***
Later that night, while I was sitting on my bed trying to come up with some way to write five pages about feminism and Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, John burst into my room, unannounced.
“You think you’re pretty fucking clever, don’t you?” he demanded, putting me on the defensive. We hadn’t had a fight since the mall at Christmas. I suppose tension had been building.
“What on earth are you talking about?” I demanded back, standing up on the bed so that he could not look down on me. My bare feet wobbled on the cushy softness of the many mattress pads layered beneath the sheets. My short denim skirt was stuck in its crinkled, sitting position, showing off my legs up to the top of my thighs.
“Lauren shaved her head.”
“What?” I had to hold back a fit of nervous laughter. “She actually did it? Is she crazy? Her hair was gorgeous!”
“Not anymore,” he answered.
I covered my mouth with my hands to keep from giggling. I was shocked, but amused that my careless words had carried weight with the would-be boyfriend stealer. John glared at me, and I remembered that we were fighting.
“Wait a minute,” I said, my own anger from the afternoon still bubbling just below the surface. “What the hell do you care what she does with her hair? Maybe if you were a little more subtle in making moony eyes at...,”
“What are you gonna do?” he interrupted, pacing the length of the room in long strides. “Convince every girl who talks to me to shave her head?”
“Just the pretty ones,” I replied dryly. He shot me a quick look. “What? You are allowed to hover over any guy who looks at me, but I can’t react when some chippie starts singling you out of a crowd?”
“That has nothing to do with it,” he said, obviously frustrated. Obviously guilty as charged.
It was still quite warm outside, and his face was flushed from his angry walk to The Pit. His hair clung in damp, loose curls to his head. Since I was his girlfriend, his floormates had come down hard on him when they heard the story from Topher and Patrick. Apparently, Lauren’s bald head was causing quite a crisis of faith over on Holt, second-long.
“You still haven’t answered me,” I said to him, still standing on the bed. He stopped, mid-stride by the door, and looked at me.
“What the hell do you care what she does with her hair? Why are you so concerned about her, that you would march over here and start bitching at me like some psycho?”
“I’m not bitching at you,” he growled. “The guys next door are pissed at you. Lauren’s their friend, and apparently she has some meeting this weekend in New York with a modeling agency.”
“And so they think I’ve ruined her?”
“She shaved her head, Greer, to look like a Vogue model. And you told her to do it.”
“Like you, or any of the other guys now in mourning over at Holt actually care about her career. Give me a fucking break. You think I’m goddamn stupid? They’re pissed at me for taking away their shower masturbation material, and that’s about all.” He had never seen me like this. He actually shut up, and acquiesced the argument to me. He sat on the bed, next to my feet.
“Wow,” he said. “Is Greer Bennett actually starting to thaw? You better be careful, Sweetness, because your emotions are showing.”
“Fuck you,” I said quietly, giving his shoulder a shove with my right foot. He grabbed my ankle, causing me to buckle and land on my knees next to him. I gathered my composure, got off the bed, and sat down in my desk chair. I stretched my legs out on the bed, knowing from that angle, he could just barely look up my skirt.
“I made you pretty mad,” I said quietly. My mind was racing to figure out a way to turn his anger around. I could not let him leave my room angry. It was too close to summer, when I would have to rely on phone conversations and promises. If there was tension, I had to break it now.
“You did,” he stated, his face softening, though he did not smile.
“So I guess now, I have to make you un-angry,” I said, getting out of my chair and walking back to where he was sitting.
“Un-angry?” he asked, a small grin escaping his lips. “That’s not a word.”
“If Shakespeare could make up words to suit his needs, so can I,” I replied smartly, straddling him on the bed. My skirt found a comfortable resting spot around my hips, and I began unbuttoning his shirt. I had never been this aggressive with him, and I could tell he was enjoying it.
“Where’s your roommate?” he asked, his hands sliding up my bare legs.
“Don’t know,” I said, kissing him. “Don’t care.”
“I’m all sweaty,” he said, kissing me back. His shirt still clung to his skin in a damp circle on his back.
“Do you want me?” I asked, stealing a glance at the clock. I knew Molly had planned an all-nighter at the library. With finals approaching, The Pit was quiet. If I was going to change things up, and rekindle his interest in me, I was going to have to be dramatic. I was going to have to do something new. I was going to have to step outside my comfort zone, and give up a little bit of control.
“I always want you,” he whispered hoarsely.
I stood up, grabbed a couple of clean towels, and led him silently down the hall. In the bathroom, I moved directly to the showers, and started the water. My heart was beating and my mind racing as I pulled the curtain around us, stripped, and stepped into the water. He did the same.
We stood giggling, pressed up against one another as the water ran in streams and splashes over our bodies. Though I have since learned that showering together is, more often than not, an exercise in disappointment, I did not know that then. As he began to soap me up with the pear scented body gel I had brought, I pushed him against the tile wall, said a small prayer to do what I was about to do correctly, and wrapped my mouth around him.
I had never given a blowjob, and frankly, I wasn’t sure exactly what to do once I got down there. The only thing I could do was think back to Phoebe Cates, and her cafeteria scene in Fast Times at Ridgemont High.
I still owe Phoebe a proper thank you.
***
Oh. And don’t go worrying about our poor, bald Lauren. The universe has a way of balancing itself out. It seems the modeling agency she met with in New York that weekend loved her “edgy” look and high cheekbones, and signed her on the spot. She was whisked off to London so quickly, she never even came back for finals.
And I got to look like I knew what the hell I was talking about.
***
The end of the school year was nearly upon us, and other than finals, the biggest stress was the upcoming choice of where to make my bed that fall. I certainly wanted out of The Pit, and was sure that Molly and I were destined to go our separate ways. John and Ben had decided to room together. Topher and I were hoping for singles. Each of us had experienced the downside of having a roommate, and I dreamed about not having to compromise my space.
The university issued all students intending to live on campus the following year a number. It was your place in line for the choice of your next address. I don’t remember how many numbers were actually issued, but I do remember that mine was in the last fifty or so, which meant that I was screwed.
Standing in the pathetic scraggle of a lie, the gymnasium looking as if a ticker tape parade had broken out some hours earlier, I tried to assess my situation. It was grim. The girl in front of me was just as frustrated. We chatted back and forth a few times, and then she disappeared with a remark about “finding what kind of loser rooms are left.” When she returned with the news, the few people around me groaned and let their shoulders drop.
It seemed there were three dorms still with open rooms for upperclassmen. One was out of the question, as it was the all-boys dorm next door to Wyndham. The second was Wyndham. The third was the other all-girl’s dorm in Area 2, called Bristol. Bristol was the other dorm still using hall phones. There were no more singles anywhere on campus. Just my luck.
I stood in li
ne, toe tapping on the tile floor, staring off into angry space. The thought of another year with another Molly Maloney spiraled in my mind. I looked over the girl I had been chatting with, the one who had gone off in search of answers. She was tall, cute, and bubbly. She had a friendly manner, and just a hint of a dark side. I worked up some nerve and struck up another conversation with her.
“So, you’re screwed, and I’m screwed,” I started. She gave a short laugh, which encouraged me to keep going. “I’m going to end up with another roommate from hell.”
“You too?” she asked.”My roommate is nuts. She never leaves our room!”
“Neither does mine,” I commiserated. “Hey, you seem normal, and I’m pretty normal. Why don’t we just room together instead of both of us taking another chance and getting totally screwed again?”
She smiled, and without much hesitation, agreed it was a good idea. We immediately began planning strategy for when we reached the front of the line.
“I live in Bristol now,” she said.
“I live in Wyndham,” I laughed. Is there anything cool about Bristol, because there is nothing redeeming about Wyndham. It is about as far away from everything you can be, and still be on campus.”
“Bristol is super close to town,” she said. “And if I can make out that chart up there,” she continued, squinting her eyes and looking to the table at the front of the line. “I think the big corner room on the first floor is open.”
“Not another pit,” I groaned.
“No, The Pit of Bristol is downstairs and the rooms are really dark. No. We want that corner room, where we will only have one single as a neighbor.”
We moved closer to the front of the line, and a thought occurred to me.
“I don’t even know your name,” I said. “I’m Greer. Greer Bennett.”
“Gwen Kade,” she said.
When we reached the front of the line, we were able to choose the large room in Bristol like Gwen had suggested. We exchanged home phone numbers and addresses, and it turned out that she lived halfway between school and my hometown. A New Hampshire girl, like me.
I had a good feeling about Gwen Kade, though it would still be a number of months before we finally became roommates.
***
Later that evening, while I desperately pounded out my final, seven page long personal essay documenting my tumultuous relationship with mirrors, John sauntered into my room with a pizza in one hand, a cascading display of daisies, my favorite flower, in the other.
“Pizza!” Molly cried from her bed, where she was busy studying for her economics final. She jumped up onto her knees, and smiled a big, golden retriever smile. She and her friend from the other side of The Pit had scored a choice room in the best dorm on campus, right in the center of everything. I had a hard time holding it against her, though. She deserved another shot at finding a group of friends that suited her. It just hadn’t happened the first time around.
“What makes you think you are getting any of this?” John asked her as he petted her head like a dog. She scowled at him and smoothed her hair.
“Because you’re goin’ to miss me next year, whether ya’ll know it or not,” she replied smartly. I had to laugh. She beamed.
As the three of us dove into the pizza, John turned to me and asked how my room selection had gone.
“Ugh,” I said with a shrug. “Another all-girls dorm with hall phones.” He burst out laughing. I shoved his hand, which was holding a slice, at his face, smothering his mouth with tomato sauce. I laughed back.
“Real mature,” he scowled, wiping his chin with the paper napkin I offered as a peaceful gesture. “You back in The Pit?”
“No,” I replied. “Bristol. The only upside is that while I was in line, I met my new roommate.” I explained what had gone down in line.
“She seems pretty cool,” I added, picking the cheese off another slice of pizza. “Normal, at least.”
The three of us ate in silence for a few minutes.
“How’d you do?” I finally thought to ask. “Where will I be spending half my nights next year?”
“In Rutland,” he answered, taking a third slice of pizza.
“Rutland?” I asked, confused. “I’ve never heard of that dorm.”
“It’s not a dorm,” he clarified. “It’s a town.”
I was crouched at my little fridge, fetching myself a Diet Coke. I looked up, door wide open. Mouth wide open.
“Where are you going to be living next year?” I asked slowly.
“At a house. In Rutland,” he answered. He kept eating.
“With who?”
“Ben, and Jared,” he said. “And two guys I haven’t met. Yet.”
“How many people is that?” I asked, too lazy to do the math myself.
“Five,” he said quickly.
“In one house?” I asked, not quite sure if he was telling me the truth.
“In one big, happy house,” he said, taking a big swig of his Coke.
“And who do you have to share a room with?” I questioned further, seeing that he was, indeed being serious with me.
“That’s the beauty, Sweetness.,” he said, putting his plate aside and pulling me onto his lap. “The house has five bedrooms, so we will each have a room of our own.”
“Really?” I asked. “How big is this house?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t seen it yet. But Aaron, the guy who found the house, told Ben all the rooms are pretty big, except one, and there’s a living room and a kitchen, and a giant basement for parties. We’ll have lots of privacy.”
“With five roommates?” I laughed, not so sure.
“My bedroom can’t be any smaller than my single at Holt,” he said. I had to agree. “I’ll have a car,” he said, sweetening the deal. A car meant freedom.
It was a done deal, so there was no point in carrying on about it. But secretly, I was jealous, and felt like I was being left behind. I only hoped I could remain as involved in his life when I was more than a short walk away.
Chapter Eleven
I packed up my room in The Pit, hugged Molly good-bye before she caught the bus back to Boston, where she would fly home to Texas for the summer, and swapped phone numbers with Topher. He lived about thirty minutes away, and we planned on getting together over the summer before meeting back up in the fall.
It took some time to ease back into family life.I had to account for my time, for my phone usage, and my gloomy moods. I needed to find a job. I thanked God I still had Penny.
She and I sat in the food court of the new mall that had sprung up during my nine months at school. We each had a small stack of job applications in front of us.
“I’m hungry,” she said, looking around. “Are you?”
“Yeah,” I said, not looking up from my paperwork. “But I’m not eating. My jeans are getting tight and I look hideous in my bathing suit.”
“I doubt that, but I know what you mean,” she said. “Tim and I found this little Mexican place that covers everything on their menu with cheese. Why can’t we eat like guys, and not gain weight?”
“They gain weight,” I said. “But their clothes don’t show it like ours do.”
“We should get in really good shape this summer,” she suggested.
“How?” I asked, looking up and taking a sip from my Diet Coke.
“Let’s play tennis every morning. Do you want to?”
“Sure,” I said easily. “But what are we going to do about jobs?” I whined.
***
Later that afternoon, my jeans were still hugging my ass a little too tightly, but my job situation worked itself out quite nicely. It seems that during a bitch session at her house, Penny caught the ear of another of her mother’s friends, who was looking for a couple of artistic types to paint gaudy, floral designs on ladies cotton t-shirts and dresses. She lived most of the year on the Gulf Coast of Florida, where she and her sister owned a pricey boutique for aging ladies who wanted their one-of-a-kind
casual wear to sparkle.
Marjorie, who summered in a small cottage on a small lake just outside Manchester, paid us by the piece, which meant we were free to make our own schedules. We converted Penny’s parents’ pool house into our own little sweatshop during the business week, though the sweat came more from the long “lunch” breaks spent oiling ourselves up by the pool, and less so from the actual labor.
***
True to our plan, we started out each day with one or two hours of tennis. Penny was more of a morning person than I, so it was her responsibility to call my bedroom phone fifteen minutes before she planned on picking me up, just to be sure I was up. By the time her blue Volvo rolled up my driveway, I was ready for another day of sweating, swimming, and painting.
“I swear, if I don’t lose, like, ten pounds, I’m going to kill myself,” she said to me one Monday morning on our way to the courts.
“Don’t be so dramatic,” I teased. “But can I have your car if you do?”
“Bitch,” she said.
“Whore,” I replied. We both laughed and I turned up the stereo.
“How was the freakfest with John?” Penny asked me while we stretched alongside the net. It was a perfect summer morning, with a sapphire sky and birds chirping in the late morning sun.
“Lollapalooza was not a freakfest,” I laughed.
“How many girls with blue lipstick?” she asked. I stuck my tongue out at her.
“I did find out John had a party at his parents’ house right after we got out of school, and didn’t tell me about it,” I said as we opened two new cans of balls. I held my nose to the can and inhaled deeply. I loved the brand new, rubbery smell of a fresh can of tennis balls.
Beware of Love in Technicolor Page 14
