Smiling into my anthology, I flip back to Henry James. I don’t even notice the semicolons this time as the scenes rattle back to life.
STEP 2: Get to know the person you invited. Find out what you have in common. Make a real connection.
Pollock Knows Best
Art Appreciation is my favorite class, but today I can’t stop staring at the bits of paint and plaster stuck to my desk. They sharpen in and out of focus as I trace the bumpy patterns with my finger.
Dr. Cranston is lecturing, yet her words don’t register. She’s pacing in front of us, her hair sticking out at messy angles. When she clicks the slide projector, I snap to attention. A Jackson Pollock painting appears on the giant screen. “Aesthetics,” she says. “Remember that word we learned in our first day of class? What is our personal response to art? How do we attempt to define it?” She turns her back to the screen and waves her arm toward the image. “Can you define this?”
I stare into the curved lines of splattered paint where the stringy sweeps of white seem to dance in front of the darkness behind them. The classroom is quiet. Dr. Cranston grabs the cat-eye glasses hanging from a chain around her neck and places them over her eyes. She tilts her head at us, squinting through that moment when professors expect more than we’re capable of giving. Sometimes I wonder if they forget we’re all just teenagers waiting to receive prepaid knowledge.
“Nothing?” she asks.
A male voice behind me says, “Random splatter.” Someone laughs.
She glances at the back of the room with controlled irritation. “I don’t mean in the literal sense. Anyone else?”
“Chaos,” a girl with braided hair in the front row answers—a drama major, no doubt, judging by her breathy enunciation of the word.
“Chaos. Hmm. I like that. Maybe.” Dr. Cranston rubs her chin with cautious optimism. The projector reflects a white light onto her glasses until she turns to tap the screen. “But what if defining it isn’t the point? Maybe the point is to experience it as a field of energy—and as, in the words of your textbook, ‘moving remnants illuminating the act of creation.’”
While everyone else shifts forward to write it down, I picture the words—“energy,” “remnants,” “creation”—and stare into the dust-speckled light of the projector.
Dr. Cranston clicks to the next slide, a quote from Jackson Pollock. She reads it out loud: “‘When I am in my painting, I’m not aware of what I’m doing.’ Have you ever felt this way about anything you do?” She scans the room.
I think about exploring museums—a place where I feel the least alone. Circling the same statue or gazing at the same painting has a way of connecting people, even if it’s just for a few moments. I also love volunteering at a nearby soup kitchen. It started with a mandatory freshmen volunteer day when Sadie and I signed up to visit with elderly guests for a meal. Although Sadie never showed up, I enjoyed chatting with a nice eighty-year-old lady named Helen. Ever since Sadie left, Helen is sometimes my only human contact.
Dr. Cranston paces again, catching my attention. “Here’s a tip. If something makes you feel that way, it’s probably what you’re meant to be doing with your life.”
I stare at my paint-splattered desk and try to imagine the place I’ll spend every weekday after college. I wish I could picture it, but I just can’t. This is why I’m here. And it’s why I stay.
* * *
I spot Josh first. I’d been nervously excited to hang out with him—I could barely concentrate during any of my classes today, not just Art Appreciation, and spent an embarrassingly long amount of time choosing my outfit, only to end up in the same thing I’d been wearing all day.
Josh sits on a couch in the back corner with two other students: an attractive well-dressed guy and redheaded girl. They seem relaxed, just happy to be hanging out together. I hesitate at the door, suddenly unsure how to approach their familiar dynamic. Then I lock eyes with Josh, and my apprehension softens.
He stands up to greet me. “Hey, I’m so glad you came. I want you to meet my friends,” he says, guiding me toward them.
The girl with red hair is even more striking up close. She’s staring at me in an inquisitive way, yet still friendly—the exact opposite of Sadie’s friends.
“This is Emily,” Josh says. His hand is warm on my back. I can smell the clean scent of soap radiating from his skin.
“I’m Heather,” she says. Her eyes are wide and watery and slightly tilted in kittenlike contours, with minimal if any makeup. Her mouth is pursed to the side as if she’s amused.
“Nice to meet you,” I say.
I look over to the other couch where the preppy guy with floppy brown hair keeps tucking it behind his ears like it’s a habit. “Hi,” he says. “I’m Andrew.” He stands up and shakes my hand. His hands are soft with long, slender fingers, the kind you’d want to tangle into your own during a movie. He’s incredibly good looking, but his smile seems forced. And he keeps glancing at the others as if he’s distracted.
“Want some coffee?” Josh asks me.
“Sure.” I stand there awkwardly as he walks away.
Andrew sits back down and pats the empty spot on the couch. “Have a seat.”
Josh is already standing under a giant blackboard crammed with chalk-scribbled options, so I sit beside Andrew.
Heather bends forward to put her bag on the floor. When she sits back up, her hair springs with her. Her curls are loose in a Julia Roberts sort of way, and Heather radiates that same magnetic energy. I’ve always wondered what it would be like to draw the attention of an entire room. “Josh said you’re from the South,” she says. “I have good friends from Nashville. They’re the nicest people I’ve ever met in my life. They’re like my family.”
“Yeah. I guess we Southerners are known for our hospitality,” I say. Heather offers me a genuine smile.
Andrew shifts to face my direction and crosses his leg, exposing a blue Polo logo on his tan sock. “You know, you really don’t have a thick accent. Not like that guy, at least.” Andrew points to Josh, who is casually propped against the brick wall, still waiting for my coffee. Heather laughs at Andrew like it’s some sort of inside joke.
“Yeah, just ask Dr. Davidson,” Heather says. Andrew bursts out laughing.
“Who is Dr. Davidson?” I ask.
“You’ll have to ask Josh about that,” Andrew says. “It’s hilarious.”
“Ask me what?” Josh hands me my coffee and sits down next to Heather.
“Dr. Davidson,” Heather says with a smirk. She leans over and elbows his arm.
“No.” Josh sinks back into the couch and smiles at me. “It’s too embarrassing.”
“You should tell her,” Andrew says. “She’ll totally understand.”
I take a sip of my coffee and watch expectantly.
Josh exhales a dramatic sigh. “I said ‘yes, ma’am’ to my psych professor. In class. By the way, don’t say ‘ma’am’ to a female professor—or any female north of Nashville.”
Heather and Andrew burst out laughing.
A sudden heat spreads across my face. I actually made this exact same mistake my first week of school. Luckily, it happened in the privacy of the professor’s office, but it did not go over well. I’m still too humiliated by the look of horror on my professor’s face to share this with anyone.
“What did she do?” I ask Josh.
“Well, she called me ‘sweetheart’ and suggested we reintroduce ourselves.”
Heather cringes dramatically. “And …,” she says, hitting Josh’s arm as if prompting him to finish the story.
Josh looks up at the ceiling with an amused embarrassment. He shrugs but doesn’t elaborate. “And now she picks on him,” Andrew chimes in. “Trust me. I’m in there. She calls Josh ‘Mr. Ma’am’ in class.” Heather and Andrew start laughing again.
Heather pulls her feet up under her thighs as if making herself at home. She smiles at Josh again. “I promise. We aren’t making fun of you.”
She tries to hold in her laughter, but can’t stop another outburst.
I notice Josh is laughing with them, as if resigned to the humiliation.
“Isn’t that the most hilarious thing?” Heather asks me.
“Pretty funny,” I agree. Josh’s laidback attitude is refreshing. I was so horrified when I made the same mistake that I almost dropped the class.
“So, Emily.” Heather shifts her attention to me. “Are you in a sorority?”
I let out an abrupt laugh. “Um, no.”
I immediately regret my judging tone. Greek life was never something I wanted to be a part of like a lot of girls I grew up with. “Oh, Em. It’s such a good way to meet people,” Tamara always said. She was just as quick to judge the other sororities though. “Full of QRs,” she’d say, then add in a conspiratorial whisper, “You know. Questionable. Reputation.” (Irony wasn’t Tamara’s specialty.)
“Sorry—are you in a sorority?” I ask Heather. I could easily see her as the girl at the front of the group photo, draped over a giant Omega or X or triangle—a prime recruit.
“Oh, no,” Heather dismisses with a flip of her hand. “I’m on full scholarship, so there’s no time for that. Also, I like to focus on … deeper things,” she says. “There are way more important things in this world than watching 90210 with fifty other girls in a common room or getting so wasted that you can’t even remember what you’ve done.”
“Amen to that,” Andrew says, raising his coffee cup as if to toast.
I sip my coffee through a smile. Where were these people last semester?
“I don’t think I’ve seen you around, Emily,” Heather says. “What dorm are you in?”
“The Towers,” I answer.
“Oh, nice! Do you like your roommate?” Heather asks.
“Oh. Uh. I don’t have one,” I stumble. “Sadie, um …” I pause. “She moved back home over the break. I guess she missed the California sunshine.” I realize the irony in this statement, as Sadie pretty much holed up in our blacked-out dorm room all day and stayed out all night only to do it all over again for weeks on end.
“Ugh, I’m so jealous,” Heather says. “My roommate gets on my last nerve. She never shuts up. Thank goodness she’s taking eighteen hours this semester and is always in the library, or I swear I would’ve killed her with my bare hands by now.”
I laugh politely. Sadie was likable on her good days, and I actually miss our “camaraderie of opposite upbringings” (as she called it). With her gone, I would welcome an overly chatty roommate.
I shake off the encroaching loneliness and add, “Well, if it makes you feel better, it’s never quiet in the Towers, even without a roommate.”
“So that’s why you study here,” Josh says. He turns to Heather. “I met Emily here reading Henry James for the… What was it? Third time?” He turns back to me and gives a small wink. I blush.
Heather cups her coffee in both hands just under her chin, her eyes wide with interest. “Oh, tell me about your class!”
“Yeah, it’s just a survey class, but I’m really enjoying it.” Heather, Josh, and Andrew all look at me, urging me to continue. My words dry up and I shift nervously with the awareness of the attention directed at me from every angle.
Andrew must notice my discomfort and thankfully cuts in. “I adored my survey class. The classics and all. Of course, I’d already read them in prep school,” Andrew says.
“Where are you from?” I ask Andrew.
“The Midwest,” he says vaguely, straightening his posture. He tucks his hair behind his ears again. “But I was pretty much raised by boarding school headmasters.” He leans forward to pick up his coffee and glances at his watch. “Guys, we’d better get going soon or we’ll be late,” he says to Heather.
Heather looks at her watch. “Oh my goodness, where did the time go?”
My mood suddenly deflates as I helplessly watch them gather their things.
“Sorry, we have a symposium tonight,” Josh explains to me, slinging his backpack over his shoulder.
“Oh, no problem,” I insist, adding a casual, dismissive flip of my hand to hide my disappointment. “Are you all taking the same class?”
“It’s also a Bible study,” Heather says matter-of-factly.
I glance at Josh, surprised. He doesn’t seem the least bit embarrassed. “I would have asked you to come, but—”
“It’s invitation only,” Heather interjects, sounding simultaneously apologetic and condescending. She loops her bag over her shoulder and stands. “The reading assignments have to be completed in advance, like your lit class.”
“Sometimes we get together just to hang out, though,” Josh says quickly. “Maybe you’d like to join us? We could meet here again.”
“Sure,” I say, still a bit stunned by the abrupt end to our evening.
Josh lingers behind as Heather and Andrew make their way to the door, watching until they’re a certain distance away before saying in a mock-serious tone, “Well, I guess I’m going to need your phone number, then.” He digs into his backpack and hands me a pen and piece of paper.
I write down my number, trying to suppress the smile on my face, and hand it to him. “Have fun,” I say.
He leans down to whisper as he walks past, “Yes, ma’am.”
mystical manipulation: when things seem coincidental, but in reality, they are carefully planned and orchestrated
Primary Research
I straighten things when I’m anxious.
The photos on my desk are a welcome distraction as I wait for Josh’s call. My dad under a tailgate tent, his arm around the freckled shoulder of my stepmom, Patti, in a ruffled top. Me with Summer in her dad’s boat, Summer’s tongue rolled out in homage to the Rolling Stones logo on her shirt. Tamara’s party pics featuring tipsy smiles hovering over red Solo cups. Patti mails so many of these that I’ve never had to ask why Tamara doesn’t call me … like, ever. The reasons are printed under the Greek symbols labeling each one: Woodstock. Sadie Hawkins. Spring Fling. “Wish you were here.” Yeah, right.
Then there’s the other one, the photo Dad snuck into my suitcase before I left for Boston: a black-and-white candid shot of my mother. It’s slightly blurry, and her expression is distant, like she’s lost in a complicated thought sitting under a tree on the campus where she met my dad. Looking at her photo is like staring at an empty blank on a test when you can’t remember the answer, and even when you try and try, nothing comes except the blinding frustration that you’ll never get it right.
I sigh and put the photo down. My attention moves to my window. Thousands of lights blink and shift outside, like a jittery constellation that echoes my sense of restlessness. When the phone finally rings, my heart leaps as I answer.
“So did you have fun?” Josh asks.
“Did you?” I still feel a tinge of resentment over being abandoned for their exclusive meeting.
“I did, actually. Both at the coffee shop and at the symposium.”
I pause. “So. You’re religious?”
“Are you not? Being from the God-fearing depths of the Bible Belt where there are more churches than restaurants?”
“Well, I guess. I mean—”
“I’m joking with you. The symposiums aren’t anything like those churches back home, more like hanging out with friends.” He pauses. “But just out of curiosity, which religion are you?”
“Episcopalian,” I say. “Of the part-time variety,” I add in a faux-dignified Southern drawl.
“Hello, my name is lapsed Roman Catholic. Nice to meet you.”
We laugh as I pick up the phone and stretch the cord over to my bed. Talking to Josh is the most relaxed I’ve been with anyone since I moved to Boston.
“Anything else you want to know?” Josh asks.
I want to know everything about him. I settle for: “Hmmm. Favorite food?”
“What? That’s a boring question, but okay. Hmmm. Pizza,” he says.
“Ha! That’s a bori
ng answer. You don’t miss Southern food?”
“Okay. I’ll admit it. I’d trade a thousand lobster rolls for one extra spicy crawfish boil any day.”
“Same. Here.”
A longer pause expands. I rush to fill it. “So what do you hate about Boston?”
“Nothing. I absolutely love it here.”
“Really? There has to be something.”
“No. I really do. I’ve made some of the best friends I’ve ever had.”
I’m stumped. I’d always been good at making friends until I moved here, where I somehow managed to drive them all away in one fell swoop.
“I take it from your silence you haven’t had that same experience,” he says.
I sigh. “Not so much.”
“Well, it sounds like you haven’t been looking in the right places. Do you want to know what I think?”
“What?”
“I think you should hang out with us again. Heather and Andrew really liked you. Heather wouldn’t stop asking questions about you.” He pauses. “I, for one, am still not quite sure about you, though.”
I laugh. “And why is that?”
“I don’t know yet. I think it’s going to require some research.”
“Research, huh? Microfilm? Microfiche? Card catalog?”
Josh laughs. “I’m thinking primary research.”
“And what does that entail?”
“It means I think I need to spend more time with you to figure it out. Why don’t you meet up with us again tomorrow? You’ll get to meet my roommate this time.”
A twinge of anxiety creeps into my voice. “And what if your roommate doesn’t like me?” Ugh. What was supposed to be a joke makes me sound pathetic and desperate instead.
Josh pauses. “Well, Ben typically likes the same people I like.”
Those Who Prey Page 2
