What It Was Like

by Peter Seth

  “Thank goodness! How are you?” I whispered.

  “OK, I guess,” she said in a low voice. “But I miss you so much, I can’t stand it.”

  “How long is this grounding?” I asked. “And what did you do?”

  “I didn’t do anything! And I don’t know how long she’s going to keep this up. She’s psychotic, and Herb is just making her worse.”

  “To hell with Herb!” Just the mention of his name made me flush with anger. “We have to figure out some way to get you out of there!”

  “I know!” she said, exasperated that I was stating the obvious.

  “Maybe we can – Maybe Nanci can help us!”

  I took the phone away from my ear and asked/said, “Nanci, you’ll help us, won’t you?”

  Her eyes widened, and she shrugged. “Sure.”

  “Great! You’re terrific,” I said to Nanci. Then into the phone, “Nanci says she’ll help us. So make up some story to get over here. Say that Nanci is having a nervous breakdown or something, and she needs you. Say she’s on the verge of suicide!”

  “Thanks a bunch,” muttered Nanci sarcastically, reaching for a roll of Life Savers on her night table, revealing a wide wedge of white flesh where her peasant blouse pulled away from her jeans.

  “Just get her to let you come over here!” I insisted. “Tell her it’s an emergency.”

  “I’ll try,” she said.

  “It is an emergency,” I said, and lowered my voice. “I need to see you.”

  “I know, baby,” she breathed. “Me too.”

  And she hung up the phone.

  I stood there with the yellow phone in my hand.

  “Well?” asked Nanci.

  “I don’t know,” I said honestly, handing the phone back to her. “We’ll see.”

  She hung up the phone with a click and turned to me with a sly look.

  “You wanna smoke some hash?” she asked.

  ≁

  I should say right now that, unlike what was implied in the newspapers during my trial, I am not a big drug user. Some guys like to brag about how much they’ve done, how wild they’ve gotten. That’s not me. I confess: I’m a wimp when it comes to drugs, so the two puffs I took from the tiny pipe – blown out of the window of Nanci’s bathroom – were enough to knock me for a relative loop.

  Walking back into Nanci’s bedroom, I felt light-headed and hopeful, suddenly optimistic about my chances of seeing Rachel.

  “You spell ‘Nanci’ with an ‘i,’” I said. “Why is that?”

  “To be unusual,” she said with a straight face as she flopped back onto her bed. “Nobody would notice me if I were just a Nancy-with-a-‘y.’”

  I liked her humor: you were never quite sure if she was being funny or not.

  “You’re great to do this, Nanci,” I said. “Anything to give Rachel a way to get out of there. I don’t even know why Eleanor wants her around; all they do is fight.”

  “Parents have no idea how to raise kids, for the most part,” Nanci said. “The Princes are especially clueless. But Rachel is so, you know, pretty, that she always gets away with things.”

  “So, I don’t get it,” I said, sitting back on the high swivel chair in front of her art table. “You’re all alone in this big house?”

  “Pauline is here.”

  “Besides her,” I said. “Where are your parents?”

  “In Bermuda.”

  “Bermuda?” I cackled. “All I know about Bermuda is shorts and onions. What about any brothers or sisters?”

  “I have a brother who lives in Connecticut with his family, and my sister lives in Phoenix.”

  “Phoenix? So, like I said,” I repeated. “You’re all alone in this big house. I know: with Pauline –”

  “And my parents’ checkbook.”

  “Wow,” I said. “That sounds kind of . . . ideal.”

  “You think so?” she said with a twisted, knowing smile.

  The phone rang. We both froze. I felt the impulse to pick it up, but it was Nanci’s phone.

  “You pick it up,” I said.

  Emptying the little hash pipe in the little ashtray next to her bed, Nanci picked up the receiver silently. She put it to her ear and said, “Hello?”

  She looked down, listening with concentration. Finally she said, “OK . . . OK . . . I will. I’ll tell him.”

  And she hung up, in slow motion.

  “Well?” I asked, knowing what she was going to say before she said it.

  “Forget it,” she said flatly. “She’s grounded, period. Eleanor said no. That’s it.”

  “That’s it?” I shouted, feeling that swell of anger rise within me.

  “The magic doesn’t work every time,” Nanci shrugged her round shoulders.

  “That sucks! . . . She can’t do that!”

  “Well . . .” she said, looking sad for me. “For the time being, she can.”

  “I know she can!” I replied. “It’s just not right!”

  I paced around the room, kicking at the fluffy shag carpet, looking at Nanci’s drawings of imaginary insects and pebbly landscapes and her posters of Janis and Dylan, trying to decide what to do.

  “Do you know what she did, to deserve the grounding?” asked Nanci, in a sympathetic voice.

  “It doesn’t matter what she did!” I exclaimed. “Her actions are irrelevant! They want to keep us apart because they can. Reason is incidental! Reason is their enemy.”

  I realized that I was sounding less than logical, but I was angry. All this wasted energy and opposition; all I wanted to do was spend a few hours with my girlfriend. What was so horrible about that?

  “It’s funny, when you first meet Rachel,” I said. “You think she has everything. Looks, money, brains, everything.”

  “No one has everything,” Nanci countered.

  “If they want to break us up,” I said. “This is precisely the wrong way. Morons! Don’t they realize that they are doing exactly the opposite of what they want to achieve? . . . They’re making a big mistake with Rachel. She’s not gonna take this forever. You can push a person too far; even Rachel has limits.”

  “Lots of people do stupid things,” said Nanci, watching me from her bed. “Just look at the world. There’s an epidemic of stupidity out there.”

  “And that’s why you stay in here and draw pictures and smoke hash?” I asked. In some ways, I had to admire Nanci. She had her own little world, all under her control, with no interference, it seemed, from anyone.

  “That’s one reason,” she said, looking at me with a sly smile as she filled the little pipe with little crumbs of the hash. “It’s not the best thing for someone with asthma, but . . .”

  She sort of wiggled in place on the bed and said coyly, “So why don’t you sit here, right next to me, and I’ll light up this leetle bowl, just for you.”

  I think she was flirting with me. I don’t know, maybe she was just being nice and friendly. And while I liked her, I was certainly not attracted to Nanci. Even forgetting about Rachel, which was impossible, Nanci was just not the kind of girl I was attracted to. I’m sure there was a guy out there for her, someone who liked art and a little weirdness, and didn’t mind the extra poundage; it just wasn’t me. And anyway, I was there for a reason: to help Rachel-and-me.

  “No, thanks,” I said, backing away from her and sitting up on the high chair in front of her drawing table. I spun around on it, back and forth. “I have to keep what’s left of my wits about me.”

  Nanci started to fill the pipe with more hash from a plastic bag on her night table and said, “You know I have a cousin who works at Ultrasonic and he’s gonna show some of my drawings to the manager of the Critters and I might be able to do an album cover for them.”

  “That’s cool.” I didn’t really believe her, but you never kne
w. She could have been telling the truth.

  I looked at Nanci and wondered how much I could trust her. Then I thought that Rachel and I were sort of involved with her now, and she seemed to have a good heart inside her defensive exterior, so I decided to take a chance.

  “Nanci?” I said. “Can I ask you something?”

  She snickered at that. “You can ask me anything you want. It doesn’t mean I’ll tell you!” She laughed, a little wheezy laugh, and that’s when I noticed the little plastic thingie on her nightstand that must have been her asthma inhaler.

  “Tell me about Eric,” I said, trying to sound casual but watching her reaction carefully.

  The mention of the name made her flinch. Which both pleased and troubled me: pleased, because I knew that Nanci had information I could garner, and troubled, because of that flinch. What if the information she had for me was bad?

  “Eric . . . ?” she repeated with a careful smile, obviously stalling. “What do you know about Eric?”

  “All I know is that I hate his guts,” I said. Which made her laugh a big, hearty loose laugh.

  Eric. Every time I said that name, it left a bad taste in my mouth.

  When her laugh died away, Nanci looked me straight in the eye and said, “I’m sorry you know about him.”

  “So what’s the deal with him?” I asked straight back to her.

  “You have to ask Rachel about that,” she answered.

  “Why?”

  “Let her tell you,” she said. “I shouldn’t say anything.”

  “What?” I challenged her. “Suddenly you’re getting shy about expressing your opinions?”

  “I don’t want to spoil things,” she said simply.

  “Telling me the truth won’t ‘spoil things,’” I insisted, but she didn’t respond.

  I waited her out. I just sat there, looking at her until she said something else.

  “Look, I like you,” Nanci sputtered. “But I’m on Rachel’s side. You’ll have to ask her.”

  “So the answer is yes, he has been hanging around.”

  “I’m not saying anything. You’ll have to ask Rachel.”

  By saying that, she gave me my answer.

  “Thanks,” I said grimly. “I suppose I can’t blame him. Rachel is Rachel.”

  “She goes through people quickly,” Nanci said. “Either she loses patience with them, or they can’t keep up with her. And frankly, her attitude turns them off. I’m the only friend in Oakhurst she has left.”

  “Good!” I said. Perhaps it was not the most generous thought, but I wanted Rachel to need me as much as I needed her. Simple as that.

  “If I were you,” Nanci said deliberately. “I’d be careful. I don’t think you know precisely what you’re involved with.”

  “Thanks,” I snickered. “But don’t worry about me. If you want to help me, help Rachel.”

  I meant that too. I had no intention of “getting hurt,” and I would defend my relationship with Rachel by any means possible.

  “I should go,” I said.

  “So go!” she said, not looking at me.

  The room looked darker than ever, with the one little bedside light.

  “Thanks for trying, Nanci,” I said. “I really appreciate it.”

  “It was nothing,” she muttered, putting the pipe down on the table by her bedside with a clank. “Literally nothing.”

  “Well, I should split.” I hopped down off the high chair. “You know, it just hit me: Eleanor and Herb are so selfish, they probably won’t stay home all Saturday night to make sure Rachel stays grounded. They’ll go out after a while, and if I just wait long enough, I bet I will get to see her tonight.”

  Nanci flopped back against her pillows. “You really are an idiot. You know that?”

  I shrugged, “What can I say? I’m just trying to listen to my heart and my head. Giving credence to both of them. At the same time.”

  “Like I said,” she grunted a laugh. “An idiot.”

  “Everyone’s entitled to an opinion, Nanci,” I shrugged. “So I’ll see you again soon, right? . . . Nice pictures.”

  And I walked out of the room, closing the door behind me. I think I heard Nanci start to sniffle. I was sorry about that; I didn’t want to hurt her or anything. Maybe it was just her asthma. She reminded me of some girls in my high school: nice enough girls, but no one you’d want to go out with, no one you’d lust after, nothing special. I wanted special. I had special, and I was determined to keep it.

  When I walked down the long, curving stairs and across the foyer to the front door, I could see that Pauline was watching me with suspicious eyes from around the corner in what looked like the dining room that had a table with maybe sixteen chairs around it.

  “Bye, Pauline,” I said, seeing that I didn’t surprise her, not in the least. “Take care of her.”

  Nanci was definitely a strange girl, but there was something I liked about her. Her honesty, I think. And I liked that she was Rachel’s friend. Rachel seemed so isolated; she needed all the support she could get. That’s why I was worried about this Eric. I wasn’t around all week. Maybe he was.

  I opened the door and was outside in a moment, happy for what I had said. I slammed the door closed and trotted down off the front porch, lighthearted. I was a few steps down the perfectly manicured front walk when I realized that I didn’t know where I was going.

  Yes, I did. I would do what I told Nanci: I’d go over to Rachel’s house and wait to see if Eleanor and Herb would go out that evening, leaving Rachel alone. I was sure that they would want to go out to the Costa Brava or some other swanky place. Maybe even a Mafia hang-out, if what Rachel said about Herb was true. In any case, they wouldn’t stay home, even to enforce their punishment. They’d go out, and then I’d ring Rachel’s doorbell and surprise her.

  I walked from Nanci’s house down the block toward the Princes’, staying in the shadows as much as I could. I wasn’t doing anything illegal and yet I felt as if I were somehow trespassing. What was a poorish boy like me doing in this fancy neighborhood anyway, scheming to steal a local princess? I didn’t belong here. And yet, here I was, gliding through the shadows, staying close to the wall of tall hedges, those perfectly trimmed, impervious hedges, to get my way.

  Of course I was wrong. Again. I stood outside for a long time, behind a fat tree in front of one of their neighbors’ houses with a good view of the Princes’ front door and driveway, freezing my butt off. Finally, I walked back to my car and moved it to a spot two houses down from the Princes’, where I could just see her house and whoever went in or out. There was the risk of detection, but I needed the car heater. And finally, after almost two hours, with no Eleanor or Herb emerging to go out on the town, I just went home, having successfully killed the entire evening.

  But no Eric showed up at the Prince house, and I wasn’t seen by anyone. At least there were two things to be glad about.

  ≁

  I killed the next day too, plowing through my reading, knocking out some papers (a couple of which were, to be truthful, already late), and studying my notes and textbooks for some important tests coming up, including one on Monday afternoon on the Protestant Reformation – I really needed a good grade. Mainly though, I was waiting for Rachel to call me and tell me to drive over there and rescue her, even if only for a few hours.

  That didn’t happen. I finally gave up in the late afternoon so my Dad could drive me to the 5:38 train. That way, I could get back to my room, get some dinner, and be in place for my 8:00 call. As if Eleanor would let her answer the phone. (This is how deluded I was, but I had to make the effort in any case. It was never about succeeding; it was always about trying.)

  My Dad drove me to the train and didn’t say anything until we were almost there.

  “So,” he broke the silence. “How you doin’, money-wise?”r />
  “I’m OK.”

  “I’m sure you’ll run into some cash around the holidays,” he said, dropping a hint.

  “I said I was OK.” I repeated, sounding annoyed with him when I really wasn’t. I was thinking about everything else.

  “Well, it’s funny you should say that,” he said, talking louder than he usually did. My father was a soft-spoken man. “Because . . . you don’t seem like yourself lately.”

  “I’m more myself than I’ve ever been,” I answered, just as he pulled the Chrysler to the curb by the door to the station. He stepped on the brake and threw the car into park.

  He turned to me and said straight out, “Tell me: Is this girl messing up your life?”

  I just laughed out loud at that. “No!” I scoffed. “I’d say it’s the exact opposite. Rachel is the best thing that ever happened to me.”

  “Well . . .” my father said, with his eyes looking sad and concerned. “I hope she is.”

  As I got out of the car and got my things out of the back seat, he tried to give me a couple of twenties, but I said, “Thanks, I’m really OK. And thank Mom for doing my laundry. I forgot.”

  I grabbed my stuff and had to run up the stairs for the 5:38, but I made it just before the doors closed on me.

  True to my plan, I got back to the dorm in plenty of time. Fortunately, Roommate A wasn’t there, so I had a little privacy and space for a while before I got my dinner and was in place at the phone booth in the mailroom for my 8:00 call to Rachel, exactly on time.

  But untrue to my plan, Mrs. Prince answered the phone.

  “Hello?” she said sharply, as if accusing the caller of something.

  “Hello, Mrs. Prince,” I said in the politest, most nonconfrontational voice imaginable. “May I please speak to Rachel?”

  And before the “L” died in my last word, she said right back, in this overpronounced way, “Don’t you understand? Do you want to get her into more trouble? Please don’t call here again tonight!”

  And she slammed down the phone.

  “At least she said ‘please,’” I said out loud, to try to make a joke of it. But it wasn’t funny, not when I thought of what Rachel might be experiencing on the other end.