by Mary Pagones
Chapter 22
Increasing My Love By Suspense
Returning to school is a relief, since I don’t have to deal with the relentlessness of Livy’s silence or my father stressing out about my college acceptances. Most of the schools I applied to won’t let me know until April. It’s going to be a long four months.
Mr. Clarke looks like his old self the first day back. He just nods stiffly to me when I walk through the door, as if to tell me to forget his Central Park confession.
We’ve moved onto the Brontës. Mr. Clarke opens his lecture by relating how the author Emily Brontë sterilized her own wound with a hot poker when she was bitten by a potentially rabid dog, and then went about her day. “Conditions were harsh where the Brontë sisters lived in remote Yorkshire,” he says. “Wuthering Heights was horrifying not only to Victorian sensibilities, but still has the power to shock many modern readers.”
Try me, I think. I’m beyond horror and shock. And not just because I’ve read Wuthering Heights a million times before.
Mr. Clarke has replaced the Chaucer poster with a map of the United Kingdom on corkboard. He uses colored pushpins to show us the great distance between the Haworth Parsonage, where the Brontë sisters lived, the fashionable Bath of Jane Austen’s heroines, and London. I admit that when I read Wuthering Heights before, I sort of thought of all the events happening in a kind of fairytale kingdom. Other than London, I’m kind of sketchy about the location of all of the places in the books I’ve read so many times. Mr. Clarke says Jane’s birthplace in Hampshire is just as remote in its own way as Haworth, but is in the south. He sticks another pushpin in when I raise my hand to ask him where it is.
Before I leave, Mr. Clarke stops me and says, “Ms. Tennant, I reflected upon my biases in regards to Pride and Prejudice and…I realize I probably am overly familiar with the book. That may have influenced my judgement of your last paper. I’ve decided to raise your grade from a B+ to an A–.”
“Wow, Mr. Clarke. That means a great deal to me,” I say. I know it won’t make a great difference in terms of my GPA. But in terms of my pride, it does.
I think, involuntarily, about Mr. Clarke reading Pride and Prejudice to his sick wife. It’s hard to connect that image with what I see in class, other than the ring still on his finger.
“Please, for the sake of my sanity and the storage limit on my school email, don’t tell any of your fellow students,” he says.
“Your secret is safe,” I say. “Oh, before I forgot.” I lay the now-carefully washed, monogrammed handkerchief he lent me on his desk. It reads ECA, in cursive. Despite going through the laundry, it still smells faintly like ashes. My teacher pockets it without comment.
“Charlotte Holland asked me to go to prom,” says Calvin at lunch.
“She does know you’re dating Franklin, doesn’t she?” I ask.
“The after-prom party for Charlotte and her friends is going to be at some hotel in Princeton.”
“Charlotte has friends? Other than you, I mean?”
“The other members of the National Honor Society and their dates.”
“Sounds like a wild night.”
“You’re being pretty sassy, Little Miss Bonnet-head. Before prom, Charlotte and her friends are going out to dinner at this French restaurant. In Princeton. Of course.”
“Calvin, you’re seriously not going to whore yourself out as a prom date to a girl who is hard up because she’s a total tool, and dump your perfectly nice boyfriend?” I ask.
“I’m not dumping anyone, it’s just stupid prom. I admit I appreciate the offer to whore myself out. ‘Who better to go with to prom than my GBF?’ she asked when she proposed.”
“Oh God,” I say, and put my head in my hands.
“GBF?” asks Jacqui.
“Gay best friend,” I say. “Calvin, have you no self-respect at all?”
“I told her I’d think about it.”
“If I were Franklin, I’d break up with you for even contemplating going to prom with someone else.”
“I’m not contemplating, I’m letting her down gently.”
“It’s kinder to be quick, rather than let her linger in pain. Does that mean that you’re not my GBF? I’m so hurt, Calvin,” I say.
“Look, she meant well, Liss. Have some class and stop trying to beat up on her all of the time. She’s lonely,” says Calvin.
“So am I. I’ve given up on love. I know Mr. Darcy doesn’t exist.” Despite my resolution to get lots of writing done over break, I can’t bear to touch my Mary/Wickham novel. The file has remained unopened since the day after Christmas. I can’t deal with Pemberley on Facebook, either. I haven’t posted there in ages.
Jacqui takes out a box of chocolates from her bag. “Forgive me if I believe in love. Look what Martin sent me this morning!”
“Why would he do something like that?” I ask.
“You’re such a romantic, Liss,” says Calvin.
“I meant it’s not a holiday or anything,” I snap back. Christmas is over. Valentine’s Day is still a month away.
“It says, just for being your sweet self,” says Jacqui, reading the enclosed note. “Isn’t that the best kind of gift, one which takes you by complete surprise? And is given for no real reason?”
I reach over and take a chocolate. They’re sculpted to look like old-fashioned Victorian cameos of women’s heads. The first one I nibble is dark chocolate filled with raspberry jelly.
What’s wrong with me that I can’t I find a guy like this? “Hugh never gave me so much as a fun-sized bag of M&Ms.”
Thank goodness my whole life doesn’t rest upon the wisdom of my choice of partner like it did for Elizabeth Bennet. Elizabeth was lucky Darcy was willing to reveal Wickham’s nature.
I’ve gotten to the point where I don’t trust myself at all. Maybe I should just become a business major and be done with it. Do the complete opposite of what my desires and inclinations are. Put aside my Regency dress and Jane Austen novels. Put down my sword.
“Have you heard? I was so excited this morning I forgot to buy lunch,” says Charlotte, taking a seat while brandishing a cafeteria tray of normal food like the rest of us. She’s late and breathless. I notice she’s wearing a black Princeton hoodie and skinny jeans today. Like she’s dressing down, although she’s still wearing her beautiful cognac-colored leather boots. She’s got a new orange Princeton backpack.
“So, what school are you going to again, Charlotte?”
She smiles. “What can I say? Always reppin’.”
“You picked a perfect day to buy, rather than bring, your lunch. Grilled cheese is on the menu,” I say.
“Noel was caught cheating in AP Calculus BC!” Charlotte blurts out.
“Wait, slow down, too many letters,” says Calvin.
I look over at Jacqui. Her mouth is hanging open. Given that Hugh’s been getting the answers for the AP History multiple choice tests, this isn’t surprising. I select another cameo-shaped chocolate. Milk chocolate and peanut butter. Between the expensive chocolates, grilled cheese, and National Honor Society drama, I’ve lucked out this lunchtime.
“That’s impossible,” says Jacqui. “I’ve studied with Noel; he’s genuinely gifted at math. He has no reason to cheat.”
“Well, a bunch of the kids had all of the same wrong answers, which immediately raised suspicions…” says Charlotte.
“Sometimes smart folk can be pretty dumb,” I say, tucking into my grilled cheese. The rye discs, crisp with oil, make a sharp, angry crunching sound when I bite into them. It’s so satisfying, I take my time to chew and savor. The sandwich came with a little container of lukewarm tomato soup in a paper cup, peas, and what I think is vanilla pudding. “Not you, Jacqui. I mean other smart people.” Poor Jacqui looked crushed.
I can tell Charlotte is a bit taken aback I didn’t include her in my category of smart people, but she recovers quickly. “Don’t worry, Jacqui. They know we didn’t cheat. We’re not doing well enough in
Calculus BC. Like you, I’m only pulling a B+ in math this semester.” She takes a dainty bite of her grilled cheese and sips her soup. “Of course, last year I got an A in AP Calculus AB. Senior year, everyone has so much work applying to college, people get lazy.” Charlotte sounds like she is looking down upon all of this from up high. “Ten students were involved.”
I can’t believe, with all the cheating that goes on at the school, that the one time people get caught, Hugh isn’t one of them. He’s not taking Calculus BC, he’s in pre-calculus purgatory with me, so I know he’s not one of the ten. He leads a truly charmed life.
“So what’s going to happen?” I say.
“They’ll retake the exams they cheated on for a reduced grade,” says Charlotte.
“Seems pretty lenient,” I say.
“It’s going to hurt their averages,” she says.
“It should hurt their averages! They cheated!” I say. Isn’t this obvious? Has the world gone mad(der)?
“They don’t want to completely ruin their lives. Noel’s no longer president of the National Honor Society, obviously. Kara, the vice-president, was also involved.”
“As treasurer, does that mean you’re now president, Charlotte?” I ask. “Is there a line of succession, like, in case of an assassination?”
“Ha! I wish,” she says. “No, we’re going to have a special election. This has never happened before!”
“At least, not so anyone was aware of it,” I mutter.
There’s silence as we all finish up our lunch except Jacqui, who still looks as if she just learned Noel was actually assassinated. For me, the biggest disappointment is the pudding, which looked like vanilla but is actually fake, artificial banana flavor. I give the little cup to Calvin. He really has no standards. He even ate the peas and tomato soup. I assume all the smoking has deadened his taste buds.
When Charlotte goes to throw away her trash, leaving her Princeton bag on her chair as her placeholder, I observe, “I bet she’s offended no one asked if she wanted the answers.”
“Elisa Tennant! You are so evil!” says Calvin. He spins his pentagram ring and shows it to me, like he expects me to kiss it. I roll my eyes. He returns to his banana pudding.
“They knew she’d sing like a wounded canary if she got caught. Good for your Calculus teacher, Jacqui, for being one step ahead of Noel and his little cabal. I’m tired of National Honor Society kids getting a free pass, just because the school wants to have a long list of impressive colleges the seniors have gotten into,” I say.
“I feel so bad for Noel, given how his whole high school existence has been focused on getting into a top college. Low grades on a bunch of calculus tests are going to hurt his chances,” says Jacqui. “Now he has to study for them, on top of his other work.”
“You’re a saint, Jacqui,” I say. “If he does go to Rutgers, he can always transfer in a year to someplace else so his parents can put more points on the ol’ American Express card.”
Charlotte’s Princeton bag sits there, mocking me.
“Liss, please believe me when I say Noel does not need to cheat on math tests. I know him. It’s probably because he’s such a people pleaser, he felt guilty not going along with his friends when they asked.”
“There may be some truth in what you say, but that doesn’t make me think better of him. Quite the opposite, in fact,” I fire back. Then I see Jacqui’s face and shut up.
As we leave the cafeteria, Calvin asks me, “Are you okay, Liss? You seem unusually bitter today.” Calvin knows there’s more behind my foul mood than le scandal of Noel’s cheating. My French class is next, so I’m mentally preparing.
“I’ll explain later.”
“Stop over my house.”
“I thought you were seeing Franklin tonight.”
“So did I, but I’m involuntarily babysitting, so it’s not going to be quality time.”
Although my house isn’t very fancy, it’s pretty neat and clean because my father’s very organized (one side effect of being a teacher) and my sister and I do help out. Calvin’s house is genuinely falling apart. You can’t walk on certain porch steps because the wood is rotten. There’s a moldy smell in the air, maybe because of the ancient wallpaper and musty shag carpeting. Some rooms are reliably too cold in the winter while others are reliably too hot in the summer. His parents are always working and with four kids, they have even less spare time and money than my father to keep up appearances. Calvin’s father enjoys working on old cars on his day off, so there’s often one or two rusty metal frames in the backyard, near a freestanding garage full of mysterious junk.
Like my family, Calvin’s family seems to eat lots of simple meals, but his refrigerator is filled with TV dinners and kid-friendly stuff like cartoon-shaped waffles. I’ve never seen fruit or vegetables in his house except bananas. There isn’t much real food, period, which might be why Calvin’s always hungry, all of the time.
Despite this, Calvin never fails to offer me a snack, even if it’s just peanut butter and jelly on generic white bread or store-brand cookies.
As I tell Calvin and Franklin the full story about Hugh’s cheating in history class, Calvin’s two youngest sisters, Martha and Eileen, fight over who gets to play with the family iPad in the background. Franklin asks if they should be separated when Eileen, the older of the two, starts wrestling Martha to the ground. Although he sits close to Calvin, Franklin looks so neat and clean, he’s a bit out-of-place in the environment. Calvin—with his dog walk-a-thon t-shirt full of bleach stains and silver rings and black nail polish adorning his fingers—seems part of the decaying scenery.
When Martha bites her sister’s hand and Franklin taps his shoulder, Calvin shrugs his boyfriend off. “As long as she doesn’t break this skin, it’s all good.” I guess since Eileen is still clutching the iPad, she couldn’t have been bitten very hard.
After he learns about Hugh cheating in history, Calvin laughs. “On top of the grandfather disinheriting Catherine and Hugh sleeping with your sister, that family is pretty fucked up.”
“Hooked up with my sister.”
“I’m trying to make it seem even more dramatic.”
“I don’t think adding more drama is necessary.”
Now Calvin’s two sisters are playing tug-of-war with the iPad. Martha uses her free hand to grab a hunk of her opponent’s hair. Eileen screams. “Jesus H. Fucking Christ Superstar, you’re worse than the yapping dogs,” Calvin says to them. “Shut up.”
“I’m telling Mom you took the name of Jesus in vain, Calvin.”
Given that Calvin’s played Judas in Jesus Christ Superstar, her piety seems to come a bit late. Although, come to think of it, I don’t think his parents ever saw him in that production. Or any of Calvin’s performances.
“If the two of you don’t stop fighting, I’m going to crate you both, like a couple of puppies.” Calvin intervenes and takes away the iPad, finally. “You’re getting on my nerves. Do homework or something. Or go to the backyard and quietly murder one another out of my sight.” There’s a rusty swing set out back, and the two girls run outside in its direction, still fighting. When they are out of the room, Franklin gets up, puts his arms around Calvin, and kisses his boyfriend on the neck, quickly and casually. Calvin looks surprised. A rare moment of off-stage sincerity passes over his face that looks something like happiness.
“I love you, but you’re the worst babysitter in the world,” Franklin says to his boyfriend.
“Shut up. I’ve watched them since I was barely old enough to be left alone myself,” says Calvin, slapping on his usual mask of a smirk. “I’m so fucking over it.”
“Are you going to turn Hugh in?” Franklin asks me, sitting back down besides Calvin. Calvin’s poured us all glasses of apple juice and put out some vanilla sandwich cookies.
“Who do I look like, Charlotte Holland?” I ask, nibbling the edge of the wafer. “I’m just frustrated Hugh gets away with so much. Have either of you ever cheated?”
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Franklin shakes his head. “This one,” says Calvin, grinning at Franklin, “Actually deserves to get into the National Honor Society. While I’ve had offers to cheat, usually the process is even more complicated than just actually winging it, so I’m not interested. I’ve done as well as I need to, nothing more, nothing less.” Calvin breaks open a cookie and then begins licking it suggestively, crossing his eyes at Franklin. He seems more comfortable with this exaggerated coming-on to his boyfriend than the kiss.
“Kind of like your attitude towards babysitting,” says Franklin.
“You’re an only child, Franklin, so you don’t understand,” says Calvin, stuffing the cookie part into his mouth. “Right, Liss?”
“I never had to babysit, but having Livy so close in age generated other problems. Where is Rachel, anyway?” Rachel is Calvin’s oldest sister.
“Upstairs, being sick. She went right to bed when she came home. Probably has a test tomorrow and is trying to get out of going to school.”
“Shouldn’t you check on her?” asks Franklin. Calvin starts licking the innards of another cookie. I split open one of mine and begin to scrape off the filling with my teeth. When neither of us move, Franklin goes upstairs.
I tell Calvin about the dance studio being closed. “I guess Catherine wasn’t paying her rent. Now she’s just planning her wedding to the creepy, old, rich real estate guy, Bernie.”
“I hope you keep dancing,” says Calvin. “You’re too talented to let it go to waste.”
“Not at ballet I’m not,” I say.
“So fucking what, you’re awesome at musical theater-type stuff like modern and jazz. That’s all that matters,” he says.
“I will say, Catherine gave me the right foundation. I might not be a born ballerina, but ballet has helped me with other kinds of dancing.”
“It’s like the community theater where I work, which is always about to go under. Lots of talented people in the arts have shitty business sense. So I’ve changed my mind about my major. I’m going to double in theater and business. It’s going to be a bitch, but I figure I can go into arts management.”
