I’d promised to call and text every day and we promised to Skype at least once a week. That seemed to make her feel a little better and it made me happy. I don’t like seeing my mom sad.
My dad on the other hand was much easier to say goodbye to. It’s not that we’re not so close, it’s just that things are more complicated with us. He’s a very regimented person who doesn’t suffer fools easily. Sometimes I think that he thinks that I’m fool for the life choices that I’m making. Especially, when he says things like “why am I spending $50 grand on an education that you can get for free by getting a library card?”
There’s no answer to that. No, there are many valid answers. A humanities education teaches you how to think. It teaches you how to you reason. How to make decisions. I’ve tried many of those in numerous prior conversations. Result?
“If a humanities education teaches you how to think, then why isn’t it clear to you that you need to major in something that will give you some way of supporting yourself in the future? I mean, what are you going to do after graduating with an English Lit degree? Serve coffee in a café?”
That was just one of the brilliant gems of wisdom that I heard in one of our millions of conversations on the topic. For some reason, my college major has been a topic of conversation for over four years of my life already. Even before I started college!
My mom says that he says those things because he cares. But I think if he cares so much, why doesn’t he just support me in pursuing my dreams? That’s what people do who actually care.
“Hey, Alice?” Dylan taps me on the shoulder. I’m standing in line to get my student ID. I should’ve gotten it earlier, but I’ve been dragging my feet for two days trying to avoid running into Tristan.
Dylan was stunningly handsome with full soft lips. He’s even hotter in the light of day.
“I haven’t seen you in two days! Are we roomies or what?” He puts his arms around my shoulders and gives me a big bear hug. He feels warm and comfortable, but strong, too. Definitely works out.
“Yeah, sorry about that.” I look at the floor. I don’t know how to explain what’s been going on.
“Tristan, right?” he asks. It’s amazing the relief that you can feel when something so complicated and convoluted is suddenly summed up in two words.
I shrug. Look away. I’m embarrassed.
“Listen, it has nothing to do with you. I’d love to hang out sometime. But Tristan…it’s all very weird for me still.”
“Next!” someone yells in the distance.
“I think that’s you,” Dylan smiles.
“Oh shit, you’re right.” I’m frazzled. I wanted to take a look at myself in the mirror before it was finally my turn. I can’t believe I’d waited for two hours in this stupid line and now I wasn’t even ready. I’m not wearing nearly enough eyeliner and my brows are probably all in disarray.
“You look beautiful,” Dylan reassures me, as if he knows what I’m thinking.
Well, here goes nothing. I take a deep breath, flash him a wide smile, and sit down on the chair in front of the camera.
“Smile,” the woman says and clicks flash before I get the chance to put on my best fake smile.
“Take a look. You only get one redo.”
I walk over to the screen. I look like one of those chimps in a wildlife documentary with a large open-mouth smile that is most disingenuous thing you’ve ever seen. The smile makes me look terrified!
“Another one please.”
Focus, focus, Alice. Don’t be such a spaz. Think of something good. I search my mind for funny image of a dog or cat from a YouTube video. But nothing comes to mind. Suddenly, I look behind the photographer and I see Dylan. He’s still here! He flashes me a smile and I can’t help but smile back.
The photographer snaps the pictures. When I look at it on the screen, I’m stunned. It’s one of the most genuine smiles I’ve ever had photographed.
8
Dylan invites me to lunch. I don’t have class for another hour so we head to a local sushi place a block away from campus. One of the perks of going to school in New York!
At first, we talk about high school and our lives until this point. His aunt and uncle live in LA and he’s been there a few times. I ask him about Worthington, the fancy boarding school he’s gone to for the last three years. Growing up, it had been a dream of mine to go to a boarding school. It’s not that I wanted to get away from my parents or be a grown up so much earlier. I just like the idea of the independence that came with it. Living with roommates. Being responsible for your own laundry. Living on your own terms. But still in a somewhat safe environment with other kids. I share my dream with Dylan. He just laughs.
“It’s not really like that,” he says. “I mean, you do get to be on your own a lot. But it’s a little different when you feel like your parents just shipped you off there because they got tired of you.”
“Really? No, that can’t be true.” I shake my head. “I’m sure you parents love you.”
“Well, unlike you, I didn’t really want to go. I liked my friends and my teachers at the private school near our house. But my parents were getting divorced and my brother was already in Dartmouth. My dad had a new girlfriend and my mom was having a breakdown. I don’t think they wanted me around anymore. At first, I protested and they caved. But then when my mom went to rehab for two months, there was no one at the house to stay with me. So my dad thought it’d be best to send me to boarding school.”
“That sucks,” I say and put my hand on his arm.
“Eh, it’s okay. Rich kid problems, right? I’m fine. I honestly wasn’t even going to talk about this. I never really do. I just didn’t want you to have some illusion of what boarding school is like.”
“Well, to be honest, you haven’t really told me anything bad about boarding schools. Your story was really about parents who want to send their kids to boarding school,” I joke and smile. It takes a beat, but he catches on.
“Well, to be honest with you, boarding schools do have their perks.”
“Oh yeah, like what?” I move to the edge of my seat.
“Well, you get to hang out with girls. And I mean really hang out.”
“Is it co-ed like this?” I ask.
“No, but it’s pretty awesome anyway. They sleep in a different building, but they’re on campus. Away from home. So if you meet someone special, you can sneak out at night and actually hang out. No need to steal your parents’ car or anything like you public school kids do.”
I laugh. The check comes. He insists on covering it. Doesn’t let me even look at it. I fight for a bit, but eventually give in.
“Hey listen, I did want to talk to you about something. I just wanted to let you know that I totally get it about Tristan.”
A cold sweat dashes through me.
“What do you mean?”
“I get it that he’s your ex and that it’s really awkward having him as your roommate. But you know, that doesn’t mean that you don’t have the right to be in the living room.”
“Yeah, I know. I just couldn’t really deal with it yet.”
“I know. But the thing is that he’s there. He’s not acting like he doesn’t belong. And I want you to know that you belong, too. You can’t just go through your whole first semester avoiding him. What kind of college experience would that be?”
I shrug. I haven’t thought about how I was going to go through the whole semester. So far I’ve been living hour to hour.
“Not a good one, that’s for sure.” He flashes his handsome smile. “So I just want you to know that I can be your buffer. I’ll try to hang out in the living room as much as possible so you wouldn’t have to be alone.”
“Wow, I don’t know what to say. Thank you.”
“But I’ll only do it if you promise me that you’ll be there after dinner tonight. You’re not allowed to use school as an excuse.”
I like the way he jokes. It’s not malicious and it’s not at the expe
nse of anyone. His warmth puts me at ease so much that I actually allow myself to imagine what hanging out in the living room with Tristan might be like.
“Okay,” I mumble. “I’ll try.”
“No, promise me you’ll do it. Not just try.”
“Promise,” I say after a while. No feelings of lingering regret creep up. It’s an honest promise.
“Why do you care so much, anyway?” I ask as we walk back to campus.
“’Cause you seem like a fun girl. A fun roommate. And I don’t want to miss out on that just ‘cause you used to date someone at one time.”
That is definitely one way of putting it. I’ve been so much in my own head about this whole Tristan thing, this whole other entity that we became while were together that I didn’t realize that this whole life altering thing could just be described as “I used to date someone at one time.” Putting it that way, gives me a little perspective. Maybe it’s not a big deal after all. Or maybe I shouldn’t make it that big a deal.
My American Lit class is starting soon. I don’t really know where Hamilton Hall is, so I put in the location into the map app on my phone. Dylan’s got American Civilization to the Civil War in the same building at the same time. We follow the app’s instructions, glued to my phone, like all the other freshmen.
“Man, I have to learn the campus layout a bit more before this weekend,” Dylan says when we finally reach the building. “I don’t want to look like a total idiot.”
“Why? What’s this weekend?”
“My girlfriend’s coming to visit me.”
“Oh, you have a girlfriend?” I joke. Not that it should matter, really, but I’m caught off-guard.
“Yes, I have a girlfriend,” he smiles. “Peyton. She goes to Yale. We met at Worthington last year.”
“How far is Yale from here?”
“About two hours, depending on traffic, if you drive. But she’s taking the train. So that’ll be about 3 hours.”
“Ah, I can’t believe you waited all through lunch to tell me. Now I have so many questions and I have to go to class,” I say, looking at my phone. “So what’s she like?”
“She’s awesome. Fun. Outgoing. She’s majoring in Poli Sci. She wants to work in government. She does a lot of volunteer work. Even started her own foundation in high school.”
“Wow, that’s impressive. She sounds amazing.”
“Yep, she is,” he says, beaming. “And she’s really looking forward to meeting everyone. And that includes you.”
I smile and promise that I’ll be there. He gives me a brief hug and turns into his class. I walk down the hall to room 101.
9
I open the door to a large lecture hall. Somehow, I’m late. Everyone else is already seated in a semi-circle around multiple levels of whiteboards. A few people turn around to look at me as I make my way down. I find a spot in the middle. Not too close to the front and not too far in the back.
When I put my bag on the floor, I look up and find a small thin woman with large disapproving eyes standing over me.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” I say.
“I would just like to make you all aware of the fact that in the future, the door to the room will be locked and no late arrivals will be tolerated.”
I look down at the syllabus that she’d put on my desk and read her name.
Dr. Polk returns back down to the podium. Behind me two girls giggle.
“Where do you think she got her paisley shirt?” one whispers.
“Goodwill. Oh, and what about those disastrous shoes. How awful.”
I hope Dr. Polk doesn’t hear them and try to focus on what she’s saying.
“Many of you are here because you’re genuinely interested in reading some of the best books from the 20th century. Books like The Great Gatsby, To Kill a Mockingbird, Catch 22, 1984 and House of Mirth. And as for all the rest of you, who aren’t interested, frankly, I don’t really know why you’re here, then. This isn’t a required elective and I hope you don’t waste either my time or your time taking a course that you’re not interested in.
“Also, as many of you know, this is a second-year course, which has only recently became open to first year students,” Dr. Polk continued. “We don’t recommend you take it unless you’re prepared to work really hard. That goes out to all of you, but specifically you freshmen.”
The girls behind me giggle with the laissez-faire of sophomores. They’ve been here for a whole year and they’re apparently not threatened by statements like that. Unfortunately, I’m not so at ease. Perhaps I’m in the wrong class altogether, I wonder. Just because I did really well in high school doesn’t mean that college will be a cakewalk. Especially this college. Especially this course.
Dr. Polk starts to go over the syllabus and introduces the books that we’re going to read this year. I’ve read most of these books in high school. Some just for fun, some for school. Suddenly, the floodgates from the recesses of my mind open and all sorts of unwanted thoughts and memories rush in.
To Kill a Mockingbird. I read it in 11th grade English. Our teacher, Mrs. Danes, let us choose our own seats and Tristan and I sat next to each other. Mrs. Danes was one of those progressive, non-hierarchal teachers who liked to challenge patriarchy at every turn, so she arranged all the desks in the room in a circle so that we could all face each other when we spoke. In a circle, there’s nowhere to hide, she liked to say. I looked forward to that class every day, not just because I loved English, but also because I sat next to Tristan. There were all of these moments before class started where we joked and laughed and all of these moments after class. Sometimes he walked me to my next class, sometimes to my locker. And one time, he kissed me. He walked me all the way to my locker and waited for me to switch out my books.
“So I meant to ask you, how was your date?” he asked. He had heard. Of course. I went on a date with a senior who didn’t go to our school, a brother of a friend of ours.
“Fine.” I smiled. He was trying to be casual about it. Like he was just asking about it in passing. But he was a little flushed. Not like his usual self.
“I was just wondering,” he said very quietly as he leaned closer to me. His face was inches away from mine. His eyes sparkled in the sunlight. He licked his lips and pressed them against mine. Lightly, at first. And then with full force. He put his hand on the back of my neck, pulling me closer.
“I was just wondering if you could not do it again?” he whispered.
That was our first kiss. Real kiss. That night, we went out together and I never saw that other guy again.
* * *
Dr. Polk moves on to Catcher in the Rye. Another book that I’ve already read. I started Catcher in the Rye the night after Tristan moved away in August of our senior year. For the first couple of days, I was a frenzy of activity. I did a million things to turn my mind off the fact that I wasn’t going to see my boyfriend for five months. I wrote, I did a ton of math homework, went running twice a day. But no matter what I did, I couldn’t shut my mind off. I couldn’t make myself feel better. So then I stopped. Gave up. Just got into bed and didn’t leave for days. I didn’t know what else to do with myself. I was drowning in anger. And my anger made me feel like the whole world was phony, including me. It was then that I started to dream of walking the streets of New York, just like Holden Caulfield, in a daze in search of something. But definitely not a prostitute (like Holden was).
“That’s enough for now,” Dr. Polk interrupts my train of thought. “Look over your syllabus. Decide if this class is really for you. If it is, go buy all the books and start reading House of Mirth for Thursday’s class.”
I wait for the bell to ring. But this is college. There are no bells. Everyone simply gets up and leaves and I follow them out. If only my dad knew that we had to read books in this class that I’ve already read over the last two years. This time, however, his likely response makes me chuckle.
10
This is going to be one of those defi
ning moments that would change the course of my life. I could feel it as if it were bubbling up within me. What I did next would really define the rest of the semester.
After grabbing a few bites to eat in the cafeteria, I clear my tray and went back upstairs. I had promised Dylan something that I had no right to promise, something that I don’t want to do. I’d promised him that I would come into the living room tonight and hang out with them. All of them. It doesn’t sound like much on the surface. They’re my roommates. All are nice and friendly people. None of them are going to bite my head off. Least of all, the person that I’m most worried about.
Tristan. He’s going to be quiet and reserved about the whole thing. Just like before. I know this because I know Tristan. But that’s the thing that scares me. That’s not really who Tristan is. And when he’s acting that way, when he’s pretending to be this quiet, unassuming person who keeps to himself, well, that’s when I know that he’s being insincere. A fake. A stranger.
But then again, who am I kidding? He’s pretty much a stranger anyway.
I look at myself in the mirror. A timid, frail girl looks back. My eyes seem hallow, vapid even, and I have dark circles under them already. For Christ’s sake! I haven’t been in school for a week yet and I’m already a hot mess.
I put on a substantial layer of foundation. Line my eyes with black eyeliner. A dash of dark eyeshadow. Color in my wispy eyebrows a bit and flip my hair over to give it a bit of volume. How the hell was I walking around like this all day? Did I forget to wear makeup this morning? Really?
I look in the mirror again. Much better. But something’s missing. Oh yes, of course. Lipstick. Bombay Funk is a dark matte red lip color, which completes the look. Now I’m ready. At least, as ready as I’m going to be. Makeup is my cover. It gives me strength. Something to hide behind. It’s my war paint.
Auctioned to Him 6: Damage Page 108
