by Micol Ostow
“I’m guessing you.”
“You’re guessing right. Me! Painting the cannon—and then guarding the cannon. All by myself. All night long. Lousy, right?”
“Definitely lousy,” I agreed. “Did you say anything when you found out?”
“Believe it or not, I did. I mean, you know the last thing that I want to do is rock the boat, but I couldn’t not say something.
So I just casually asked Anu how it was that the schedules worked out the way they did. You know, in that I was the only one able to paint tonight. Which of course set her off into a twenty-minute conniption about whether or not my dedication was up to the level befitting a Tri-Delt. And then I had to backtrack like crazy.”
“Oh, Charlie, I’m sorry,” I said. “When are you painting?”
“Tonight,” she said. “Midnight.” She brightened momentarily. “Want to go with me to town to pick up paint?”
I winced. “I can’t,” I said. “I’m meeting Sean in half an hour. We were going to see that new James Bond movie.”
“Don’t you hate James Bond?” she pointed out.
“‘Hate’ is a strong word, Charlie,” I admonished. “I think Vehemently dislike’ is the more accurate term.”
“Then why would you go to see it?” she asked.
“Because Sean likes it. And I like Sean,” I said. “And he promised to go see that new Julia Roberts thing with me next week in exchange.”
“I would have gone to see the Julia Roberts thing with you next week,” she said.
“I know,” I agreed. “But he has nicer shoulders than you do.”
“That is true,” she said thoughtfully. She lay back down on her bed again, awash in self-pity. “Fine, then. Go see your boy movie. Leave the dirty work of pledging to me.” She assumed her traditional arm-flung-over-eye posture. “At least one of us should be having fun tonight.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” I teased. “Ill definitely be having enough fun for both of us.”
A funny thing, the word “love,” don’t you think? Overuse and abuse in the pop culture has led to sickly sweet associations with the term: little girls with stars in their eyes, animated cupids following them to and fro, arrows pointed squarely at chests, hearts thump-thumping deep outlines practically out of chests and into the atmosphere (in a cute way, of course). I used to assume that these representations were exaggerated, that love couldn’t possibly be as simplistic as sugar and spice and everything nice.
Boy, was I ever wrong.
I suppose this was what it was like when I first met Drew. But, of course, four years is a long time to be with one person. By our senior year there were certain assumptions in place, certain means of taking each other for granted. A point in time, for example, when I stopped wearing lip gloss on our dates. Which of course isn’t exactly a crime, but should give you a sense of where we were.
Sean was lip gloss worthy, all the way. I couldn’t remember the last time I got so excited about going to see a movie. A movie I didn’t even want to see, for that matter. But James Bond took on new life when Sean was sitting next to me, holding my hand. And it wasn’t just 007. With Sean around, everything seemed just that much more appealing: from the dreggy remains of my mocha Frappuccino to the unnecessary torture of the elliptical machine at the gym.
I was one smitten kitten.
I melted over his sensitivity; I swooned at the color of his eyes. But it was more than that. I’d never known someone to take such an interest in me, so quickly. It turned out that once he found out who I was, he’d gone back and read all of my articles in the Chronicle (he was particularly impressed with my knowledge of Latin-punk fusion). He came to the gym with Charlie and me twice this week. He immediately took to Troy, and even made it a point to ask them to double last Thursday when we went for Thai down in Inman Square.
We spent last Saturday at Faneuil Hall, trying on crazy sunglasses (him) and retro-eighties earrings (me). Monday, of course, was the action flick. And when I mentioned to him how badly I felt for Charlie, he insisted that we pick up some hot chocolate and french fries and bring them by the cannon for her. We stood guard with her for about three hours, Sean regaling us with his plans to study in Belize over the spring semester.
I, for one, could just die.
But I won’t. I’m meeting Sean for dinner and I don’t want to be late.
Thursday, about two weeks after our James Bond outing, Sean and I were set to meet for another on-campus poetry slam. Shelley had submitted a piece again, and, as usual, Charlie and I wanted to show our support. We hit the local pizza place, Luigi’s, beforehand to fuel up. Troy wanted pepperoni, I wanted mushrooms. Sean hit upon the brilliant plan of going half and half.
“Dude, I do not understand how you could possibly not like this,” Troy said, folding his slice in half and wolfing down half of it in one bite. It left streaks of sauce across his chin, which I didn’t bother to point out. He plucked a piece of pepperoni off the remainder of the slice and sucked it down eagerly.
I glanced at his paper plate. The pools of grease that had collected were turning a toxic shade of orange.
“I don’t know, Troy, I guess it’s just a little too much for me,” I said, shrugging. “To each his own.”
“To each her own,” Sean corrected me, hugging me to him.
“True enough, babe,” I agreed.
“Do you think that weird mime guy is going to be there tonight?” Charlie asked. “Because I don’t know if I can sit through that again without laughing, you know.”
“Not sure. They didn’t run the lineup in the Chronicle this time,” I said.
“Oh, duh! I should have checked,” Charlie said. “I was too busy reading the personals. You were right, they’re really funny.”
“What’s so funny about personals?” Troy asked. “Is it, like, ‘SWM seeks model for long walks on beach?”
Charlie reached out and dabbed at his chin with her napkin. This was one part cute, one part disturbing. “No, it’s this thing Claudia told me about. Like, how you can take personals out for your friends and stuff, on their birthdays and whatever—”
“Oh yeah, I’ve seen those—,” Sean chimed in.
“But the thing is that the Chronicle staff do this thing where they bury these messages to one another in the personals. And you never really know when they’re going to be in there or what they’ll be for. You just have to keep checking, on the off chance that you’ll find something interesting.”
“Wait—so you saw something?” I asked. I hadn’t checked the personals in a few days. The number of days since I’d met Sean, to be precise. “What was it?”
Charlie dug into her bag and produced a beat-up copy of that day’s paper. She flipped the pages until they were open to the classifieds:
MIDNIGHT IHOP. COLBY AT 11:30.
It was from O’Shea, I could tell. Just like with the roller disco; he loved quirky outings that fostered team-building.
“You gonna go?” Sean asked.
“Huh? Oh, no.” Not only had I not checked the personals in ten days, but I also hadn’t requested any new assignments from Gabe, either. Our post-Drew study date had been awkward, and besides that, I’d been busy with my own paper and the extra credit for comp sci. And, of course, busy with Sean. And with Charlie, whose pledge-related freak-outs were growing increasingly common.
So I hadn’t read the personals, talked to Gabe, or been down to the paper in over a week. Which was pretty atypical behavior for me. I hadn’t exactly missed it, as such, or I suppose I would have gotten it together to get down there. I guessed that the trick to getting over Gabe was falling for someone else. But the ad in front of me was proof positive that life went on without me. The staff had plans for big fun tonight and they didn’t involve me. It didn’t matter that I was the one who in effect had excluded myself. It still felt wrong.
I pushed away my pizza and took a hearty slurp on my Diet Coke.
“Why not?” Sean pressed. “The slam starts
in half an hour. It should be over by ten, tops. You’ll have plenty of time to catch a ride, I’m sure.”
“I just don’t want to,” I said, testy. Why did Sean have to be so understanding about it all, dammit? It didn’t matter that my response to the dumb personals ad was immature and overreactionary. I didn’t want solutions; I just wanted to sulk for a little bit without anyone asking questions. But for some reason, Sean, seeing that I was upset, wasn’t going to just let it go. No matter how much I wished he would. And why?
Because he was Sean, that’s why.
10/17, 6:31 p.m.
from: [email protected]
to: [email protected]
re: paper
Hey—
I waited for you after class, but you must have slipped out some secret door or something. I wanted to see what you got on the paper.
And also to ask you—do you have anyone covering the West Hall Halloween party this year? I hear it’s one of the best on-campus events of the year. If not, can I put in my bid? It’s been a while since I’ve darkened the doorways of the Chronicle.
Did you guys have fun at IHOP?
—xx
10/18, 4:48 p.m.
from: [email protected]
to: [email protected]
re: fw: appropriate attire—AAARGH
See below.
[note: forwarded message attached]
from: [email protected]
to: [email protected]
re: appropriate attire
Charlie—
I couldn’t help but notice that you weren’t wearing your pledge pin at the gym today. I’m sure you’re well aware that the pledge pin is considered a symbol of status and a means of indicating to the entire extended campus your commitment to the Tri-Delts. If in fact you find it to be too obtrusive, perhaps we can dig up something more … subtle for you to wear?
You can pick up your new accessory from the house anytime after four.
10/18, 5:15 p.m.
from: [email protected]
to: [email protected]
re: re: fw: appropriate attire—AAARGH
I’m almost afraid to ask—what is it?
10/18, 5:54 p.m.
from: [email protected]
to: [email protected]
re: re: re: fw: appropriate attire—AAARGH
Did you see The Cat in the Hat? That crap movie with Mike Myers?
DO YOU REMEMBER HIS HAT?
10/18, 6:34 p.m.
from: [email protected]
to: [email protected]
re: re: re: re: fw: appropriate attire—AAARGH
Oh. My. God.
10/20, 6:20 p.m.
from: [email protected]
to: [email protected]
re: Out of sight, out of mind?
Heya—
I realize I’m walking the fine line between casual acquaintance and stalker, but I figured it was worth one more shot, on the off chance that you were not, in fact, avoiding me, but rather, trapped, somewhere, under a large object.
I noticed you weren’t in class yesterday. Where ya been, man? Surely you haven’t quit school to follow the Dead. You never struck me as especially gra-nola….
—xx
10/24, 3:17 p.m.
from: [email protected]
to: [email protected]
re: re: Out of sight, out of mind?
Not avoiding you. Buried in anthro reading. IHOP was fun, though we missed you. Got a B on the media paper, so thanks for all of your help (and Congrats on beating my sorry ass!).
I should be in class today. See you there?
—G
p.s.: about West—not sure about that. Can you talk to Abby Dalton? She handles the on-campus sort of stuff, adalton@ woodmanuniv.edu.
p.p.s.: the Dead are over, Claud. Jerry’s gone. If I were going to hit the road, it’d be to find the Beastie Boys. I think they’re somewhere in Brooklyn.
Suddenly, it was late October, and the West Hall Halloween party was upon us. (Funny how time flies when you’re having fun.) Sean and I decided to go as Bonnie and Clyde, and Abby Dalton agreed to let me write up the scene for the Chronicle. I’d been away from the paper for way too long.
West was the oldest dorm on campus, and its architecture reflected as much: sweeping, Gothic arches and deep, dark stone moldings. It would have made the perfect haunted house even smack dab in the middle of Easter. The party committee (whom I’d interviewed earlier that day) had spared no expense on decor. Cobwebs hung from every doorway, and atmospheric moans and rattles echoed through the hallways. At eleven, the party was already kicking. Sean and I helped ourselves to some candy corn and stood off to one corner of the common room, happy to observe. I wasn’t much for talking. I’d been quiet all day, actually. Nothing was bothering me as such, but I guess … I was in a mood.
Sensing my tension, Sean offered to grab us some beers, disappearing into the hallway where the keg was set up.
“Dammit, I chipped a nail.”
I looked up and laughed. It was Gabe, done up as a completely punked-out Sid Vicious. His hair stood up in bright white Billy Idol peaks. His nails were painted black, though I could see none of the chips he referenced.
“Where’s your partner in crime?” he asked, glancing back and forth as though he half-expected Sean to come swinging into the room on a vine, bat him aside, and carry me off in one fell swoop.
“You mean Sean?” I asked, confused. Why did Gabe know I had a boyfriend? It wasn’t a secret, but I hadn’t gone out of my way to talk about it with anyone from the paper. Had hardly even been down to the paper lately. And what did Gabe care about gossip, anyway? Weird. “Beer run. He said he’ll be right back.”
“Well, then, he probably will,” Gabe reasoned.
“Yes, he’s very reliable,” I agreed.
“Lucky you,” Gabe said.
Before I could respond to that, I felt a tap on my shoulder. “Look what I found you!”
I looked. Sean stood next to me, palm outstretched. He was cupping a handful of miniature chocolates. My eyes lit up. “Where?”
“In the lobby,” he said. “We missed it when we came in. And it’s Hershey’s, not that second-rate generic brand that you hate. I made sure to double check.”
“That’s awfully conscientious of you,” Gabe said, sniffing.
“Sean, have you met Gabe?” I asked, turning from one to the other like a deranged social coordinator. What the hell was wrong with me? I was introducing a friend to my boyfriend. No big. “Gabe Flynn, Sean Brightman. Gabe is the arts editor—”
“Right, for the Chronicle!” Sean finished, excited. “Man, I love your column!”
“Yeah, thanks.”
Sean threw an arm over my shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “Claudia is always saying how she owes the whole journalism thing to you. That’s really cool.”
“Well, uh, Claudia’s a great writer,” Gabe mumbled.
The room felt thick and hot, and Gabe’s face was growing red and sweaty. Meanwhile, Sean still had his arm wrapped around me, hugging away happily. Was the punch spiked? I set it down on the table.
“You know,” Gabe said, echoing my thoughts, “I think—I’m getting kind of hot.”
“Probably the leather,” Sean suggested rather pragmatically, pointing at Gabe’s pants.
“Yeah, uh, I think I’m gonna get some punch.” He ran his fingers through his hair, only to shower himself in the spray-on bleached-blond effect he’d somehow managed.
“But the punch is right here,” Sean pointed out mildly.
“Right. I meant some fresh air. That’s what I need,” Gabe said. He reached to run his fingers through his hair again, then remembered the spray. He dropped his hand to his side awkwardly. “I’ll see you in a few?”
“Sure,” Sean said, still with the pleasant smile. “We’ll be here!”
But we di
dn’t see him again for the rest of the night.
I never did get to the bottom of Gabe’s behavior at the party. Maybe he was suffering from heat exhaustion. Who knew? I mean, the kid was working part-time in addition to his responsibilities at the paper. Not to mention his actual classes. I had no idea what courses he was taking other than pop culture, or how he was doing in them. Or maybe he had some form of low-level bipolar disorder. I mean, how well did I really know him, after all?
Not very. Not very well at all. And meanwhile, a month into our relationship and Sean and I were still going strong. Just yesterday he had used the B word for the very first time. As in:
“No, let me get this.”
“Why, Sean, you shouldn’t—”
“Claudia, will you let your boyfriend pay for your fries, please?”
Which was, of course, enough to shut me up.
The other thing I never got to the bottom of was my strange mood on the night of the West Hall Halloween party. But I decided to chalk it up to free-floating PMS or something. I mean, everything was cool with Sean. Charlie and Ellen both approved. I was writing for the paper, I was passing comp sci, and all in all, life was good.
So why was I so hung up on Gabe’s personality issue?
I wasn’t, I decided. I wasn’t at all. I was 120 percent over Gabe—had been since the night at the roller disco. Had been since “target practice” began. Sean was the one.
But there was something I hadn’t told anyone. Something so insignificant that I couldn’t imagine telling anyone; it almost didn’t even bear mentioning. Silly, even. I had no idea why I was still thinking about it.
See, Sunday night, the night after the West Hall Halloween party, had been my one-month anniversary with Sean. And I was pleased to discover that, on the subject of anniversaries, he was almost as much of a girly-girl as I was. He insisted that we return to the site of our first date: the sushi restaurant he loved over in the theater district. It was perfect. We took a private booth, kicked our shoes off, and cozied up, playing footsie inside the well. We shared edamame and drank sake like it was going out of style. There were toasts aplenty, to first semesters, to first encounters, to lost Internet connections….
