After another hour of squabbling and finally deciding on A Midsummer Night’s Dream—an idea proposed by ReeAnn and agreed upon by both Chapin and Maggie—Chapin caught up with me outside the library. “Hi,” she said, still with the same friendliness from before.
“Hello,” I replied, still wary. “What was that in there?”
“What was what?”
“That whole thing with you and Maggie. I didn’t think you would care about that kind of thing.”
Chapin frowned. “I care about everything,” she said. I couldn’t tell if she was joking or not. We walked in silence a moment before she spoke again. “I met your boyfriend.”
The band that had been tightened around my head all week finally snapped. “What?”
“Adam Kipling. I met him.”
“Why? How?”
She seemed amused by my panic. “I wanted to see what he looked like, so I got a copy of his schedule from the office and went by his trig class today.”
“How did you know which one he was?”
“Because I yelled ‘Adam’ as I walked by and waited to see who would respond. He’s cute.”
Infuriation at her carelessness, wild jealousy, embarrassed pride—I felt so many things at once that I wasn’t sure what reaction to settle on. I gaped at her instead.
“Don’t worry. I’m not going to do anything about it.” She looked back at the other apprentices trailing behind us, and I looked back, too. Raj was eyeing us curiously. She turned back to me. “I just wanted to see.”
“Okay.”
She heard the uncertainty in my voice. “Imogene. I meant it when I said I wanted to be your friend.” She smiled toothily, an imitation of a smile. “Don’t you know you can trust me?”
And once again, she was right. I wanted to trust her. Having her as a confidante was the only way I’d be able to trust myself.
* * *
I hadn’t heard from him since Monday, when he sent me the Rabbit Foot music, so I did what I hadn’t done in a very long time and texted Kip first. How’s it going? I set my phone on the nightstand by my bed and waited.
I’d been listening to Rabbit Foot nonstop. While I waited for him to reply, I opened my laptop and played the first track on their album, which I’d downloaded Monday night. “For Luna” started in, soft and hypnotizing. Every song reminded me of him, but especially “For Luna.” I listened to the first song play, and then the second, and then the third. I picked up my phone and checked its screen, wondering if I’d missed his reply. The screen was blank. I set it down and lay back in my bed.
After the entire album had played and he still hadn’t replied, I began to panic. I picked up my phone. There was no rule against calling him, but I knew I couldn’t. I thought of texting him again, but that seemed a bit desperate. He had to have a reason for not texting me back—he was at the movies, or meeting with a study group, or had fallen asleep after dinner and had yet to wake up. I thought of more potential reasons as the album started again on the first track. His phone was dead and he couldn’t find the charger. He was having a long phone call with his brother or his parents. Someone in his family had died and he’d turned off his phone to grieve undisturbed. He’d fallen down the stairs of Perkins and lay crumpled at the bottom, alone, blood spilling from his open head.
I texted him again. What are you up to tonight?
His reply came twenty minutes later. Sorry. I was busy. Come over later.
I lay back against the pillows, relieved, but also a bit annoyed, though I wasn’t sure why. It wasn’t until after the album finished the second time that I figured it out: ever since things had begun with Kip, I hadn’t let my phone leave my sight for even a moment, as I always wanted to be prepared for the possibility—for the hope, for the expectation—that his name would appear on its screen. I was always ready to answer.
* * *
He wasn’t smiling when he answered the door. “Hi,” he said, mouth barely moving.
“Hi?” I looked at him uncertainly and then, desperate to make things right—wanting to right some wrong I wasn’t even sure I’d committed—I leaned in to kiss the hard line of his mouth. He turned at the last moment. The kiss landed on the bristly angle of his jaw. He turned back into the room, and I followed him, shutting the door behind me.
“What’s up?” I asked. My head felt thick with panic. I tried to make the question sound light, casual, rather than accusatory.
“Nothing.” He lay back against his pillows, face turned to the ceiling.
I kicked off my shoes and sat carefully on the edge of the bed. I’d never been good at sudden changes in mood. When my old friend Jaylen’s parents divorced in eighth grade, I avoided her for a month. When my mom’s Aunt Betty died, I brought her breakfast in bed for a week, brought her fresh flowers, and never once asked how she was feeling. I didn’t know how to offer words of comfort; to me, things were as bad as they seemed—Jaylen’s parents would never love each other again, if they ever did; my mom’s Aunt Betty would never wake up—and I didn’t have the conviction to pretend otherwise. Others’ despondency drew me in. I glanced at Kip. I was afraid to touch him; I didn’t know this Kip.
We sat without talking for a few minutes, him staring at the ceiling, me sitting beside him, before I finally spoke. “Should I go?”
He didn’t answer. I turned to look at him.
“Kip?”
He smiled slightly. “You called me Kip. You never do that.”
“Oh. Yeah, I guess not.”
“I like it.”
He still did not move. His arms were crossed over his chest. I got up from the bed slowly, afraid to spoil the small moment of warmth calling him “Kip” had created. I slid on one shoe and picked up the other.
“What are you doing?”
I heard his sheets rustle behind me as he stood up from his bed. “I don’t know,” I said. “I feel like maybe I should go.”
“Why?”
I looked at him, hesitating. His brows were scrunched angrily above his nose. He reached out, took the shoe from my hand, and threw it across the room. It banged loudly against the opposite wall, causing me to jump, and fell to the floor. I stared at it. I felt, for the first time, not the fear of falling too fast, but the fear of falling for someone I maybe didn’t know at all.
“I should go.” I started towards my shoe, but he grabbed my wrist.
“No.”
“Kip, what do you—”
“Stay.” He looked at me pleadingly, drew me towards him. “Stay.”
I let him pull me back onto the bed; I couldn’t say no. He curled his body around my back and wrapped his hands around my waist. It was a relief to have him touch me, to feel forgiven for whatever misdeed I had or hadn’t committed, but I was uncomfortable nevertheless. Even if he wanted me to stay, I wanted to leave. This Kip was a stranger.
He put his mouth to my neck and blew a wet raspberry. He rolled me around to face him and put his nose to mine. “I’m sorry.” He had liquor on his breath.
“It’s okay.”
Kip kissed my lips. “You’re a sweetheart.”
I drew back slightly; having his face so close to mine made me dizzy. “Why do you always say that?”
“What?”
“‘You’re a sweetheart.’ Why do you say that?”
He looked confused. “Because you are.”
“I’m not.” The anger I hadn’t felt when he didn’t answer my text, when he told me to come over rather than ask, when he was cold with me, when he threw my shoe—all that anger was bubbling up now. Perhaps it was the sourness of his breath on my face or the constriction of his arms; perhaps the disappointment of an evening not going as planned, of seeing an unfamiliar and unwelcome side of a person I thought I knew. “I’m not a sweetheart. I’m not all that nice, or friendly, or considerate. When you say that, I feel like you don’t know me.”
I thought this might make him angry again, and I was nervous for a moment. But, surprisingly, he laugh
ed.
“What?” I asked, and when he continued to laugh, I asked again, “What?”
“You. You take everything so seriously.” He kissed me. “It’s just a thing I say.” He kissed me again. “Okay?”
“Okay,” I said. I thought to ask, Did you call Kaya a sweetheart? but I didn’t feel like making trouble. I asked instead, softly, gently, “What’s going on with you tonight?”
“It’s nothing.”
“You can tell me.” I took his hand, squeezed it. “You’ve been drinking.”
“Yeah.” He pulled me closer. He began kissing me. I pulled back.
“You know you can talk to me, right?” I searched his eyes desperately, looking for something I recognized.
“It’s just…” He trailed off, let out a big puff of breath. “School stuff. You know.”
“Okay,” I said, as though I did know. I wanted to push, to get more, but I knew better than to think I was getting any more than that tonight. He wants to, I assured myself. Just not now. Not at this moment.
“Okay,” he said back. His smile was almost shy. Something had opened up between us, and even if he wasn’t ready to totally open up yet, I was willing to wait.
We began to kiss harder, and he slid his hands beneath the waistband of my pants, and all of the evening’s earlier unpleasantness was brushed under the bed, to be dealt with later.
THIRTEEN
Dale returned to class after his sick day looking worn and tired. I knew I was supposed to ask him if he was feeling better, but inviting unnecessary conversation seemed like a mistake. I offered him shy smiles instead, and he gave me the same. We didn’t talk at all, really, unless it was required, until he asked me to stay after class on Friday. I approached his desk cautiously, timidly, unsure what he could have to say.
He gave me his usual grin, but it was strained, a half-watt attempt. “How are you?”
We were both standing, facing off on opposite sides of the desk, and it felt odd. “I’m good,” I said.
“Monday went alright?”
I nodded.
He sat finally, and feeling even stranger standing above him, I sat as well.
“Listen.” He ran his hand over his ponytail, a nervous habit I’d noticed. “I wanted to talk to you. About last Friday.”
I laced my hands so tightly in my lap that my knuckles turned white. I didn’t want to think about his hand on my leg, and I certainly did not want to talk about it.
“If I…” Dale didn’t want to be having this conversation either. “If I did or said anything to make you uncomfortable last week…”
“Oh, no,” I said immediately. I would say anything to end this. “No, no, definitely—”
“No, really. I feel I may have overstepped my bounds. I’m…” He hesitated. “I’ve only been here a few years. I’m still not used to working with young women. I’m not sure how to talk to them, to be honest, or how I’m supposed to talk to them. To you.”
“Oh.”
“Especially…” He paused again, and I clasped my fingers so hard I feared they might snap. “Especially young women who look like you.”
“Um…”
“Goddamn it.” Dale buried his face in his hands. “Goddamn it. I’m sorry, Imogene.” He looked up at me and attempted another smile. “Go. Have a nice weekend. I’ll see you on Monday.”
“Right.” I stood warily. “You, too.”
His face was still frozen in its half-smile as I shut the door behind me. On my walk back to the Hovel, I imagined his apartment again, the dark dank place I’d given him in my mind. I imagined him lying in bed—perhaps the sound of a siren wailing from outside the window—and his dick in his hand, him thinking about me. The thought gave me pleasure that I didn’t understand.
* * *
As I might have predicted, Raj wasn’t prepared to let me get out of our date so easily. When I returned home from my meeting with Dale, I had a list of options for the evening waiting on my phone.
There are three or four good movies playing at the theater. Or we can go into the city to see this comedy show I’ve heard about. Or we can always just do drinks here or in the city if you’re not up for a show. What are you thinking for dinner? There’s that Italian place by the train station, or the Mexican place we went to for the twins’ birthday, or if we go into the city …
I surprised myself by thinking, maybe I should go. Would it be so bad? I opened my laptop and looked at his profile page, scrolling through his pictures. It seemed a long time ago that I’d been attracted to him; I couldn’t even remember what I had once seen. All I could see now was enlarged pores, cilantro in his teeth, bare feet folded up on his lap. I imagined him coming to the Hovel to pick me up in a button-down shirt—wrinkled, too big, the armpits already dampened with sweat—and steeped in pharmacy-brand cologne. Everyone would come out of their rooms to “ooh!” and take pictures and say, “Have fun, kids!” What if he brought me flowers? I would have to put them in water before we left, stick them in a drinking glass because we had no vases, watch them droop and brown and stink on the counter all week until I finally had to throw them away. What if he tried to hold my hand as we walked to the train? It would be sticky and wet, and everyone passing by would know that we were together, at least for the night, and I’d have to hold it until mutual discomfort allowed us to let go. And what would happen after? Not just the possibility of an attempted kiss or an invitation to his room, but when I returned to the Hovel, when everyone asked, “How did it go?” and sliced my privacy, my sacred privacy, into six even pieces and passed it around on paper plates.
I texted Raj back. I’m so sorry. My advisor has been sick all week and I think I caught whatever he has. I’m not going to be able to make it out tonight.
He responded almost instantly. That sucks! Want me to bring you anything? Think you’ll be better by tomorrow?
No, I don’t need anything, but thank you. And maybe. I’ll let you know.
I knew already that I would not be better by the next day. I knew I would not be going out with Raj, the next day or ever.
* * *
Perhaps I willed it upon myself—or it was brought on by guilt for having lied—but that Friday night I actually began to feel sick. I lay swaddled in my bed—my refuge, my cave—and felt hot and then cold and then achy all over and strangely self-righteous because, whether my symptoms were imagined or not, I felt I had not told a lie. I hadn’t heard from Kip since Wednesday, since I witnessed his inexplicable moodiness, and he slipped in and out of my fevered dreams. He was lying beside me, stroking my hair. He was on top of me, lifting my shirt, kissing my collarbone. When I woke, sweat-soaked, near midnight and checked my phone, it didn’t feel possible that the last text sent between us had been two nights ago. It took me a few minutes to shake off sleep and realize he hadn’t been there at all.
I texted him. Where are you? I didn’t expect a reply right away, but I thought one would come.
I stayed in bed the whole next day. My sheets were beginning to stink. I thought about washing them, about collecting the dirty dishes that had been accumulating in my room and picking up the soiled clothes scattered on my rug and opening up the curtains and making the whole room bright and fresh and clean again, but I was too tired. There was comfort in darkness, in filth. I sank into it like a warm bath. When the afternoon rolled around and Raj texted me—How are you feeling today?—I answered without a second thought.
Still sick. I’m sorry.
Raj didn’t answer. My hair was slick with grease, and I hadn’t changed my clothes since Friday morning. The already-setting sun made me want to cry. I curled up and pulled the blankets over my head, waiting—though for what exactly, I couldn’t say.
* * *
I waited until everyone else had gone to bed—or, in the case of Chapin, had disappeared for the evening—before I showered. I turned the water temperature as hot as it would go and scoured my skin. Once I’d combed out my hair and changed into a clean pair of clot
hes, I texted Kip, the same message as the night before: Where are you?
Ten minutes passed without an answer before I began to cry. I sat on my bed, put my face between my knees, and sobbed without restraint. I sobbed until the floor spun beneath my feet and my throat felt dry, my sobs becoming indulgent imitations of sobs. And after I exhausted myself and was rubbing my aching eyes, the screen of my phone lit up like a sign. Come over, he said.
I crossed the room and looked at myself in the mirror above my bureau. My eyes were already swollen, my face slack and spotted. I was scared by what I saw. I was scared of the power I’d allowed someone else to have over me. But I knew just as well that I was powerless to resist. I slid my feet into my sneakers without untying them, splashed some water on my face in the bathroom, and reapplied concealer over the constellation of blemishes on my forehead before heading out the door.
He had been waiting for me, and he opened the door before I was halfway down the hall. “Greetings,” he said.
I took a deep breath to steady myself. “Hi.”
He squinted at me in the dark. “What’s wrong with your face?”
“I was sick.”
“Nothing contagious, right?” He pulled me inside his room and shut the door. “Fuck it. I don’t care.” He kissed me. I smelled liquor on his breath—gin this time.
“I’m feeling better.”
“I said I don’t care.” He scooped me up like a baby and deposited me on his bed.
“You sure?”
He unbuttoned my jeans and slid them off, along with my underwear, in one swift movement. “I’m sure I have a boner.”
I felt ridiculous for having cried earlier. I felt ridiculous for having thought Kip would just disappear.
He left the light on, and from beneath him I watched him make love to me, watched him pump himself in and out of me, until he finally climaxed in that oxygen-deprived fish gasp that I’d come to love so much, eyes bulged and staring as if to say, “Can you feel this, too? Can you?”
I didn’t—I wouldn’t—mention the text he hadn’t answered the night before, and he didn’t mention it either. He surprised me, instead, by mentioning the lacrosse state finals game.
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