To Tuscany with Love

by Gail Mencini

  The library reigned as the campus hot spot. Lee sat in his regular top-floor cubicle, his head buried in the messy stack of papers and printouts in front of him. He returned, for the twentieth time, to the chart of lab results he had checked and rechecked. Suddenly he slammed one fist against the laminated cubicle desk, scattering his papers in a tornado to the floor. The noise drew angry whispers from the cloistered students at neighboring study desks.

  Lee dropped his head into his hands in frustration. The final lab report was due by four o’clock the next afternoon. He opened his backpack and stuffed his lab results, charts, notes, and rough draft inside, oblivious to the sound of wrinkling paper.

  Then he methodically started his rounds, covering every floor, cubicle, table, and low-slung chair in the library. Finally, he caught Stillman charming the girl who staffed the checkout desk, his backpack slung over one shoulder and a smile on his face. Lee waited until the proper moment, then fell in step beside Stillman as he left the building.

  Lee braced himself against the frigid north wind that gusted through campus. “How’s it going?”

  “Same as you, I’m sure. Lots of worry, too much caffeine, and damn near a stranger to my bed.” Stillman grinned at him. His eyes showed no evidence of exhaustion.

  “Got your O Chem done?” Lee couldn’t help himself. No sense making idle chatter since that’s all anyone in the class talked about.

  “Yep. Gonna turn the packet in tomorrow morning. Sherry’s typing up the report and lab data for me. How about you?”

  Lee felt as if he’d been punched in the stomach. He had flown through the labs because of the compressed time schedule. Now he lacked confidence in his conclusions, since his data wasn’t complete. With the deadline looming, he had no time to rerun labs.

  Although it was a long shot, maybe Stillman would let him read his finished lab packet before turning it in. No doubt, Stillman had aced it. If Lee knew the correct conclusions, he could do what the students called “dry lab”—tweak the data to match the conclusion.

  Could he convince Stillman to share his report? Sometimes, lying was necessary. “My packet, at least, is going great. I do final changes tonight. Only I’m doing my own typing tomorrow. Guess those years of piano lessons paid off for something.”

  Lee had seen the flyers on his dorm bulletin board for Sherry’s typing services. Poor thing, he’d met her once—major acne plus headgear braces. No life, but a fat bank account.

  “You done for the night?”

  “Nah.” Stillman stopped at the junction of two sidewalks. “I’m studying for my Art History final with a girl over in West Quad.” Stillman winked at him. “How’s your quota on tail these days?”

  “Hah. My steady date is O Chem.”

  “And she’s butt ugly. But at least you pulled it out.” Stillman rubbed his gloved hands together. “I gotta get out of this cold.”

  Lee went for it. “Think I could read your packet before you turn it in? I would love to double-check my conclusions, since I had to rush the labs. I could look at your paper first thing in the morning, and you could turn it in afterwards.”

  Stillman frowned. “Sounds like you want to dry lab. I can’t do it. That would be cheating. After growing up in a Bible-beating preacher’s house, there’s no way I could lie, cheat, or steal. You’re so conscientious, Lee, I’ll bet your paper’s great the way it is.” He motioned toward the Quads. “I gotta go now. After Christmas, let’s grab a beer.”

  Shit. Lee felt as if someone had punched him in the stomach, but he couldn’t let Stillman know it. “Nah, I wouldn’t know how to dry lab. I just thought it’d be good to compare our reports.” He shrugged to indicate that it didn’t matter, although the polar opposite was true.

  Lee clapped Stillman on the shoulder. “Right. You’re on for a beer when we return from break. But now, I need fuel. Thought I’d grab a burger, then bury myself back in the library.”

  “Later.” Stillman bowed his head against the wind and moved in the direction of the West Quad without waiting for Lee’s reply.

  Lee pulled up the hood of his coat and started in the direction of the university beer and burger hangout two blocks off campus. By the time he reached the edge of campus, the anxiety consuming him had taken over.

  His lab results were sketchy; he could massage them all night, but it wouldn’t help. He needed to ace the paper to save a decent grade in Organic Chemistry. Everything he’d ever worked for rode on this class. Everything. His family was counting on him, and failure was not an option.

  He staggered off the sidewalk to the line of lonely, barren trees. Lee clutched his midsection and bent over with nausea. The remnants of food and coffee in his stomach spewed out onto the ground. He vomited again and again until he had nothing left. Still, dry heaves racked his body. A jackhammer pounded in his head, and his belly ached. Shivers of cold and exhaustion shook him. He wiped his mouth across the sleeve of his coat. Tears burned his eyes.

  It wasn’t fair.

  He had done his part, and his lab partner had dumped on him. He knew it was fruitless to appeal to “One Letter Grade Johnson,” his O Chem prof. Late, even one minute late, turning in an assignment cost you one letter grade. Excuses cost you one letter grade. More than one grammatical error in an assignment cost you one letter grade.

  Lee sucked in the frigid air. Why bother to finish? It was impossible to get an A with the data he had scraped together the last three weeks. Dropping it now would look so bad on his transcript that he’d be denied admission to any reputable med school. Lee knew in his heart that he’d make a decent physician, even though it was an obligation rather than a choice. Stillman, on the other hand, seemed driven to achieve the income of a doctor, nothing more. The injustice of it burned in him.

  He had two choices: give up or take control and seize what was rightfully his.

  Lee looked at his watch. Although it seemed like an eternity, only minutes had passed since he parted with Stillman. He knew what he had to do, and even though it violated his every principle, sometimes Machiavelli was right. The end justifies the means.

  An hour later, Lee waited outside Sherry’s window. He shivered and paced under the row of oak and maple trees beside the dormitory. Surely she’d be asleep by now. He’d given it thirty minutes after her window had darkened. Luckily for him, he’d been an RA in this dorm his sophomore year and knew every inch of its floors. He had looked Sherry up in the directory; it had been a cinch to count off the windows to her room.

  He pulled his coat up to his chin and swung his backpack over his shoulder. A girl Lee had known from his Calculus II class last year lived in this dorm. She’d flirted with Lee all year and last week asked him to meet for coffee between finals. Although Lee had put her off initially, now she became his ticket inside.

  Lee waltzed inside to the dorm’s front desk and called her room. When the girl arrived, two other students were studying in the main lounge, so Lee followed her to the back recreation room. Admitting that finals were swamping him now, Lee suggested that they meet for lunch the first week after Christmas break, and they agreed on a day. Then Lee volunteered to exit the dorm by the back door—it was closer to the library.

  The heavy-duty tape Lee had used to reinforce a textbook was still in his backpack. The girl didn’t notice when he slapped a piece of tape to the bolt as he pulled the door closed behind him.

  Lee knew this moment was his chance.

  He waited five minutes and re-entered the building. He quickly removed the tape from the bolt on the dorm door, then found and pulled a fire alarm. Lee slipped into the utility closet on the first floor. He heard the fire alarm ringing and footsteps running past the closet. Alarmed girls’ voices rose and fell in volume as the residents headed out of the building.

  When the footsteps died down, he ran up the stairwell farthest from the door and peered down the hall, looking in both directions. No one. Lee relied on Sherry to have had the good sense to leave the building. He ran d
own the hall. He’d pretend to be a “sweeper,” one who looks for people not yet evacuated, if anyone saw him.

  He turned the knob to Sherry’s room. Yes—she’d left it unlocked. The light was on, but to Lee’s luck, curtains covered the windows. He closed the door behind him and rushed to her desk. There, on the far side, sat a stack of large envelopes. He ripped the top one open, careful not to damage the contents. It was Stillman’s typed lab packet and report.

  Beneath Stillman’s report, he noticed two more large envelopes, no doubt with other students’ papers inside. Next to the stack of envelopes, a voluminous research paper sat in a pristine cover. He flipped through it. It was Sherry’s British Literature final paper. He let it weigh in his hand as he considered the alternatives. Could he risk destroying her paper in the fire he was going to start?

  A photograph of Sherry, her faced scarred by acne, smiled at him. In the picture, her arms were draped over two brown mutts. The three faces watched him. Lee thought of her, forced by bad dental luck to wear braces with headgear in college, and he couldn’t put her paper in jeopardy. Her life was tough enough. He placed her research paper back on the desk, but closer to the center than it had been before.

  Lee had to work fast. He tucked the envelope with Stillman’s project into his backpack.

  He didn’t feel remorse for what he was doing. Stillman had the raw lab work; he could easily re-create the report, turn it in a day late, and lose only one letter grade. Stillman had the highest grade in the class, so if he got a B on the labs, he could still get an A for the semester.

  Lee placed the other two envelopes on the edge of the desk, sliding them out so that a corner of the envelopes hung over the wastebasket below. Lee knew it was possible that these two envelopes, with students’ term papers inside, would be destroyed. He wouldn’t allow himself to think of those students. Hopefully, flames from the fire he was about to start wouldn’t rise high enough to burn the envelopes.

  In the distance, the horn of a firetruck sounded. Firemen would soon be here to control the blaze. He grabbed the campus newspaper, threw it into Sherry’s metal wastebasket and then topped it off with a handful of typing paper. He lit the blank paper with his lighter.

  It had to look as if Stillman’s paper had slid off the stack of envelopes and fallen into the wastebasket, or been consumed by leaping flames. Please, he thought, don’t let the flames leap that high. Even though Lee could live with Stillman losing a letter grade, he didn’t want to burn anyone’s paper.

  Lee ran out into the hall. It took less than five minutes for him to exit through the side door and slip out into the dark night. He heard the girls tittering in fear and excitement. He could picture them clustered on the grass circle in front of the building. Lee ran for a clump of trees.

  High-pitched screams drew him back to the dorm.

  He circled wide, so if anyone saw him, it would look as though he had come from the library.

  The screams intensified.

  Lee saw the reason. Black and gray smoke seeped from around the window in Sherry’s room. Had the desk ignited? Why hadn’t the firetrucks arrived yet? The sirens had sounded so close. Last month, a prankster had pulled the fire alarm and the trucks had arrived in less than ten minutes.

  He thought of the hard work of the students that he had put in jeopardy, now likely consumed by flames. He felt nauseous. What had he done?

  The wail of the firetrucks split the air. Closer. Closer. The pitch of the girls’ screams changed, and he saw why. Sherry had run back into the building. His stomach clenched. He sprinted toward the dorm. He had to stop her.

  Firemen raced toward the building from the back, where the trucks had rumbled to a stop. The firefighters dashed inside, splitting between the front and side doors.

  Lee stopped his race to the dorm. They would reach her first. He leaned against an oak tree and caught his breath. Please. Find Sherry. Bring her out safely. He repeated his silent prayer over and over.

  The back door to the dorm opened. A firefighter walked out with his arm around Sherry.

  Lee collapsed to his knees and thanked God. The fire sirens silenced. He knew he had to leave and distance himself from the fire. He stood and stumbled away. Sixty paces later, he stopped. With one hand on a tree, Lee bent, racked again by dry heaves. Guilt and fear consumed him, and he shivered as if he’d fallen through the ice of a frozen pond.

  Sunrise was peeking through the blinds in Lee’s room by the time he finished.

  He’d spent the night retyping and rewriting Stillman’s paper, changing the descriptions into his own language. Now even Stillman couldn’t guess Lee had stolen his material. Stillman’s work impressed Lee. He couldn’t imagine a more precise and well-worded document.

  His eyes wandered to the window. The sky had the typical Midwest gray pallor, but streaks of color brightened the horizon.

  He pulled a trash can lid from the bottom of his closet. Black soot caked the inside of the lid. Last winter, he had had the brilliant idea of sharing s’mores with a coed. Bedding her had become an obsession and a distraction. Unfortunately, even building a small fire in his dorm room hadn’t loosened her morals. He’d kept the lid because he was proud of his idea—the Residential Housing Department never had a clue he had built a fire in his room.

  Lee ripped Stillman’s typed report and the envelope into halves, then halves again. He laid the ripped pages of his friend’s labors in the center of the trash can lid and pulled out his cigarette lighter. Then, Lee cracked open the windows in his room, letting in the frigid air. Bending over the lid, he lit the papers. The flame grew immediately. After a few minutes, he doused the fire with a cup of cold coffee.

  Ten minutes later, the ashes had been flushed down the toilet. No evidence remained of his criminal act.

  A couple of hours later, his final lab packet hand-delivered to his professor, Lee stood in line at the Blue Coffee House for an extra-large cup of the high-octane liquid fuel. He hoped to get by with coffee for another few hours, rather than the caffeine-laced pills that many students used during finals.

  The remainder of the day loomed, his duties a blur of library time and one final that night. Everywhere he went, students buzzed with stories of the dorm fire. He pretended to be focused solely on his books, but he strained to hear every word.

  The next night, Lee stood outside the Organic Chemistry room; he scanned the ID numbers for his own. His gut felt like an acid pump on steroids. Even though his finals had ended the day before, he couldn’t join the end-of-term celebrations. He felt no joy.

  “Mr. Mostow, may I have a word with you, please?” The deep voice of his Organic Chemistry professor echoed behind him.

  Lee forced his face into a stoic expression, turned, and nodded. He didn’t trust his voice. He followed his professor’s brisk march to the stairwell. Lee’s breaths came shallow and silent.

  “Mr. Mostow, I must tell you, I read your final labs last night. It was the finest packet I have seen in my thirty years of teaching at this institution. And to think you did it without a lab partner. I am confident your application to medical school next year will be successful. Down the road, don’t rule out research. Your attention to detail and analysis is remarkable for an undergraduate.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Lee shook his prof ’s hand.

  “Now go. Enjoy your holiday. You’ve earned it.” A broad smile spread across the man’s face.

  Lee turned toward the stairs, stopping a foot short of running smack into Stillman, who was leaving the chemistry lab. A putrid shade of gray blanketed Stillman’s face. His shoulders slumped. Only his eyes showed signs of life.

  Stillman gave Lee a dark, penetrating stare that sucked the air right out of Lee’s lungs.

  Behind Lee, footsteps scuffled against the floor.

  “Mr. Jackson, have you resurrected your report yet?” The professor’s voice made both Lee and Stillman jump.

  “No, sir. We’re reassembling the data. Unfortunately, some
of our charts were lost in the fire.” Stillman’s voice broke. “If we could just have to the end of the break—”

  “Absolutely not. That would be unfair to those who managed to complete the work in a timely fashion.”

  Lee edged around Stillman, desperately trying to avoid eye contact. The professor’s next words followed Lee through the hall.

  “Mr. Jackson, I’m afraid because it is the end of the term and this paper counts as your final, if you don’t turn it in today, you and your partner will have to accept zeroes on it, which means you fail my Organic Chemistry class. I suggest you either take it again next summer or fall, or drop out of pre-med.”

  Lee took the stairs down two at a time. He ran to his car parked a block away. Gusts of wind pelted snow through the campus. Other students were also racing to their cars, so the storm wouldn’t strand them. Lee guided his VW Rabbit, already packed for the holiday, to I-94. His foot pressed down on the accelerator as he headed home for Christmas.

  No matter how loud Lee cranked the volume on the car’s tape player, he couldn’t drown out the professor’s words to Stillman.

  17

  Los Angeles, California

  Rune, one year after college, rocked his head in time to the blaring music. The walls shuddered from the bass and the crowd’s screams. He eased open the back stage entrance, peeked outside, and slammed it shut again behind the broad backs of the bodybuilder duo who guarded the door. The groupies spilled like vomit over the sidewalk outside the back entrance. His hands rubbed together.

  Mick ran up to Rune from the edge of the stage. A shit-ass grin stretched across Mick’s face. Coked already.

  Mick’s entire body jiggled in time to the finale. He shouted to be heard. “Last encore. Be ready to run. Grab the hottest two chicks on your way through the crowd. I’ll do the same. The muscles fill the last limo with anybody that’ll blow them.”

  Mick grabbed Rune’s cheeks between his palms. “I told you, dude. Metal bands are the ticket.” Mick’s head tilted back, sending his high-pitched scream to the stars. “Sex ... drugs ... and rock-and-roll!”