—You better watch out then, I said.
He blinked at me, so I said, You said chemistry three times just talking right now.
—Oh! he said, then laughed hard through his nose in spurts.
I swung my backpack around to my chest and opened the zipper, looking for my wallet and thinking of the money I’d thrown away on my surprise flight home.
—They charge by the hour or what? I said.
—Oh, no no no, he said, waving his hands. This is totally free. Or rather, to be more accurate, it’s part of what our tuition covers.
My hand was already around my wallet. I let my fingers relax and felt its weight slump back in my bag.
—How many do I get? I mean, appointments.
—As many as you need? I don’t think there’s a limit.
He slid papers around on his cubicle desk, checked a list tacked to the wall. He said, No one’s ever asked me that.
Before I left that day, I booked twice-weekly slots for chemistry all the way up to the final exam, and I made initial biology and calculus appointments for the next day. I took the brochure for the writing center, which was apparently housed in the basement of the student union, right next to where I worked, and during that afternoon’s library shift, while checking my e-mail during my break and seeing the string of appointment confirmations in my inbox, I created an online account and booked even more appointments in every subject, grabbing multiple time slots on the weekends and each day of study week. It’s free, I told myself, imagining them as mall-bestowed perfume samples hoarded in the hopes of never having to buy a whole bottle.
On my way to the writing center—where I’d made standing appointments on Tuesday and Thursday mornings and Saturday afternoons, and where I would eventually bring draft after draft of my final paper and its bibliography, driving my tutor close to insane with my paranoia about plagiarism—I had to pass several large-screen TVs mounted on a wall that also had clocks set to different time zones. Without fail, over those last weeks before winter break, one of those TVs had something about the impending Y2K doom (we got e-mails “preparing us” for this from the Office of Technology, but we didn’t seem to have to actually do anything to prepare) and another invariably blasted the latest development in “The Battle for the Boy,” which was what some stations were calling the Ariel Hernandez situation. Ariel’s father had emerged from wherever he’d been the first few weeks Ariel was in the United States and was now demanding that his son be sent back. On my way to my first Thursday writing center session, I walked by those TVs just in time to see a line of demonstrators stretching from Ariel’s house to beyond my mom’s apartment building, which glowed orange on the screen. The shot zoomed in and I stopped and stood on my toes to get closer to the screen, scanning the line for Leidy or my mom, but the camera angle was from above, from a helicopter, and the tops of everyone’s heads both looked and didn’t look familiar. A row of words popped up, white letters in a black bar: AND AS YOU CAN SEE, SUSAN, THINGS ARE UNDER CONTROL NOW BUT AUTHORITIES ARE STILL STANDING BY IN CASE THE SITUATION ESCALATES AGAIN. The black bar rolled away and another scrolled up to replace it: SUSAN: BUT DAN, ARE YOU SEEING ANY FLAMES OR SMOKE NOW FROM THE SKY SEVEN NEWSCOPTER? EARLIER YOU SAID—
Before the next box could roll up, I found the volume button on the underside of the screen, and even though a small placard asked that we not change any of the settings, I reached up and tapped it just a little louder so that the closed-captioning the mute setting triggered disappeared. I didn’t care if anyone saw me, but I had a joke ready—We have enough reading to do, am I right?—if anyone said something. No one did.
I stood back from the row of TVs and decided the marching looked almost peaceful now that there was no mention of fire scrolling across the screen, especially when compared to the nearby Y2K-related report showing the pandemonium of the Wall Street floor, where the hysteria of men in suits flapping paper around was matched only by the scroll rate of the words flying on and off the screen.
Halfway down the steps, the TVs safely behind me, I turned on the landing and slammed into the overstuffed backpack of Jaquelin Medina, who I hadn’t seen since the mandatory Diversity Affairs welcome meeting. Despite this, she gave me a tremendous hug, but I was too stunned to return it in time—my arms stayed pinned to my body as her hands pressed into my back.
—I was just thinking about you, she said.
Something moved across my face that made her say, No! Not like that, I mean I was just worrying because, you know, I heard about how bad things are getting.
I thought she meant my grades and my probation, so in too mean a voice I said, How’d you hear about that?
She pointed slowly behind me, up the steps. The … media? Plus we’ve been talking about it a lot in my government class.
I shook my head once and said, Sorry, I’m just – it’s hard. I know it’s everywhere, I’m just busy, I’m just – trying to ignore it.
—Is your family doing okay? They’re staying away from all the like –
She finished her sentence by waving both hands in front of her chest and giving an exaggerated frown, like she’d just been asked to dissect a cat and had to say no. I didn’t know what to tell her: part of my study plan for finals was to not call home as much as usual, since I didn’t think I could handle being much more than a Rawlings student for a little while. For three days in a row, I’d stayed in the library after my shifts until it closed at two A.M., and the four or five messages from Omar that Jillian wrote down on her yellow Post-it notes over those days had gone straight from my fist to our garbage can. The one message from Leidy I planned to return when I knew she’d be at work so I could keep it short and talk to the answering machine instead of her.
—I think so, I said.
Someone came down the steps behind me, and I searched his face as he looked at me and Jaquelin in the stairwell, but I couldn’t see his eyes behind his sunglasses. Had he stopped to watch the Ariel coverage and now gotten the bonus of catching probably the only two Latinos he’d see on campus all day discussing the exact national issue he expected us to be talking about?
Jaquelin put her hand on my shoulder and pressed her lips together. Do you want to get dinner? I have a swipe on my meal card for a guest.
—I already ate, I lied. And I have my own meal plan, I said, this time meaning to sound rough. Were you just coming out of there?
I pointed to the glass doors of the writing center.
She looked back at the entrance, smiled at the place.
—Yeah, she said. I come every Thursday for a couple hours and work with a tutor on my papers. Have you been? It’s so good, it’s helped me so much.
—No, I haven’t been, but I’m thinking of going now since – because of finals.
—You should! she said. My tutor’s an English major and she’s so good with structure and helping me even just talk through paper topics sometimes. I can’t believe you haven’t been yet. I had to start going the second week, after that meeting where – where we met? – and they told us to go, but I was like, whatever, you know? Then right away we had this response paper due in my history class? And I got a B-minus and I was like, uh-oh, I better hustle if I want to stay here. That feels like a million years ago, right?
I blinked a couple times, said yeah.
—Okay, so no dinner, but maybe – what are you doing Saturday? My roommate invited me to this party but I don’t really want to go alone.
I wanted to say something sharp to keep up the ruse that I was smarter than her—You aren’t alone if you’re going with your roommate—but then I got what she meant: her roommate was white. She didn’t feel like going to a party where she might be the only person of color.
—We can just meet there, she said. We don’t gotta like, get ready together or anything. I just think it would be cool if, since us two are from real cities, right? We can show them what’s up. It’s a dance party supposedly.
The two or three Rawlings parties I’d g
one to in early fall blurred together as one long night where I stood against a wall holding a red plastic cup filled mostly with foam as progressively drunker frat boys walked over to me and asked me what my problem was. Despite whatever Omar thought, I wasn’t interested in cheating on him and hooking up with white boys wearing frayed visors with RAWLINGS SAILING stitched across the front, and this version of nightlife was so vastly pathetic compared to the places in Miami Omar could get us into that I preferred staying back at the dorm and waiting for Jillian to come home drunk, her careful makeup all smudged, and tell me and half the hall about some jerk who was totally hot though. But Jaquelin saying this was a dance party—god, I missed dancing, missed moving around in a crowd of hundreds while music pulverized me from every direction. Before Omar and I got serious, I used to be close with some girls at Hialeah Lakes, and we lived for the weekends, for putting on the worst animal print we could find and using our older sisters’ IDs to get into eighteen-and-over clubs, for dancing in a tight circle all night long. We’d claim we were sleeping over at each other’s houses, but we’d come home the next morning straight from the clubs, changing in the backseats of whatever car we’d been allowed to borrow for the night. Once we all found ourselves with boyfriends, those nights slowed down, then stopped, replaced by us hanging out in couples, then just each couple on its own until we either got engaged or broke up. I’d never thought of Rawlings as a place where I could maybe find a version of that fun again. Those first few parties—their hosts blasting music sluggish with guitar and devoid of booty-moving bass—had each ended with me walking back to the dorms a few feet behind the first random group of girls to leave, my arms hugging my shoulders against the cold night.
—Is there gonna be a DJ? I asked.
Jaquelin smiled.
—I could lie and say yes, but really? I have no idea. I just know my roommate said there’d be dancing, because she knows otherwise I’m not interested.
I said I’d come and she gave me the details. We arranged to meet just inside the entrance of the off-campus building—another huge, old mansion, this one converted into event space and high-end student housing—playing host to the party.
—That’s funny, there’s a club called Mansion in Miami, I told her. It’ll probably be just like that, right?
—That’s hilarious, she said. But you know what? I don’t really care if it’s lame, I’m wearing my club clothes because why the hell not? I haven’t worn them once out here. I’ll probably take them back home and leave them there at break. But maybe they deserve a last chance here at Rawlings.
Behind us a clomp of footsteps charged down the stairs, and them coming after her last chance here at Rawlings made me wish they’d run me over, grind me into the concrete and make me part of the campus in a way I could live up to and that didn’t cost anything. As they passed, Jaquelin scooted closer to me, said Hi! and waved at this group of students—all talking to each other—even though not one of them acknowledged that she stood there.
—I’ll wear mine too, I said. You don’t want to be the only one.
* * *
The night of the party, Jillian caught me sitting on the bathroom floor in front of the full-length mirror, flat-ironing my hair.
—Oh, she said from the doorway. I thought I smelled something burning in here.
She came and stood by me, inspecting the reflection of her outfit. Her black leather boots and the zippers running up their outside seams went to her knees, and under them she wore reddish tights that accented the red gumball-like beads of the necklace wrapped twice around her throat. Her low-cut top was gray and looked like a bodice made out of felt, and it matched perfectly with the fedora tipped forward on her head: she must’ve bought them as a set. The whole outfit looked too grown up, too coordinated to be any fun. Her makeup case—like a plastic toolbox—hung from her hand as she talked to the mirror.
—From the hallway it smells like there’s a fire in here, she said. I was really about to get the RA.
—It’s just me, I said.
She moved to the counter and set her case down, placed her fedora next to it. A stream of smoke came up from my flat iron as a twisted strip went in on one side and came out stick-straight and only a little crispy from the other. Straightening my hair made it twice as long: it reached past my waist.
—It can’t be good for your hair to have the iron set that hot.
—That’s the only way to make it straight, I said. I always do it this hot.
I was wearing a pair of hip-hugger jeans that looked stitched up the sides, but the openings weren’t real; I wouldn’t end up like those girls on Halloween Jillian’s brother had warned her about. I’d never worn jeans to a real club in Miami, only to the places we went as a joke, the places tucked into mini-malls in Broward County that promised free drinks to all females until midnight.
—Am I to take this hair frying as a sign you’re actually going out tonight? Or are you staying in to finally call your boyfriend? He’s really tired of leaving messages, I’ll tell you that.
She pushed her hair back with a hairband, the first move in crafting the layers of makeup that constituted Party Face Jillian.
—I haven’t straightened my hair since graduation, I said. I wanted to try it up here. It’ll probably last a while in this cold.
I fed another section through the iron, clamped it as close to my scalp as I could stand.
—But yeah, I’m going out tonight, I said. To some party near west campus? Someone told me there’d be dancing, so I figured I’d see if it’s true.
—The party at Newman House? Down on Buffalo Street? We’re going to that, a bunch of us from the hall. You should go with us. Tracy might drive.
—Tracy might what? a voice yelled from the hallway. A second later, Tracy’s over-blushed face hovered in the bathroom’s entrance. Is someone barbecuing in here?
I put the flat iron down by my leg to hide it, waved away smoke with one hand while finger-combing the freshly straightened piece with the other.
—Sorry, that’s me, I said.
—Trace, will you drive everyone down to Newman House? Then we’ll only have to walk back. It’s so cold out.
—I’m not driving, she said. I’m already drinking.
She wrinkled her nose at the air, then said, But we can take my Jeep and you can drive if you want.
Jillian daubed a foundation-soaked sponge across her forehead and pouted like a baby. She said, I already did shots with Caroline and them in her room.
—When did you do shots? I said. How long have I been in here?
—She can drive, Tracy said, thrusting her chin at me. If she’s going.
Jillian said, Who? Then, Oh, Liz!
—Or not. Whatever, Tracy said. I don’t really care.
Her head disappeared from the doorway, and Jillian said to the mirror, You feel like driving her car to the party? It’s one way to guarantee you won’t have to walk. I don’t know how many people’ll end up wanting a ride, if there’ll be room.
I picked up the flat iron and grabbed a chunk of hair from the base of my neck, singeing by accident some skin there. If I drove, I’d be warm, but then I imagined what I knew would happen: no parking for blocks around, the girls in the car I didn’t know—and Jillian, too, with any more booze in her—all insisting on getting dropped off at the house’s gate, leaving me to find a spot big enough for a Jeep on my own; Jaquelin witnessing my devolution into Rawlings chauffeur as she freezes outside; me panicking that, after I tap an Audi behind me, some old dent on Tracy’s Jeep is maybe my fault; freezing anyway on a still-long walk from the parking spot to the party, Jaquelin so disgusted by me that she takes off before I make it back.
—I shouldn’t drive either, I said. I think I’m – I’m pretty buzzed too, actually.
—Really! No wonder you’re OK doing that to your hair, she laughed. No biggie, we’ll figure something out.
She swept some colorless powder all over her face. I slid the iron d
own the last section of hair and headed back to our room. I changed into my strapless bra and pulled on a black tube top, threw on every bracelet I owned, and shoved my biggest set of hoop earrings through my earlobes. Jaquelin would recognize it as a lazy clubbing outfit, but it was more like Miami clothes than anything I’d worn in months. I parted my now-straight hair down the middle, rubbed a little pink lotion on my hands and smoothed it over the ends and the pieces that stuck straight up from the crown. I pulled Omar’s silver chain out from where it sat pooled at the bottom of the cup that held my pens and highlighters and draped it around my neck.
After a little while in my room, some fierce makeup on my own face now, I went into the hallway to find Jillian and the other girls. I bumped into the RA in the bathroom.
—Someone was smoking something in here, she said.
—No, it was – people were straightening their hair. With a flat iron. It was on a really high setting.
—You look amazing, she said to me. Jesus, I didn’t even recognize you for a second. Your hair is so long.
She reached out her hand to touch it. I let her. It feathered out of her hand and fell back stiff at my side.
—Jillian and them left a couple minutes ago, she said. Were you looking for someone?
—They left? I said. Like all together?
—You can probably still catch them. They said they were taking the campus shuttle.
I thought Jillian would come back to our room, at least to put her makeup away, but the case wasn’t on the counter—she must’ve left it somewhere else. I pulled my hair into a cord and wrapped it around my fist, out of anyone’s grip.
—No, it’s fine. I wasn’t really going with them anyway.
I’m meeting up with a real friend, I almost said, but that would only make my RA ask me questions and act interested in me, since that was essentially her job.
I went back to our room, taking a long body-warming swig from the bottle of vodka Jillian kept on the freezer shelf of her mini-fridge, and when I put it back, I didn’t bother to make it look like I hadn’t touched it. Let her say something to me about it, I said to the fridge door, then to my reflection as I checked my makeup again. But I knew I was stalling, waiting until I was sure the next campus shuttle had come and gone.
Make Your Home Among Strangers Page 11