come stay with her at—what was it called again? Oh yes. Mirac.
Mirac. The word might as well mean heaven, it sounds so magical right now.
“Grandma,” I say, climbing out from my chair, “do you really think…I mean…should I?”
“You said he gambles?” Grandma asks.
“Apparently,” I say, “he has a fondness for Texas Hold’em.”
Grandma sighs. “Just like your uncle Ted. By all means stay with him if you want to live the rest of your life trying to bail him out financially. That’s what your aunt Olivia did. But if you’re smart—and I think you are—you’ll get the hell out now, while you still can.”
“Grandma,” I say, choking back tears, “I…I think I’ll take your advice. Thank you.”