Damon raised his hand.
“Yes, Mr. White?”
“Sorry, Mr. Winkler, just wondering if you got my paper. I slid it under your door over the weekend.”
“I received it on Saturday afternoon. It was due Friday.”
“I was in the infirmary Friday,” Damon said.
“I’ve marked it late. But if you get a note from the nurse, maybe I’ll reconsider.”
Damon gave him a dirty look.
The Wanker paced. He cracked his knuckles.
He swiveled on his heels and faced them. “About your essays. Every year, I hope. Every year my hopes are dashed. To make matters worse, every year the writing quality decreases. The butchery, the lack of respect for the English language! It’s a disease and it’s spreading. But, you all know, it gives me great pleasure”—he ran his finger along the length of Eve’s desk—“to whip you into shape.” With a dramatic turn on his heel, the Wanker unbuckled his briefcase and pulled out a sheaf of papers.
“Miss Huntington, a fairly respectable job.” The paper landed on Irene’s desk with a slap. “Mr. Comerford, truly dreadful. Make an appointment to come see me. Miss Harris, surprisingly well done. Mr. Adams, a train wreck. And, Miss Rubin, don’t think I don’t know when students rely on CliffsNotes.”
The paper landed on her desk. B minus. As if she could afford CliffsNotes! She was paying the price for that weekend in more ways than one.
“Mr. Bradley, mediocre. Miss Straus, you can do better. Much better.”
Justine glanced over, but Eve had leaned forward, arms covering her paper, lips tight. She always got As so maybe it was an A minus for once. The Wanker picked up a piece of chalk and tossed it from one hand to the other.
“Miss Straus,” he said, and Justine detected a hint of menace, “please read the paragraph I highlighted in your essay.” He beckoned with his finger. Eve glared and did not budge.
“Page three. Tell the class what your topic was.”
“I wrote on Vonnegut’s symbolism,” Eve said, her voice barely audible.
Justine wondered what was wrong. Eve usually loved to be called on.
“Stand. Read on, Macduff.”
Eve got to her feet and cleared her throat.
“In Cat’s Cradle, appearances are deceiving. Through the use of irony and parody, Vonnegut endows even the most normal events with a sinister air. An innocent child’s game for most, cat’s cradle terrifies the children of the atom bomb scientist Hoenniker. Their father always neglected them, never played games, and barely speaks. But on the day when the atom bomb was dropped, he played cat’s cradle over and over, obsessively.”
“Continue,” Mr. Winkler said.
Eve swallowed. “The children recognize the destructive power that their father holds over humanity because of his ice-nine invention. Ice-nine is a symbol for nuclear power. Scientists hold the power to wipe everyone out, even if it means they go down as well. Hoenniker’s children know that he is not just playing a game with string, but that his irresponsible games will lead to everyone’s death.”
Eve put down the paper, staring at the teacher with her mouth compressed.
The Wanker surveyed the room, scanning the students’ faces. “Thank you, Miss Straus, please be seated.”
Justine gave her a thumbs-up, but Eve slumped in her chair, staring at the paper on her desk.
“Comments? Rebuttals?” he asked.
Silence.
“Come now! Do you agree with Miss Straus’s assessment of Hoenniker? Is he merely a man acting like a child? Or is he a brilliant scientist?”
Jenny raised her hand.
“Miss Lake? Do enlighten us.”
“He’s kind of both,” Jenny said, “like, he invents these amazing things, but he acts like a kid. Didn’t he have all these weird games and toys in his lab?”
“He did. What do you think that means?” The Wanker’s blue eyes flashed.
“That all adults want to stay kids?”
The class giggled.
Damon spoke. “Humans are like stupid kids playing games that kill.”
“Mr. White, raise your hand. However, your point is well taken.” The Wanker paced the room, rolling the chalk between his fingers. “What is Vonnegut saying about power?”
Justine raised her hand.
“Miss Rubin?”
“I think he means humans are weak. When they have power, they don’t know how to channel it, so they end up destroying the things they care about.”
“Excellent. Is Vonnegut taking a moral stance?”
Justine had to think about that for a moment. “Uh, he must be, but it’s hard to tell what he really thinks.”
Mr. Winkler nodded and looked around for another answer.
Eve’s hand went up and the Wanker walked toward her desk.
“Miss Straus?” The chalk slipped from his hand and fell on the carpet next to Eve’s combat boot.
“Vonnegut doesn’t really talk about morality directly,” Eve said. “I agree with Justine. I think he is saying that humans, adults, are weaklings, and so they destroy themselves and others. People in power always abuse it. I remember somewhere in the book he says, ‘Think about what a paradise this world would be if men were kind and wise.’”
“Yes.” The Wanker’s grin spread in that Cheshire cat expression. “What a paradise indeed.”
* * *
—
Eve and Justine walked across the footbridge. Justine tightened her jacket around her neck against the chill. Below the bridge, the ferns had dried into bare stalks, the trees had lost their leaves long ago.
“Where were you yesterday?” Justine asked. “I schlepped all the way up here and you weren’t in your room.”
“Library.”
“I’d hoped you were with David.”
Eve was silent.
“It’s late October but it feels like it’s going to snow,” Justine observed.
“What difference does it make anyway?” Eve said. Justine glanced at her, suddenly noticing that her eyes were full of tears.
“What’s wrong?”
“Fucking Wanker.” Eve stopped midstep. “The asshole just gave me a B minus.”
“Then why’d he ask you to read it in front of the class?”
“Because it’s frigging good. Know why he gave me a crappy grade?”
Justine looked at her blankly.
“Because he wants me to beg. He’s toying with me. He let me rewrite it, and I did, and then he said how much fun we were going to have. You know exactly what kind of fun he meant.”
“When did he say that?”
“Saturday, at dinner. And then he didn’t even kiss me good night!”
For a moment Justine thought Eve was joking, but she saw that tears were running down Eve’s cheeks.
“I think he looks really good without the beard,” Justine said softly.
“I don’t know what’s going on,” Eve said, sobbing. “Maybe all this shit’s in my head.”
“If you weren’t a virgin you wouldn’t put all this pressure on yourself,” Justine said, touching Eve’s arm. “Why not take a breath and slow down? It’s not a race.” Justine knew she wouldn’t have taken this kind advice, that it was easier said than done.
“I should just lose it to David and get it out of the way. I don’t think I can lose it to a teacher. For the rest of my life I’d have to say . . .”
Justine pushed a wet strand of hair off Eve’s forehead. “I lost mine to a much older guy. He was a partner of my dad’s.”
“Really?”
Justine nodded. “And he was amazing. He knew exactly what to do.” Justine couldn’t help but remember the thickness of Gerald’s tongue in her mouth. The sharp pain and the bleeding. It had gotten better, but at first . . .
Eve looked anxious, pulling open the door to the arts center.
“Bet Wanker’s a hot fuck!” Justine called after her.
* * *
—
Justine stood in the courtyard of the arts center and thought about Eve and Mr. Winkler. Considering the rumors, she wasn’t surprised. The territorial way he would hover by her desk, how he always steered the class discussion in Eve’s direction.
She felt wistful for the time when she had been as fresh and untainted as her friend. It had been a relief to mention Gerald, but Justine was still too ashamed to tell Eve about Bruce. She had gone over the details a hundred times in her mind like clues in a forensics lab, trying to think what she could have done differently. With Gerald, she should have been less available, less childishly adoring. With Bruce, she should have stayed on top, tied him up, had her way with him.
Justine turned around the athletic building to the smoker. Sitting on a bench, throwing stones at the goalposts, was Clay.
“Hey,” she said lightly, sitting a few feet away and pulling out her cigarettes.
“Thought I’d find you here eventually,” he said. A pebble hit the post. “How’re you feeling?”
“Better. I can’t believe how sensitive my stomach is.” She exhaled a perfect smoke ring.
“I heard Alison Smith and Damon were both sick too.”
“Who knew Alison drank?”
“Everyone drinks. There’s nothing else to do in this prison.” He chucked another stone at the goalposts. It missed.
Did he remember their kiss? He had been pretty drunk.
The remaining rocks in Clay’s hand slid into the dust. “Ever feel like none of this is real?” He gestured across the playing field.
“Like everything is a movie and your Walkman is the soundtrack?” she said.
He nodded.
They were silent. Justine blew a few more smoke rings. The bench chilled her through her jeans.
Clay was staring off at the field. “I just sometimes feel like I’m looking at everyone in a fishbowl. All they’re doing is swimming around, eating, and shitting.”
He slid down the bench. To her surprise, he put his arm around her.
“What if someone sees us?” She could kiss him. He was right there.
“They’d think I liked you.”
“They’d never believe it.” She pulled his arm off and stood up.
“Why not?” he frowned.
“You know exactly why. Clay, look, I’m not, I’m . . .” Justine struggled. What could she say, I’m not at your level? That thought was too horrible to verbalize. She saw pity flit across his face. “Don’t feel sorry for me! I hate that!”
“I don’t. I feel sorry for myself.”
“What do you have to worry about?”
Clay stood up, placing both hands on her shoulders. His grip was firm.
“You’ve been to my mother’s house, you’ve met her. And you don’t understand?”
Justine was bewildered. What was there to understand? Barbara was the coolest mom she could imagine—a famous artist. And the family was rich.
Clay leaned closer. She reached out and brushed her fingers over his head. He was a wounded animal, she pulled him into an embrace. He held on to her tightly, soft hair on her cheek. His heart was beating so fast she could feel it through her rib cage.
SIXTEEN
December
Eve struggled down the steps of the science building with a crate of records digging into her fingers. Curfew was eleven but she, Justine, and David had permission to be out an hour later—for this, their first radio show.
The radio station was in a low-ceilinged basement with stained red linoleum floors and garish fluorescent lighting. There were a few metal tables and chairs, and beyond a wall of glass, the DJ booth.
“Where the hell have you been?” Justine exploded. “This was all Stanley’s dumb idea.”
Eve dumped the milk crate on the floor. She massaged her fingers, frowning at Justine’s thunderous face.
“I thought David was going to help!” Justine said, pointing past the glass wall where two guys worked the turntables. Eve gaped in horror; it was like a cockpit, with hundreds of buttons they did not know how to operate.
“Bonsoir!” David said, hurrying in the door. “So sorry I’m late, my parents called.”
He checked his watch then looked from Eve to Justine. He pursed his lips. “Hey, don’t worry! If those dopes can do it so can you. I’ll cue up the song. Who’s talking first?”
Eve pointed at Justine, who stuck out her tongue.
David held open the door to the booth. She was glad that he was here to help, and wondered if tonight might be their moment.
He was telling them to look at the ON AIR sign that lit up when you flipped a switch. Hold the edge of the album. Let the needle slide. Do that when the other person talks. Then he said to Justine, “When I give you the signal, start talking. NOW!”
He pointed to the microphone.
“Good evening, Grizzlies!” she said in a sultry voice Eve had never heard before. The voice she used with boys in bed, Eve thought.
“Justine and Eve here, spinning with you till the witching hour. We’re transmitting over the underground radio waves of WGIZ with a brand-new show. Get ready, get wild.”
David flipped the switch and the song began to play. Peeling off his leather jacket, he looked at Eve. “You look beautiful in headphones.” He turned and chose the next track.
* * *
—
At midnight, they closed the station and walked home. The show had been a brilliant success, with perfect segues between songs, several call-in requests, and not a moment of feedback or dead air. Eve was in such a good mood she barely felt the bitter cold. She and David dropped Justine at Claverly and took their time going to Londry. Even with permission to be out, Eve felt like she was breaking the rules, walking with a boy after midnight. The moonlight shone through the branches of the trees, casting shadows like tangled wire. David walked close beside her.
If he was going to kiss her, he’d need to do it soon, because she could see the dorm lights through the trees.
“Penny for your thoughts?” David asked.
“My dad says that.”
“Hey,” he said. David pulled out a small package in brown paper tied with twine and handed it to her.
Eve began to tear it open.
“Wait! Later, when you’re alone.” She couldn’t meet his eye, and leaned on the railing of the bridge. The wind rustled the desiccated ferns.
“Eve,” David said, leaning on the railing next to her. “I think I might be in love with you.”
Eve swallowed.
“I’m obtuse, and I talk too much, I know, but . . .”
She turned and pulled him toward her, kissing him. When she released him, he looked dazed. Then she kissed him again.
A bird shrieked, and they broke apart.
“Nightjar,” David said. “We should get back.”
At the door of Londry, David whispered, “Wave to me.” Then he kissed her again.
Eve climbed two flights in a dream state. Tabitha was asleep, the moonlight on her silvery hair. She looked like an angel. Through the window Eve waved to David. He placed his hands over his heart, bowed, and turned to walk back across the bridge.
* * *
—
Sunday afternoon Eve watched the raindrops streak the glass, like cells pulsing through a vein. Diamond Dogs played on the turntable and Eve wallowed in the wailing anguish of the saxophone. She could never decide which Bowie album she preferred. Stanley loved Young Americans, but the apocalyptic narrative of this one might make it first for her. Perfect for a rainy Sunday.
Sunday. The dreaded day of homework. Maybe David would try to see her? It was funny that he had the same f
irst name as her rock idol, and she had never made the connection until now.
Eve realized she had forgotten about the package that David had given her on Friday. She took it off her desk and removed the wrapper. James Dickey, Poems 1957–1967. The same book the Wanker had tried to read to her—it must be some kind of conspiracy. She wondered what Mr. Winkler would say when she told him she had a boyfriend. She chuckled to herself as she noticed a bookmark protruding from the pages and turned to the spot. David’s elaborate scroll read, “This one reminds me of you.”
“The Shark’s Parlor.” A swollen sea under cottage stilts after a storm. Boys baiting a shark, lashing a rope to the porch. From the water a massive, thrashing hammerhead. The shark fights, the porch splinters, groans. They run for more men and, slugging back beers, wage a tug of war, brutally pulling the slippery beast into the house, where it smashes the place to bits before finally giving up the ghost, white belly to the ceiling on the Persian carpet.
It was such a sad poem. A fierce and beautiful creature from another realm and the men killed it. Why? Because they could. Why on earth did David mean it reminded him of her? Was she the shark? Or was she the human baiting the beast?
Eve pulled on her wool coat and left the dorm. Damp tendrils of hair clung to her forehead as she walked across the footbridge and down the footpath, skirting the puddles in the courtyard of the arts center.
Across the playing fields, behind the athletic building, a lone hooded figure was huddled at the smoker. She imagined he’d rise, cloak billowing, and cut her down with his scythe. But it was just Stanley, bent over his boom box to protect it from the rain, his clothes dripping.
“You’re soaked,” she said.
“‘Cleanse me and I shall be whiter than snow.’”
“Do you have a cigarette?”
He handed her a pack of Lucky Strikes.
“What was that from?” she asked.
“The Bible. Actually, I have no desire to be pure.”
“Me neither.”
They sat in the cold, damp air.
Stanley was humming a tune, patting his pocket, and chuckling. Eve waited for him to divulge. He did not.
Age of Consent Page 12
