Gerald drove her home and took her clothes off. It was only after sex that he told her it was over. At least he had wanted her, that one last time.
She rolled over and faced the wall, hugging Henry close.
And now, Bruce in the janitor’s closet. I know you have all sorts of skills, he had said. Indeed, she did, and Clay’s party was where they’d have another chance, unencumbered by Griswold’s rules.
If she could just get her mother to send her the train fare, she could go.
In the city, anything was possible.
SEVEN
A week before fall break, Eve sat in her dorm room in Londry watching Tabitha comb her long hair. The strands were so fair they seemed almost white. Every now and then, several would be borne into the air on gravity-defying static. Tabitha had a childlike face and large, surprised eyes. But her body was full-figured, and the contrast made her look like a Playboy cartoon. Eve imagined walking into Clay’s party with her, a girl who looked like she’d stepped out of a brothel in a Hollywood Western.
“Where are you guys going tonight?” Eve asked.
“The Mee-ill,” said Tabitha. The Mill was the only decent restaurant for miles. “Stefan had to make reservations a week ago!”
What a backwater Wormley was, thought Eve. At Lutèce in the city people had to get reservations months ahead. It was never worth it, and Eve would bet that The Mill would not be either.
“Think he would translate this?” Eve held out the index card. Tabitha squinted at it. She rarely wore her glasses, which had lenses as thick as soda bottles.
“It’s in German,” Eve explained.
“We’re kind of in a hurry, but you can ay-ask.”
Eve looked at the note again; David’s beautiful handwriting had smudged in her bag.
The door opened. “Steffie!” Tabitha cried, throwing her arms around the solid mass of her boyfriend. Stefan was wearing leather shorts, woolly knee socks, and a Loden coat with hammered silver buttons. He looked like a Christmas tree ornament.
“What’s the occasion?” Eve asked, trying to keep a straight face.
“As if we need one.” Tabitha blushed, stroking Stefan’s arm.
“We must go, Schatzie.”
“Could you tell me what this says?” Eve held out the card.
Stefan studied it, furrowing his soft pink brow.
“He iss very in love with you.”
Eve felt herself blush.
“Who’s it from?” Tabitha asked, peering at it.
“David McClurken.”
Tabitha gave a small squeak. “That punk guy?”
Explaining that David was new wave, not punk, would be a waste of breath, so Eve just nodded.
Tabitha looked worried. Boys in Texas probably never wore black unless they were going to their grandmother’s funeral.
Stefan translated:
“If only you knew, what I alone know,
If only I knew, what you alone know,
If you only knew what you wanted,
Would you know what I want?”
“Excellent German,” he said. “He must be a native speaker.”
Eve shook her head.
Stefan looked at her dubiously, as if such language skills were beyond Americans.
“Come, Tabbilein.” Stefan reached for Tabitha, who gave Eve a quick, apologetic shrug as they hurried off to supper.
What an exquisite poem.
Eve wondered how on earth Tabitha had a boyfriend and she didn’t. Maybe she was too picky. Being discerning was not the road to happiness, that was for sure. Stefan was handsome and all, but who wore traditional Bavarian garb to a restaurant in Connecticut? None of it seemed to bother Tabitha, who continued to think he was the best ornament on the tree.
Eve looked in the mirror. She wasn’t pretty, but her narrow face and sharp cheekbones did make her dark eyes larger and more striking. An interesting face, but with few soft edges. Everything about Eve’s features telegraphed “complicated.” Boys like David liked to believe they could see through her tough exterior. Black turtleneck, Nietzsche, repetitive industrial music—he was the type that always went for Eve’s particular bouquet of Sturm und Drang.
Eve pulled out her sketchbook and started to draw his portrait.
She put down her pencil. “You have a beautiful profile,” Mr. Winkler had said, “like a Picasso.” Coming from him that had been a compliment. So why had she been so nervous? She wasn’t a baby. And what an idiot she was for bringing up Flaubert and showing how little she had understood. He was probably still laughing about it. What would it be like to kiss him? What if he did it and she didn’t know how to kiss him back? That would be far worse than misquoting Salinger. Maybe she could practice on David.
There was a knock. “Phone!”
Eve threw her sketchbook in the desk drawer and ran down the hall to pick up the receiver. God, she hoped it was India. Her friend would dispense sage advice, one way or the other.
“Hello?”
“Darling.”
“Hi, Mom!” Eve slumped on the stool in the tiny phone booth.
“How are you, pumpkin?”
She thought about making something up, but David and Mr. Winkler were rattling around her brain.
“So-so,” she admitted.
“Why just so-so?”
“It’s Saturday night. There’s nothing to do. I’m bored.” Eve could hear her mother pause, having always said that only boring people got bored. Tonight Deirdre let it go. Eve tilted the stool backward, reading the graffiti left by students through the ages. Graham my darling, “in absentia.” What did that even mean?
“I saw in the newsletter that they have an excellent selection of films at the Bradley.” Eve imagined her mother running a red nail over the film schedule pinned to the corkboard in the kitchen. She could almost smell Chanel No. 5 wafting through the phone.
“Yeah, La Dolce Vita,” Eve said. “They played that last Saturday too.”
“Can’t complain about that! Your father says hello. He just got in the shower.” Eve couldn’t help imagining Frederick’s hairy ass. Her parents had read some child psychology book from the 1970s about not hiding your body from your children. She tolerated it until she was thirteen, when she asked her naked father not to walk around naked anymore. Eve would never forget his look of hurt. Now she had to cleave the image of her father and the Wanker in half, stuffing them into opposite sides of her cortex.
“Mom, I think I’m homesick.”
There was a silence, but Eve knew what her mother was thinking. Eve had begged to come here. She had no right to complain. Eve felt tears come to her eyes and was glad for the privacy of the tiny phone booth.
“You’ll be home soon for fall break.” Her mother’s voice was chirpy with cheer.
Eve was counting the days. “Can I bring my friend Justine? She’s really cool and smart, you’ll love her, she reads poetry and her parents—”
“There’s a fabulous book called Justine,” Deirdre interrupted.
“Really? I’ve heard it’s total porn!”
“Not at all! It’s romantic and beautiful—I read the whole Quartet one summer in college. I’ll find my copy and send it to you.”
A sadomasochist book in a care package from her mother? Nothing made any sense. Eve traced a heart with Tina loves Greg. She wondered how long ago it had been etched into the wall. Did Greg love Tina back? Bet he didn’t write poems in German.
“How’s English?”
“Catcher in the Rye.”
“In tenth grade?”
“Couldn’t agree more.”
“I’m sure your teacher has her reasons.”
“His.” Eve heard her voice jump several decibels. “I should go, I have a paper on the Bayeux Tapestry.”
“Ooh, wha
t fun! We miss you terribly, darling.”
She missed her mother too. In fact, she ached to be home.
“Mom?”
“Mmm?”
“Love you.” Eve hung up.
* * *
• • • • • • •
Justine was leaning against the wall blowing smoke rings into the wind when Eve rounded the corner.
“Great news, the mother figure said you could stay with us for fall break weekend!”
“Yay!” Justine said, throwing her arms around Eve. “Does that mean we can go to Clay’s?” Cressida had not sent her a dime.
“Of course! Jesus, it’s freezing.” Eve said, pulling her coat around her.
“I need to tell you about Bruce,” Justine said. She blew another smoke ring, and Eve watched it wiggle away. “He came to my room the other night and we fooled around and Thursday we had a tryst in the library.”
Eve felt a stab of admiration. “Wow, good work.” It wasn’t only Tabitha who was getting somewhere. She squinted at the illuminated limestone flanks of the arts center, wondering if the Wanker knew it spelled FUCK.
“David wrote me an amazing poem.”
“David’s sexy,” Justine replied. “I saw him at soccer today. He does have that Michelangelo body.”
He did, it was true. Eve closed her eyes. “I’m thinking of losing it to him. Just out of sheer ennui.”
“It’s a constant struggle.”
“That was a confession,” Eve said, waiting for Justine to look horrified.
But Justine just shrugged. “I knew anyway.”
Eve pulled out a cigarette, Justine lit a match. Eve leaned toward the flame. It blew out instantly.
“Gimme.” Justine lit it under her down jacket. She exhaled and handed it to Eve.
Eve smoked in silence, wondering how Justine had known. She hadn’t realized it was so obvious. Screaming “I’m a virgin, I’m a virgin” was not good, maybe worse than being “complicated.” She’d never throw off the yoke at this rate. Eve wanted to ask Justine how many guys she had slept with, but she didn’t want to pry, or appear more naïve. She sucked on her cigarette and hoped her silence implied complicity and mutual knowledge.
“Whatcha gals doing?” Stanley said, setting his boom box on the bench.
“Our nails,” Eve said. “Why aren’t you at Fellini?”
“Seen it.”
“Which one?” Justine asked.
“Dolce Vita,” Eve told her.
“What does Justine need with film?” Stanley asked. “She’s been living it, in the janitor’s closet with Bruce.”
Even in the dim light Eve could see Justine redden.
“How’d you hear?” Justine asked.
“Word travels,” Stanley replied.
The film must have ended; kids were streaming out of the arts center. Even from this far away, they could hear them belting out a song.
“How can someone see a Fellini film and then sing ‘American Pie’?” Eve laughed, flicking her cigarette into the night.
“Top forty is the opiate of the masses,” Stanley said. “Speaking of, I found out we can do our own show, ten to midnight is free at the radio station, Fridays. I am a DJ, I am what I play,” he sang. Eve and Stanley started chatting excitedly about having their own radio program, but Justine couldn’t listen.
What had Bruce said about her? When boys bragged it was often embellished, and not in a good way.
Eve was lighting up again. “Anyway, it means asking Tibbets for permission.” She tried, unsuccessfully, to blow a smoke ring.
Stanley shrugged and pressed a button, and “Young Americans” began to play. Took him minutes, took her nowhere, heaven knows she’d have taken anything . . .
That song had always depressed her.
“Miss Straus?” The Wanker appeared like a genie. Justine saw Eve drop her cigarette in the dirt—too late. He beckoned Eve with his finger. Silently, she followed the teacher up the hill.
Justine glanced at Stanley. His eyes bulged. They both were thinking the same thing; Eve was screwed.
* * *
• • • • • • •
Eve followed the Wanker’s corduroy ass up Elm. Her stomach was in a foul knot, the taste of tobacco souring in her mouth. All was lost. What was he going to do to her?
When they reached his apartment, the teacher held open the door. Eve shuffled in. The portrait above the mantel frowned down. There was no tea service on the coffee table this time, and the hearth was cold. Eve didn’t remove her coat.
She stood trembling.
“What on earth were you doing smoking?” he was saying. “You don’t have parental permission, and anyone could have seen you!” He gestured around the room.
“I . . .” She’d never make him understand what it was like to be in that phone booth, tracing the heart, hearing her mother, reading David’s poem, watching Tabitha flounce off with Stefan.
“It’s just that I’m . . . I’m so depressed!” It was the excuse she could think of, but now, for some reason, she burst into hot tears. “I hate Griswold!” Eve slumped onto the sofa and buried her head in her hands.
The teacher sat beside her. “Come on, it can’t be that bad.” Eve couldn’t speak, sobs racking her chest. She couldn’t believe she was crying in front of him, but she couldn’t stop. He held out a box of tissues.
“Breathe.” He gave her a gentle smile.
Eve took one and wiped her face. “I’m so sorry.”
“Hush. It took me time to adjust to Griswold too.”
She wondered how long he had been at the school.
“Tell me what you hate so much.”
Everything. She missed her bed. She hated sharing a dorm room. She couldn’t stand the food. She couldn’t bear to read Catcher in the Rye again. She didn’t have a clue how to talk to David. She was a shitty painter. Though she really liked Justine, they had only known one another a few weeks. And Clay was an old buddy, but Clay was a guy. She missed India. She missed home. And now she was going to get suspended.
Eve turned her teary face toward him. “Everything’s so different from what I expected, and the kids are just . . .” She trailed off, not knowing how to define feeling like a black crow in a dovecote.
“I understand, it’s a big change,” he said. “You just arrived, and it takes time to find your place. But”—he sighed and shook his head—“breaking rules won’t help anything. You’ve put me in a terrible position.”
“Please don’t tell! My parents will kill me. Please, Mr. Winkler, I’ll do anything!” Her voice was ragged with desperation.
She fell to her knees before him. “Please!”
“Get up.”
She flushed and sat back on the sofa, face burning with shame.
“It would have been easier for me to let you off if you’d been alone . . .” He threw the tissue box on the coffee table. “What if I overlook it this one time but then one of those friends of yours says something?” He thought for a moment, stroking his beard. “Eve . . . you deserve another chance.”
She felt dizzy with relief.
“How about I take you to supper and give you a strong talking to?”
“That’s it?” she asked, trying to keep her voice steady. “Just supper?”
“What do you mean, that’s it?” he said. “I’m offering you a punishment. Take it or leave it.”
“That’s amazing but . . . can that solve this?”
“Oh, Eve . . .” He stood up and walked over to the mantel, propping an elbow on the stone. “I think it can. I do.”
She didn’t believe it would be that easy, but she didn’t trust her judgment at all anymore. Eve tried to smile. “Thank you so much, Mr. Winkler. Which dining hall should we go to?”
He laughed. “Dining hall? We’ll eat at an
actual restaurant!”
Eating out with her teacher. Dressing up, using real table linens—Eve hadn’t realized how much she missed evenings out with her parents.
“Consider it detention. Extracurricular detention.” He sat back down beside her and touched her knee reassuringly. Then he left his hand there.
Eve could feel her leg trembling. He took his hand away.
“So,” Eve said, “you won’t bust me?”
Mr. Winkler held out his little finger. “Pinkie swear.” They shook.
Eve stood up and wondered if kissing a man with a beard would be like going down on a girl. She hated the fact that her brain went to those places. He was right, it was not always a gift.
“It’s a plan. Next Saturday. I’ll reserve a table at The Mill,” he said, standing up.
Eve wondered what her mother would say if she knew she’d been invited to dinner with her teacher. She’d probably be relieved.
EIGHT
Fall Break
Justine and Eve slouched in their seats as the train lurched toward the city. Outside it was drizzling, that almost-freezing rain that made Eve think of England. Next to her, Justine was looking out the window—she was so beautiful, the slope of her nose like that of a countess, the pouty mouth rouged hot pink. Eve wondered what kind of mark Justine would leave on a boy.
She turned to look at the man across the aisle. He was asleep, his pants smeared with stains. A hairy strip of belly rose and fell between his shirt and belt as he breathed. Eve stared, mesmerized. What if she crept across the floor, knelt between his knees, and unbuckled his belt? She might be able to unzip his fly before he woke up. She shuddered at the thought of his expression. How big would he be? How would it taste? Other than her father, she had never seen a grown man naked. If only she knew what to expect. No matter how bad it was, the unknowing was worse.
“Is Bruce going to the party?” Eve asked.
Age of Consent Page 5
