10. Meredith
September 1983
HOLLY AND I GO back up to our room and see that the door next to ours is open. We walk over to investigate, hover in the doorway. Two girls sit on the floor in the middle of the room, talking.
“I think I should just break up with him. It’s the beginning of the year and better to act before all the top guys get taken.”
“But he is a top guy. And you’ve only been dating five months. Plus it would piss off your parents.”
“I don’t care. I’m not going to date someone just because I’ve known him forever. That would be, like, pathetic. And I don’t do charity cases.”
“Cape is hardly a charity case. He’s one of the best-looking guys at school and he really likes you.”
They notice us, halt their conversation.
“Come in!” one of the girls says. We do, and I’m not sure whether we should sit or stand. Sitting seems to indicate an intimacy Holly and I don’t yet share with these girls, and standing just seems awkward, like we are at a cocktail party and have not been offered drinks. Better to err on the side of a flyby than to act like we know them, like we really belong. We stand.
The girl who invited us in has long blond hair, which is wet. She wears a white terry-cloth robe with the initials KIM monogrammed in light peach. She is very tan, a tan that suggests not lying in the sand but letting the sun chase you because you have lots of great things to do. Waterskiing. Sailing. Whacking a tennis ball with a taut racquet.
She has a pedicure. Not the do-it-yourself kind either. Her toes are immaculately painted a baby blue, the color of hydrangeas. The skin around her heels is smooth. She’s slathering her legs with a white cream. Her application is so generous that I can smell it where I am standing. Honey? Lavender? Unlike Holly, she isn’t just getting cleaned up for dinner. She is Getting Ready. I’m not sure what motivates her. A standard she generally maintains? The male population of Cardiss?
I wonder if there are many girls like her at Cardiss. If so, I don’t have a chance. I thought we were supposed to focus on getting good grades, not on winning a campus beauty pageant. I might be fluent in French and I can read a three-hundred-page book in a day, but I don’t own a blow dryer and my makeup is old and caked in my cosmetics bag.
The other girl in the room seems more like an accessory to KIM than a person in her own right. She is whittled down to bones, sharp and angular, just like the models in Vogue. In this New Hampshire setting, however, she doesn’t look fashionable. She looks ill.
Their room is decorated in such a way that it seems they’ve lived there for years. I wonder how they have achieved this on the first day. There’s a Persian rug and upscale magazines strewn about the floor: Vogue, W, Vanity Fair, Tatler. A huge advert for Pommery champagne takes up half the wall over one of the beds, and there are books stacked in rattan baskets that are placed around the room. You could just reach in and pull one out if you were in the mood for a good read. I spot Middlemarch, Madame Bovary (in English, I note), Lolita, and Great Expectations.
Their beds have beautiful comforters. KIM has a snowy-white down duvet and white scalloped pillows. There are also baby pillows with her monogram in peach. On her wooden bedside table (it looks like an antique and must have been sent from home), she has silver frames with pictures of people I take to be her parents and friends from home. There’s also a silver julep cup that holds a dozen black felt-tip pens.
The skinny girl’s bed is covered with a maroon paisley bedspread and has green pillows. I recognize these as Ralph Lauren. The lack of frills indicate they were designed for a boy, but they look intense and cool to me.
Holly is weirdly quiet. I am not sure if she is suddenly missing her parents or—seeing this room—reconsidering the foot warmers her mom made. I see her pull at her sweatshirt and tug it down toward her waist. It has a fabric panel to put your hands in, and a hood. It seems it’s no longer as comfortable.
KIM breaks the silence. “You must be Holly,” she says, looking at her. “And you Bettina.”
“How did you know?” Holly says.
“No offense, but Iowa City looks different from Chicago.”
I want to say How?, fishing for the compliment, but I don’t want her to insult Holly.
Holly, however, is eager to play this game, to show that she is just as able to pick up things about people without being told.
“And you’re Kim?”
“Kim?”
“It’s on your robe.”
I wince for Holly.
KIM laughs. “No. Kim? Can you imagine? I’m Kingsley Meredith Ivory. But I go by Meredith.”
“Oh,” says Holly, both sorry she guessed wrong and confused about why.
“I’m Jess,” the other girl says, sparing Holly any further embarrassment. “Join us; sit.”
I like her. She’s doing her best to make us feel comfortable despite Meredith. Holly and I sit. The four of us now form a circle on the floor. Part of me wishes we could avoid any further conversation and just play duck, duck, goose.
Meredith says, “You’ll see that Bright is much better than a dorm. We don’t have to wait for the shower, there are no dud girls, and Deeds pretty much stays out of our hair.”
“Deeds?” I ask, not sure if she is a student or a teacher.
“Deirdre McSoren. Our resident dyke, dorm head, whatever. Don’t walk around in any state of undress. I caught her checking out my tits once. Totally freaked me out. But you will see for yourself at our dorm meeting tonight.”
Jess laughs. She wraps her hands around the front of her chest, as if to protect herself. Her boobs are even smaller than mine. Her laugh is more like a cough. There’s no levity in it; just hard air pushed out. She’s eating baby carrots from a zip-lock bag. Seems to take no pleasure from them, as if they were medicine instead of food.
Meredith turns to Holly. “So, Iowa, we were just discussing boyfriends. Do you have one?” Meredith is just like Babs. Boys are really the only thing that counts as interesting.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Well, I went to junior prom with Stan, but it was more of a friend thing.”
Meredith gets excited about this. I can see why. Proms represent so much optimism. All those corsages and puffy dresses. No exposure of legs or cleavage, just miles of satin hanging down the girls’ bodies, like curtains hanging to the floor. Makes me want to vomit. I know Meredith has never been to one.
“Stop right there. Prom? I must know all.” She looks at Jess and they both smile as if this is the funniest thing they have heard in years. I take the fact that they start on Holly as kind of a compliment, as if Meredith divines I am going to be a harder case. I am and am not. I want Meredith to like me, but I will put up a bit of a fight. Fuck with her superiority just a little bit.
“Well, seniors get to have theirs at the Hilton, but the rest of us just have it at the school gym.”
“Do the seniors get the marquee outside by the highway? Does it say ‘Congratulations, Graduates!’?”
“Yes!” Holly says.
“I’ve always wanted that for my wedding,” Meredith says, as if letting Holly in on a big secret. I want to both smack Meredith and laugh at the joke.
“My aunt Deb and uncle Ray had that. I don’t think it’s that big of a deal. I mean, I think it comes with the package when you rent the venue.” Holly sounds as if she is really trying to pass on information to Meredith. Reassure her.
“Venue! Did you hear that! Iowa’s quite a little hotelier. I’m impressed. So, back to Stanley.” Meredith is now really into the game. “Did you fool around in the back of the car?”
Meredith’s question elicits the intended response from Holly. She is completely shocked.
“Of course not,” says Holly quietly.
“No?” Meredith continues. “Why not? Not the right venue?”
“No, I just don’t . . .” Holly looks to me. I don’t come to her rescue. Am I just as mean as Meredith,
or am I worse because I don’t really care? The fact is I probably have less experience with boys than Holly has. Babs taught me what to do with a boy, but not how to attract one.
“Oh, dear.” Meredith is determined to keep this drama going. “Don’t worry, you will have plenty of opportunities at Cardiss.” Suddenly, she turns to me. “Shut the door.”
I get up to do so. Think about walking out of the room before Meredith torpedoes me. But I find Meredith strangely comforting and decide to stay.
Meredith grabs a beach towel, blue with white stripes, from underneath her bed and throws it at me. This towel also has her monogram on it.
“Put this under the door frame, will you? Deeds has gone out for her daily run and I need a smoke. Open the window while you’re at it.”
Meredith reaches under her bed again and pulls out a plastic Hello Kitty box that contains a pack of Marlboro Lights, a pink Bic lighter, and a glass ashtray. At least I’ll finally get to smoke. I am almost dizzy from lack of it. Meredith’s ashtray is the size of a coaster. It’s heavy like a paperweight, and it has two orange interlocking Ds. I recognize it immediately. Babs has the same one. It’s from Doubles, a private club in the basement of the Sherry-Netherland. A smoking kit, I think to myself. How cute.
Meredith tips the pack to Jess, who takes one. Then holds it in the direction of Holly, who waves it away. Meredith gestures to me, but I shake my head and reach down the front of my shirt. Pull out a leather pouch that I wear around my neck in lieu of a purse. It holds my Marb Reds and a gold Cartier lighter that Babs gave me for my thirteenth birthday. The lighter was expensive. You could buy a whole season of clothes for what it cost. Like most things Babs buys for me, this purchase was directed at pissing people off. She knew the other mothers at Chicago Day were horrified that I smoked, and this was her way of saying she didn’t give a fuck. I know Holly does not recognize that it’s Cartier and probably thinks the gold is fake. Hasn’t figured out yet that I am not on scholarship after all. Meredith does recognize it though, and I can tell she is impressed.
I turn the box of cigarettes upside down and begin slapping it on the palm of my hand, packing the tobacco. Meredith stares at me for a good three seconds and then says, “Nice, Bettina. I didn’t expect a Chicago girl to smoke.” Like the Combs- es, she thinks all midwesterners are nice and follow the rules. At least the big ones.
“I picked it up in France,” I risk. This isn’t the story I signed off on with Holly.
“Did you go to Paris on a trip with your school?”
“No. I have family there.”
Meredith puts her cigarette in her mouth. I can tell she smokes for effect, not for the nicotine itself. She is overly dramatic when she lights up. Doesn’t seem to pull hard enough to fill her lungs. But the gesture works on Holly, who seems a bit let down that I smoke too.
Meredith seems intrigued by my answer.
“Do you speak French?” Jess asks.
“Yes. Fluently.”
“Perfect,” says Meredith. “I got a C in French last year. Spoiled my average. Deeds doesn’t give any points for being in her house. You can help me.”
“Sure,” I say. Who knew my smoking and French would actually get me places?
“Okay,” says Meredith, “I want to get back to what we were talking about before you came in. I have a big decision to make, and want to see what you think.
“Last spring, I started dating this boy, Cape. It was supposed to be a test drive, but he thought we were buckling in for the long haul. He’s from New York, like me, and I’ve known him forever. He’s hot, but major needy.”
“Cape?” Holly asks. “As in Cod?”
Poor girl. She still gets it all wrong. Doesn’t understand how esoteric preppy nicknames are. I know about them from books and always wished I had one. Maybe Meredith will give me one someday.
“No,” Meredith says, trying hard not to laugh. “When he was little, he wore his Batman cape all the time, even to bed, and his mother nicknamed him Captain Cape. It became just Cape and all his friends have called him that ever since.
“Anyway, after dating all spring at Cardiss, we both spent the summer in East Hampton. One night, I decided to take it further, and it was just a disaster.”
Holly looks up at her, considering. She has never met this kind of girl before. One who has a summer house and can discard boys on a whim. Didn’t even knew they existed. But she knows this is her chance to join in, redeem herself for being from Iowa City. She is, after all, a good listener.
“So what happened?” she asks.
Pleased by the suspense she has created, Meredith takes a deep drag from her cigarette, attempts to inhale the smoke from her mouth in through her nostrils. Meredith has probably practiced this many times in front of a mirror at home. The effect’s not lost on Holly. She will probably try a cigarette by end of term.
“Well, Holly, I’m not sure.” Holly looks so happy that Meredith has finally called her by name, she almost claps. “But I’ll tell you. See what you think.
“It is the last week of summer break. I’m at Pruett’s house, drinking B and Ds. It’s past midnight when Cape comes in and asks me if I want to go for a walk on the beach. He never drinks, which is kind of boring, but whatever.”
“B and Ds?” Holly asks, determined to master this new language.
“Bacardi and Diet Cokes. Anyway, Cape and I drive to Maidstone to take our walk. I have a pretty good buzz and am thinking about maybe going for a swim in the ocean. I start to take my top off, and then I trip. But because it’s Cape, I don’t feel embarrassed at all. He takes my elbow, and once he’s sure I’m steady, he leans into me and says, ‘Meredith, I think I love you.’ He then reaches over and starts petting my hair like I’m some kind of cat. I think this is just too funny and start to laugh. But because I know that is just too mean, I put my hands up to my face and make it sound like I’m crying.”
“Crying?” Holly says. I know that Holly, like me, has yet to elicit such a declaration of love from a boy, and we are both eager to hear the rest of the story.
“Then Cape puts his arm around me and starts kissing my ear. I can’t stand ear kissing. All that spit and heavy breathing. It’s like porno for dogs. I just want him off me, so I push him back into the sand, unbuckle his belt, and give him the best blowjob he has ever had. I’m really good at blowjobs. They are like my specialty.”
I’m really good at blowjobs. They are like my specialty? Jess has a neutral expression—I know she has heard this story before—but Holly’s face is all pinched together, as if she is trying to figure out just how many blowjobs Meredith has had to give to make them her “specialty.”
I can tell Meredith likes our interruptions; they add to the suspense.
“I’m good because I don’t get distracted; I’m totally single-minded about the whole thing. Sometimes guys try and touch my tits when I blow them, thinking they’re giving me something for my effort. Like it is some kind of pay-as-you-go, but I’m just like, No, don’t mess up my rhythm. So of course, with Cape, the harder I suck him, the more sentimental he gets, calling me Mere with these little oh!s and whimpers in there.
“I think this is a major victory for me, because if you saw him, you would think he was cool and could keep his shit together during a blowjob. But when he comes, he keeps gulping air and making these little noises. I swallow, of course. That’s one of the things that make me so good. It’s really almost the same as warm salt water, but thicker, like salad dressing. Then I put everything back in his boxers where it belongs and zip up his khaki shorts. Cape pulls me up next to him and kisses the top of my head, my cheeks. I think he’s going to cry for real, which is just not my thing. After about five minutes, he seems composed and ready to make another speech. I can’t deal and tell him I really need to get home.”
I start to feel sorry for this boy she has made cry on the sand, even though I have never met him.
I say: “I know what you mean. It’s so lame when g
uys don’t know you’re supposed to take turns. You go down on him; he goes down on you.”
Meredith looks slightly off balance, as if I’m Cape reaching for her breasts while she’s trying to tell her story.
“Exactly, Bettina,” she concedes in a flat voice before proceeding. “Anyway, the next day, there’s a poem from him in my mailbox. A poem! Written in pencil. I hate poetry, even pencils, so I don’t even read it. He calls that night, and I let Mums take the call. I just don’t want him to embarrass himself any more. I mean, he is really good at soccer and will be captain of the lacrosse team next year, I’m sure of it. But for fuck’s sake, have some dignity, dude. He sent another Poem by Cape to our apartment in NYC but I didn’t call him. Instead, I brought it to show Jess. It’s a classic.”
Meredith gets up and walks over to her desk. She opens the top drawer, pulls out an air-mail envelope, and tosses it to me. Unlike Meredith, I like poetry. Would love for a boy to send me a poem that he wrote especially for me, even if I had to give him a blowjob first.
There’s an onionskin piece of paper tucked inside the envelope. The writing is in dark black pencil, but the letters are cramped together, as if they had not been given the chance to stand and stretch.
I think most about your ankles,
The way the bones kiss when you stand.
Or perhaps the backs of your knees:
They are so lovely and vulnerable,
As if they await a press of my thumbs,
The Chocolate Money Page 10
