The Chocolate Money

by Ashley Prentice Norton

  She continues. “You can study at the library until ten if you get permission beforehand.”

  Will she check the library? She seems thorough enough to do so, although I bet she wants to be on deck at the dorm.

  “Any questions?”

  Holly raises her hand.

  “Are we allowed to take baths?”

  I don’t understand why anyone would want to. Does she think this is a hotel?

  “Yes, of course, but not in the morning when everyone showers.”

  I want to look like I am participating. Redeem myself for the smoking incident.

  “Do we have to go to bed at a certain hour?”

  Jess and Meredith giggle.

  Meredith says, “You wish. Sometimes you’ll have so much homework, you’ll stay up all night.”

  Miss McSoren doesn’t expect feedback from us. “No. If you are old enough to be away from home, you can regulate your own sleeping habits.” At least Deeds won’t be waking me up in the middle of the night. I sense from her rigidity that she gets her eight hours.

  She waits for more questions, but we have none.

  “That’s it,” she says. “I’ll leave you to get to know one another.” Holly takes a cookie, gets crumbs on her T-shirt. I want one too, but Miss McSoren’s offerings are too pathetic. Meredith declines. Seems to be watching me.

  12. Boys in Blazers

  September 1983

  I WAKE UP EARLY THE next morning, around six, due to the jet lag. The starchy sheets and itchy blanket make me wonder at first if I am in some kind of hospital. Then I look over at the bed next to me and see Holly sleeping soundly. I badly need a cigarette. Smoking is now like breathing to me. It steadies me, helps me clear my head and get my balance. After my run-in with Miss McSoren, I don’t dare risk doing it in the bathroom. I decide instead to take a walk. Yesterday evening, I read in the C-book that students are allowed outside after five A.M., so I figure I’ll find a nice bench somewhere on campus and have a cigarette. I slip on my pleated skirt and a yellow button-down and go outside.

  The New Hampshire morning air is crisp but not quite cold, like a lake in summer. No one else is up that I can see. I walk for a bit, not really knowing where I am going, since I missed the campus tour the first day. I see identical red-brick dorms and concrete paths cutting through the grass. The library is in the center, a huge red building with round windows. One of the things that drew me to Cardiss, besides the fact that Mack and my grandfather went here, was this library. It’s bigger than any other prep school’s; has the most books. Behind the dorm farthest from Bright is an expanse of playing fields. These seem too open to risk a smoke on, and it would be almost sacrilegious to put out a butt on the grass. I keep walking until I get to a river lined with green benches. Just like a regular park.

  I find a suitable bench. Take a seat and light up. I feel lonely sitting on this bench. It reminds me of the one in the aparthouse. But I am no longer a ten-year-old, bored in the playroom. New problems. I inhale sharply, think about Meredith and her stupid relationship with Cape. Even Holly has a better chance with someone like him than I do, even if she’s from Iowa. I am not sweet, or even hard in the right way. I’m cynical, but not dark, funny. I’m there on the bench for about an hour before I head to breakfast. I scan the dining room and spot Meredith, Jess, and Holly sitting at a different table from the night before, a long one filled with other students. I help myself to coffee and Raisin Bran with skim milk and join them.

  “Hey, Bettina! Where were you?” Holly asks.

  “I couldn’t sleep and took a walk,” I say, not wanting her to know I was suffering from jet lag.

  “I can barely get out of bed at seven,” Meredith says. “You’re an inspiration.”

  “Hardly,” I say, looking around at the others at the table, wanting to ask, Who are these people? There must be about fifteen students sitting there, boys and girls. I have never eaten breakfast with boys. Almost all of the students have wet hair. The boys wear blazers and ties, the girls skirts and slim-fitting T-shirts or oxfords. They are the best-looking bunch of teenagers I have ever seen. They seem to have some kind of hall pass from acne, and their bodies don’t pull at their clothes. There are too many of them to make introductions, so I just sit there. No one seems too interested in my arrival. I wonder if Cape is among them. Judging from the way that Meredith calmly spreads cream cheese on her bagel, I think not. How could you not perk up if a boy you gave a blowjob to was eating at the same table, even if you claimed to be on the verge of breaking up with him?

  But I’m wrong. Another boy arrives at the table and says, “Hey, Cape! Summer?”

  “Good; you?” He’s just three seats down the table from me. Has brown hair that falls in his eyes, which are an intense blue. White oxford with a navy tie that has lobsters on it. Thin wrists and long fingers. Totally put together, except his fingernails. The nails, and the skin around them, are savagely bitten. I realize that while you can be fluid during the summer, admit attraction and even love, at Cardiss, you hold such things in check. You have to live with these people, after all, and you have to tuck the vulnerable parts of yourself away. All the drama is secondhand, recounted and then rehashed during intense conversations in the dorms. I wonder what Cape’s thinking. Does he try to make eye contact with Meredith, or is even that small gesture too much of a risk? I turn and begin asking Holly what classes she will be taking, not wanting anyone to think I’m checking out Cape.

  When the bell rings, we exit the dining hall and walk quickly to class. I haven’t had time to buy my books, so I just carry an empty straw bag that I picked up at the stalls in Paris. I worry Holly will think I can’t afford them and try to lend me money. I have a little schedule of all my classes that reads like some kind of treasure map. First is English 212 with Mr. Donaldson, room 42, Fielding Hall. I hope he’s more inspiring than Miss McSoren.

  The classrooms at Cardiss are all alike, except for the science ones. Each contains a large oval wooden table that we sit around, like kids at a dinner party. We are supposed to throw out ideas, parse our thoughts while the teacher looks on like some kind of benevolent but detached host. When I walk in, I am almost the last one there. Two seats available. One next to a girl with purple hair, and one next to a cute blond boy. I pick the one by the boy.

  Mr. Donaldson is standing by the door, waiting, I suppose, for the last student to arrive. He’s looks exactly like you’d expect a boarding-school teacher to look. Gray beard trimmed closely, glasses, tweed jacket, sharp green eyes. The bell rings again; no one else comes. He shuts the door.

  “’Morning, everyone. I recognize some of you, but for those who are new, welcome. If you are not here for English 212, now is the time to make a graceful exit.”

  I’m sure he has said this to classes a dozen times, but people still laugh. No one gets up.

  “This semester, we’ll be reading from the twentieth-century British and American canon, and you’ll be writing three expository papers on whatever books you choose. You’ll also pick your own topics. I can provide some if you’re stuck, but I really want you to pursue something that interests you.

  “The other thing we’ll do is creative nonfiction. You’ll be expected to compose three stories based on real episodes from your life. This’ll probably be challenging, since I want you to write about the real stuff. Events that have changed you, made you see things in a new light. Or, as they say, the precise moment after which everything was different. You’ll be reading these out loud in class, so we’ll work to establish a deep trust. And the less you hold back, the bigger the payoff.”

  Some of my classmates are writing this carefully in notebooks, which makes me suspect they won’t have anything interesting to say, that they just want to follow directions. I take it all in. Start to worry. My stories are all about Babs. Just transcribing verbatim what she has said to me over the years, with no embellishment, would be taking a risk. And my life has yet to have a moment after which everything was d
ifferent. So far, it’s been just Babs, Babs, and more Babs.

  I look at the boy to my left. He’s not writing anything down, but his carefully combed hair and Cardiss tie seem to indicate a buttoned-up, sheltered existence. I doubt he’s ever seen his mother’s pubic hair.

  Donaldson continues. “Today, a small exercise to practice.”

  He grabs a pack of index cards from his desk and drops them in the middle of the table. “I want you to pinpoint a moment this summer when you felt embarrassed and describe it in three sentences or fewer. Write your name and your hometown in the top corner.” There is a small murmuring around the table, which dies down as students grab cards and take up their pens.

  After five minutes of deliberation, I write:

  Bettina Ballentyne

  Chicago, Illinois

  I was sitting on the beach in Cap d’Antibes when my bikini top came unhooked. I couldn’t get it back on quickly, and everyone around me was watching.

  This of course is a lie, since I and everyone I know always goes topless in France, but I wasn’t going to write about the really horrifying things: Babs calling at three in the morning to see if I had gotten my period yet. Leaving Nair on my bikini area too long and getting a rash that lasted a couple of weeks. Borrowing a dress from Cécile and having it rip when I sat down at the dinner table because it was two sizes too small.

  When all of us are done writing, Donaldson says, “Okay, now hand your card to your neighbor.”

  We look up at him, incredulous. We’ve been tricked. Even if mine is a lie, I don’t want the cute boy next to me to read it. He will probably think, What’s the big deal? You don’t have boobs anyway.

  Nobody passes on a card and Donaldson says, “I know this might seem difficult, but all of you are taking the same risk.”

  The cute boy and I swap cards. His reads:

  Lowell Stillman

  New York, NY

  I was playing basketball with my friends when I tripped and fell. It hurt so much I cried.

  Not so bad. I regret I wrote about my body. Now, at this very moment, I am really uncomfortable.

  Donaldson gives us some time to look the cards over and then adds, “Write something positive on the card and hand it back. You’ll see it’s not as big of a deal as you might have thought.”

  It doesn’t seem that Lowell needs to be shored up, he is so composed. But I write:

  No biggie to cry with your buds there. They probably felt bad you fell.

  I hand it back to him. He smiles and gives me mine. He’s written:

  Sounds hot! Wish I’d been there.

  I wonder if he is making fun of me and I blush. I look at him and see to my surprise that he is smiling in a nice way.

  “Nice to meet you, Lowell,” I say.

  “Likewise, Bettina,” he says, holding out his hand.

  Maybe Lowell can be my Cape and I can share stories about him with Meredith. All of the details of fooling around. I’m pretty sure he’s not major needy, though I have no proof of this.

  Seeing Lowell in his blue blazer, white oxford, and rep tie makes me miss Mack in a way I haven’t in years. Mack’s preppy way of dressing, his tendency to rub his hands through his hair to make sure it’s still there, it’s all replicated in so many boys here. I thought my desire for Mack would have abated a bit by now. It has not.

  I thought Lowell and I could chat some more after class, maybe even flirt a bit, but everyone except me quickly packs up his or her stuff when the bell rings, no lingering. I have a free period after Donaldson, and I can think of nothing else to do but smoke.

  I go back to the same bench. This time there’s a boy sitting there. He strikes me as the antithesis of Lowell. He wears a coat and tie, as school rules dictate, but pairs them with ripped jeans that have lyrics from the Grateful Dead scrawled on them. According to the C-book, boys are allowed to wear jeans with their ties and blazers. He is also smoking. Marlboro Reds. He has green eyes, and a mop of dark curly hair. He’s not handsome, but he is approachable. He has a cool vibe that spills into me. He holds out his hand.

  “Hello, beauty,” he says, which takes me aback, because of the confidence with which he says it and because I’ve never been called this in my life. I shake his hand and feel the calluses on his palm. He smokes with his left hand, which makes me believe he is left-handed, like me. A plus.

  “And you would be . . . ?”

  “Jake Kronenberg,” he answers affably. “Have a seat. Plenty of room. Want a smoke?”

  At least I have an answer to this.

  “Thanks. I have my own.” I sit down on the bench, go to work lighting my cigarette with my Cartier lighter. I’ll simply join him, as if we were shooting hoops together. Killing time.

  “I see you are committed to the endeavor,” he says easily. “So, gorgeous, what’s your name?”

  Now I wonder if he’s always this easy with the compliments and roll my eyes. “Bettina.”

  “Bettina,” he says, “don’t be so cynical. I’m not bullshitting you. I have high standards, and you more than clear the bar.”

  “We just met,” I say. “How the fuck do you know?”

  “I can just tell. See, you said fuck, and we haven’t known each other two minutes.”

  “Whatever. I just came to smoke.” But I am intrigued by our little game.

  He puts his hand on my bare knee and starts rubbing it lightly, using his thumb to make small circles. I’m surprised by how pleasant the feeling is. His fingers begin to trace their way up and down my inner thigh. I am aroused but scared. If he starts to kiss me on the bench, right there, I might even kiss him back. Despite the fact that I’m even less experienced than Holly and have never kissed anyone. And I barely know him. But I can tell he takes what he wants, does not ask for permission.

  He reaches my underwear and this jolts me enough to grab his hand, make him stop.

  “Jake, I’m sorry, but no. I’m just not . . .” Not what? Not ready? Not it. Not interested? No. Afraid? Maybe.

  “No worries. But I can wait. Another time, Bettina.”

  I don’t know what to say.

  I look at my watch. Time for biology. I finish my cigarette, throw it, still burning, onto the grass. Maybe this will make me seem daring, show I’m not a prude or a tease.

  He grabs my wrist and kisses it. “See you soon,” he says.

  “Sure,” I say.

  The day’s long with light. When I finally finish my classes, which promise to be hard but doable, I go back to Bright, still tired from the jet lag. I want to skip dinner again but know I can’t. I decide to lie down for a bit, refresh myself before walking around the campus and making more of the first impressions that may or may not be important during my Cardiss career. I climb the steps at the house. The door to Meredith and Jess’s room is open, and I’m surprised to see that Holly has ventured in there without me.

  “Bettina, come in!” Meredith says. I know her enthusiastic greeting doesn’t necessarily reflect a fondness for me. She just needs a crowd to be more of who she is. I hesitate but know not going in would be socially fatal. I pull the door shut behind me.

  Jess sits on her bed, pulling at a bunch of green grapes and sucking on them like they’re decadent candies. Holly and Meredith are on the floor. I think I will just make a pit stop, and then take a shower.

  “So I talked to Cape today and he said he wanted to take a walk on the lacrosse fields after dinner.”

  I reach for a cigarette. Now that I have met him, I am curious as to how this is going to play out.

  “That’s so exciting!” Holly says. Meredith’s now her favorite TV show and she’s just happy to sit on the floor and watch the drama unfold.

  “Too bad about the dumb poems,” I say, trying to untether Meredith from Cape, challenge her on the breakup she claims to want.

  She glares at me.

  “What are you going to wear, Meredith?” Holly says, trying to get the conversation back to the excited pitch it had before I
walked in.

  “Oh, just something that shows off my boobs.”

  Holly blushes, but I am eager to see them. Meredith must have at least a C cup.

  She takes off her top. Meredith’s wearing fancy lingerie: a white lace bra with a peach bow at the base of her cleavage. The bra pushes her breasts together, two smooth, sweet cupcakes of flesh. I have the odd desire to lick them, they are so beautiful.

  It’s brutal for me to think about Cape handling them. He’s come to represent the standard Cardiss boy to me. If this is the case, I have no chance of ever fooling around with Lowell. I’ll have to settle for an outlier like Jake.

  Meredith pulls on a white baby-doll tee and another Laura Ashley skirt. She must have a dozen. The tee can barely hold up to her breasts, and I imagine they might push through any minute.

  Jess puts the grapes back in a zip-lock bag and stores them in a minifridge they have snuck into the room and hidden under a large scarf.

  I don’t see Lowell at the dining hall. Dinner runs from six to seven thirty, so I guess we’ve missed him. Meredith makes herself a large salad and some Crystal Light from a packet she has brought from the dorm. Holly helps herself to the hot entrée: chicken with Tater Tots. She eats as if she were still in Iowa. We form a little clump in the table by the window, and no one joins us.

  I can tell by the deliberate way Meredith holds her fork and scans the room that she is looking for Cape. He isn’t there. I do see Jake. He is sitting by himself, reading the New York Times. He doesn’t seem to be clued in to the fact that you’re supposed to eat with other people. Or at least pretend to have friends. His indifference makes me think of Babs. I wish I could be like them. I stare at Jake a bit, and he lifts his head to meet my gaze. Waves at me. I nod back.