All You Need Is Love (22 page)

Jacob sighs. “Not really.”

I wish I could take back the mix. Not because it’s too this or too that but because I can’t control his reaction to it, or rather I can’t control what he’ll think of my thinking. Maybe it will make him aware that the friend label isn’t entirely accurate or maybe he’ll be conceited and shrug it off or maybe he won’t listen to it. But it’s too late.

Jacob turns back to me, his eyes looking for a minute at my lips. “So I was wondering…” If I could kiss you? What the deal is with your English bloke? If you’re still a virgin? “…if you have any spare songs lying around.”

I pick up a sock and fling it in the air. “Like just sitting here doing nothing?”

“Yeah, songs you’ve written that don’t have a tune.” He waits for me to fill in the rest, with his eyebrows raised. When I don’t because his question doesn’t click with me, he goes on. “To pair with my stuff? Get it?” He Tarzan points to me. “You lyrics. Me music.”

“Oh, that!” I sit and think then spring to action. “They’re not really finished, per se. You recall or maybe you don’t, I’m not sure, that I always had a little trouble finishing the songs I started. So I have lots of lines or couplets but not many complete songs.”

Jacob follows me over to the other side of my room where my bag of books and journals is ready to be packed into the Saab for the summer. I pick up my journal and flip through, hoping he can’t read my messy writing from where he is.

“That’s quite a book,” he says.

“I know — it’s really long. Mable bought it for me when I first started here and it’s funny, because there’s only two pages left. When I was in London, it was almost done, and now it’s almost almost done. And there’s just so much in here, you know. Time, me, change…”

“What did you just think of?” he asks and stares at me.

“Um…” my mouth hangs open. “I think I just solved a problem.” I shut the book and suddenly need to have my room to myself so I can figure out if my solution is viable. “Jacob, can I write down some lyrics? I mean, you’re not going to perform them or something, right? But I’m happy to lend them to you…”

Jacob backs away from me. “Sure.”

“I’m not trying to make you leave,” I say.

“No, I understand I just wanted to come by and…”

I nod, cutting him off. “I might leave before graduation tomorrow.”

Jacob’s face registers what I interpret as disappointment. Then he asks, “Are you coming to Crescent Beach?”

Crescent Beach. The biggest party of the year. The height of hook ups and heartaches. The place we broke up after sophomore year.

“No,” I say.

“No you weren’t planning on it or no definitively?”

“Neither — just no,” I say. I can’t say more without going over everything, our past our right now, my ambiguous feelings, wondering what his intentions are.

“Oh — well, I had thought we’d have a chance to talk more there.”

Talking at Crescent Beach is akin to rolling in the sand together, like if someone asks you if you want to talk somewhere, it’s the most blatant code around. So does he mean talk there or talk there? Oh my god, I’m driving myself crazy.

“In case I don’t see you,” I say. “Have an exciting summer.”

“You, too,” he says and pulls back to look at me long enough that I am sure he will do it — just give in and put his hand on my head and pull me in to kiss him. But he doesn’t. He looks at me and says, “Thanks for the mix. And don’t forget the mainland.”

“What does that mean?” I ask and can still feel his hug on me.

“Nothing — I read it once I think. How there’s some island phenomena where you can just get so sucked in to life there that you forget there’s anything back on the mainland.”

“I’ll try to remember that,” I say. “But I won’t be holed up there for the entire time — I do have to tour colleges. Or at least visit a few.”

“Me, too,” Jacob says.

“Try not to climb out too many dorm windows,” I say, risking the rumor mention just to see what he’ll do.

“I’ll try to take the stairs next time,” he says.

“So it’s true?” I ask and feel a pull in my gut at the thought of him sliding in and out of someone’s window, room, or bed.

“Is it terrible if it is?” he asks, not answering.

“Terrible might be a bit strong,” I say.

Then we both laugh and try to shake off sexual tension. But it’s impossible. If you could see it, see the various feelings between us, if they were color-coded, we’d have blue and red and purple and yellow wavy lines emanating out and connecting us.

“Are you going to the dinner tonight?” I ask and can see the white chairs being set up on the large lawn for The Gala Under the Stars welcome dinner for parents and alums, graduates and soon-to-be-seniors.

“No,” he says.

“No you’re not planning on it or no definitively,” I ask pushing his words back at him.

“No definitively,” he says. “I have to go to Logan.”

I assume he means to pick up his mother who lives in Geneva or Genoa or someplace so I offer, “I could drive you if you want.”

Jacob says, “Thanks but I think I’ll take the T. I wouldn’t want you stuck there while I deal with baggage claim.”

The campus bell chimes, reminding me my college meeting is soon and my possible idea for my PMT project awaits my further thoughts.

“Bye,” we say to each other and don’t add anything, I just turn back to my cluttered room and he turns to go down the spiral staircase and back out in to the world, away from the little island of my room.

“Have you considered Brown University?” Dad asks as I walk past his study on the way to meet with my dear college counselor.

I pause in the doorframe and make allusions to my fake enrollment at that prestigious place. “I’ve, um, actually spent a little time there…with Lila Lawrence. And I’m not sure it’s the right place for me.”

“Oh — well, remember that Providence is only an hour away.”

“Is that the recommended distance for optimal parent-child relations?” I ask and I mean it as a joke but considering the boarding school problem, it sounds sarcastic.

“I just think you might like the faculty,” Dad says. “And what’s in your hand there? A yearbook?”

I tuck the heavy book under my arm — it’s covered by a brown padded envelope and already addressed, but I don’t want to discuss it with him so I say, “It seems like everyone wants to go to Brown — it’s the creative Ivy.” I picture the current junior class (of which I am only pseudo-ly a part) lined up — probably three-quarters are applying to Brown, even if it wasn’t on their SIBOF list of suggested schools.

Dad looks at me seriously. “You know, there’s no rule that says you have to decide anything right now.”

“That’s fine to say, Dad, but I have to actually figure it all out by fall.” I tie my sweatshirt around my waist and hide my bra strap under my tank top.

“And I’m sure you will.” Dad looks at my outfit. “You won’t need the sweatshirt, it’s supposed to reach eight-eight degrees today.”

I smile at Dad’s affinity for the weather. He likes to know the predictions and patterns as though a cloud or drop will have some grand effect on his day. I drop my sweatshirt on the floor in a show of weatherly solidarity. “This report brought to you by David Bukowski…I’m loving the sunshine I have to say.” I shrug. “Who knows, maybe I’ll wind up going to some school out West.”

Dad doesn’t react, doesn’t say no or suggest an equally exciting eastern alternative, but I watch his hand tense around the arm of his chair — a giveaway. So, he wants me to stay close — but not too close. “Say hi to Mrs. Dandy-Patinko for me and try to get back here by four so we can go through the stuff.”

Dad won’t say Mable’s stuff. He won’t refer to sifting through her left-behind clothing and papers and furniture and books as anything but a chore that needs to be taken care of. I offered to do it myself but he wouldn’t let me. I still don’t know if this is because he feels a parental duty to carry the burden of the emotionally loaded act of clearing out someone’s apartment after they’ve died or because he thinks I’ll find something there that I’m not supposed to. Maybe I’m just reading too much into the whole thing as is my usual tendency.

But I feel the suspicion strongly enough that I tell him, “You what? I have to do a couple of errands — pick up some sunblock and hair things at the drugstore, so why don’t I just meet you there?”

“Sure,” Dad says, “Sounds fine.”

I leave with my protected envelope under my arm and head to my college counseling session knowing I will cut out just early enough so I get to Mable’s apartment before Dad does — just in case there’s something there for me to find.

Yet again, my college counseling session has wound up being a counseling session without the college focus.

“I think it makes perfect sense that you’re having difficulties choosing,” Dandy-Patinko says, her gingham outfit defying her downwardly turned mouth. “You’re at a point in your life that’s meant to be fun and exciting, with possibilities at your feet, but yet you’ve had such a loss…”

I nod and my eyes well up. When strangers — or near-strangers — are kind to me I always feel exposed. “Making big decisions right now doesn’t feel right.”

“I agree — I think you should do this. First, we have a nice, solid list of schools here. I’ll set up your visits for you and when you get back, in the fall, we can reconvene and talk. By then you’ll have had a whole summer to recoup and relax…”

Images flip by as she speaks: me on the ferry with the wind at my back pushing my hair forward, the café, serving scalding drinks and iced blendeds while goofing around with Arabella.

“I hope I can relax this summer,” I say.

“You’re going to the Vineyard, correct?” Mrs. Dandy-Patinko asks. “Look up my brother. He’s a potter there.”

She hands me a brochure that shows a fuzzy photo of a guy behind a pottery wheel and some mugs for sale. “Thanks,” I say and slide it into my pocket.

“He’s a throwback to an easier time — a real seventies simpleton. But he does make beautiful mugs and bowls.”

Sounds like he smokes a few, too, I want to add, but I don’t. I like the idea of being a bellbottomed pottery person living full time on the Vineyard. Maybe I will stop by and get a mug for myself — yeah, I like that idea, too, of having my ritualistic coffee cup that I use every morning at the café.

“So it’s not crazy to be looking all the way out west at UCLA and Northwestern and then that whole cluster of schools here?”

“Why UCLA?”

“Los Angeles seems like an interesting place…” it’s all I can come up with for the moment because if I say the real reason, the fact that Martin Eisenstein is out there with a maybe-voice thing for me, I’ll sound ridiculous.

“I would have thought you’d be more the San Francisco type,” Mrs. Dandy-Patinko says.

“Well, add that to the list then — I could fly from LA to San Fran I guess, depending on the cost…” I look at my list again. “Maybe I should reconsider Williams. My friend Chris said it’s like a bigger version of Hadley Hall.”

Mrs. Dandy-Patinko clicks her tongue and shakes her head. “What’s so interesting is that one person’s prep school hell is another person’s ideal college. You just can’t tell. You can be best friends with someone and visit the same school and have very different reactions.”

I nod. “I know. I guess…if you don’t mind planning all the visits for these dates…” I hand her a printout of my summer calendar. It’s basically empty except where I’ve penciled in “college visits” in August.

“I’ll try,” she says and pats my hand. “But those last couple of weeks are the toughest to get appointments. Everyone’s touring then. So you might have to squeeze in an interview or two before then.”

I check my watch, feeling the need to beat my dad to the sorting thorugh process. “Thanks, I really appreciate your help.”

“I know you do,” she says and stands up to show me out.

“Not just the school stuff — the other issues, too,” I say and she watches me go.

I walk to my car thinking goodbye Maus Hall, goodbye quad, goodbye Stipper Pole, not because I’m leaving this instant, but because as of tomorrow morning I am out of here. I decide I have just enough time to zip to the tiny post office at the end of campus that serves both the school and the town of Fairfield. Of course, when I get there, I’m annoyed to find:

“We don’t ship internationally.”

“But — I have to get this out — overnight.” I hold up my parcel as proof that my academic life hangs in the balance. “It’s due tomorrow but I have a couple days of grace period because I’m here and LADAm is…”

The postal lady nods in sympathy but then reverses her head’s direction and shakes. “Can’t do anything about it. Rules are rules.”

Fuck rules I want to scream but figure this won’t help my chance of posting my package. I turn around, gripping my parcel tightly in both hands and wonder if I have time to go to the post office that’s not too far from Mable’s place.

“In a hurry?” This from Jacob, who looks at me like he’s planned on seeing me. He never seems surprised to find me near him. I on the other hand always feel shocked that he’s real — or that we bump into each other or that he shows up at my room. I’m not sure why this is, but it’s a feeling I’ve definitely become more aware of recently.

“Yeah, I’m late — well, not yet and I just found out that you can’t mail things internationally from here,” I say.

“Only letters — not packages,” Jacob says, informed. Suddenly it occurs to me that he could be well-aware of the postal rules here…maybe he sent or still sends international correspondence with a bevy of foreign babes. I banish the thought.

“I’m actually about to take off,” I say and step past him so I can hurry hurry hurry.

“For good?” he pulls back like I slapped him.

“Just for the summer…graduation’s not…anyway, I guess I’ll see you in the fall.” Then I remember his Logan excursion. “Did you get to the airport and back okay?” I ask and hope he offers to introduce his mother. Why do I hope this? One of those — if he introduces me to his mom then he must like me or consider a good friend or something games.

Jacob blushes. “Logan was fine. Yeah.” He opens the door to the post office and bites his top lip. “Any chance you’ve reconsidered Crescent Beach?”