Charmed Thirds (31 page)

Sara guffawed. She’s like a set of Bose speakers. Incredible volume in a very small package. “Omigod! I’m
totally
kidding. I’m
totally
partying tonight!”

“Uh,” I replied.

“I had a
quote
wardrobe malfunction
unquote
and had to buy a new dress,” she explained, holding a bag from Armani Exchange.

“Uh.”

“I mean, what kind of loser stays in on New Year’s Eve?” Then she gasped in mock apology. “No offense.”

“Oh, none taken,” I said, thick with sarcasm.

“Omigod! I heard that some guy killed himself over you,” she whispered with pretend concern. “You must be totally devastated. But kind of flattered, too.”

“He didn’t kill himself,” I said. “He had an undetected congenital heart defect. And I’m not devastated. Or flattered.”

She girlishly pointed her toes inward, no easy feat as she was wearing a pair of those furry mukluks responsible for making fashion victims look like Muppets from the knees down.

“I heard that when they looked on his laptop, they found all these love letters to you that he never sent . . .”

This was true, but not something I liked to think about then, or write about now. I’d never read them myself, but they were posted on the facebook. They were all about loving and longing for a liberal girl, even though everything she believed in was wrong. And though she went unnamed, I knew. I
knew.
And somehow Sara knew, too. But I was too tired of this conversation to find out how.

“He didn’t kill himself,” I repeated, but softer. “There was a hole in his heart.”

As soon as I said it, I could hear Dexy’s voice filling in the rest of the sentence with that early nineties song:

There’s a hole in my heart that can only be filled by you . . .

It was almost as if Sara heard it, too.

“Omigod! He died of a broken heart!” she screeched. “A
BROKEN
HEART!”

I’d had enough of this conversation. As I said, Mini Dub is not someone I like to think about. This is why he often shows up in my dreams. Research has proven that the more you try
not
to think about a particular person, the more likely that person will show up in your dreams. (Don’t try to outsmart your subconscious by intentionally thinking about that person before you go to sleep because it doesn’t work. He’ll show up anyway. At least that’s how it is with me. Perhaps you’re not as mind-fucked as I am.) This explains why William and Marcus often show up together. They’re like characters in one of those bad buddy cop movies. You know, total opposites who have nothing in common and are forced to partner up to fight for a common cause. In this case, to torment me in my sleep.

The dreams themselves are not at all interesting. It’s all textbook Psych 101 dream symbolism: flying, teeth falling out, bathtub water turning into grape jelly. Mini Dub always offers unsolicited, obvious advice like:

“You should leave that to the birds.”

Or:

“You should have flossed.”

Or:

“You should get some peanut butter.”

In all of them, William does the talking and Marcus just stands there not saying anything, just shaking his head with an expression on his face that I can’t quite figure out. I was thinking about all this when Sara’s braying brought me back to the waking world.

“I heard that he had all these pictures of you . . .”

“Well,
I
heard you flunked out of school.”

Sara’s neck jerked into her chest. “That’s just a vicious rumor,” she huffed with the indignation of someone who only likes to be on the giving end of said viciousness. “I’m taking a voluntary leave of absence to explore
quote
business opportunities
unquote.”

“I
heard you’re managing one of your dad’s shops.”

“It’s
my
shop,” she sniffed. “He gave it to me.” Then she glanced at the tank watch glinting on her wrist. “Omigod! I have to go!”

“So soon?” I asked sweetly.

“You can totally come to the party if you want to. Scotty will probably be there because he’s so hard-core. Maybe Len and Manda, if they can stop
not
bang-a-langin’ long enough to grace us with their presence, you know . . .”

And as Sara blathered on, giving me directions and cell phone numbers and whatnot, I thought about how many times I’ve had this exact same conversation with her, only with different details. Because that’s the thing about Sara. No matter how much we clearly dislike each other, she will always dig for and dish out gossip about our Pineville High classmates. Sara is who she is. She’s annoying, but at least she’s true to her annoyingness. I can always count on it, which is a strange sort of comfort in a world that can be so unapologetically random.

But that doesn’t mean I have to like it.

“I gotta go,” I said.

“Where?” she asked. “Where do you have to go?”

“I don’t know,” I replied. “But I don’t have to stay here.”

And by that, I didn’t just mean in front of Sara, outside J.Crew. I didn’t have to stay in Pineville, or my parents’ house, for that matter. Neither was my home anymore. I’m not sure I can call New York home, either, but it certainly seemed more appealing. Besides, my room and board was paid for—I might as well maximize money already spent.

Still, I wasn’t totally convinced until I got home. That’s when I saw the postcard on top of the pile of mail on the kitchen table. My mother was not pleased.

“I thought you two were over,” she said.

“We are,” I said in a near whisper. “We are.”

“Then why is he still sending you mail?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” I replied.

“And what is this supposed to mean, anyway?” she said, handing it over.

I looked up at my mother. Her face was frozen into a middle-aged mask of a woman I didn’t recognize.

“Jessie?”

I didn’t even look at the picture, focusing instead on the message. The final word. The one that will put an end to this madness. As I requested.

And that’s when I knew for sure I had to get out of Pineville.

December 31st

Dear Marcus,

“
RIGHT
.”

You must have sent today’s postcard immediately, in response to my letter.

I
WISH
OUR
LOVE
WAS
RIGHT
.

But it wasn’t. Our
LOVE
was all wrong.

Or maybe, according to the wisdom of Barry Manilow:

“We had the right love at the wrong time . . .”

Barry Manilow was crooning these very words as I held this final postcard in my hands. As I’m sure you remember, Barry Manilow was on the Cadillac 8-track the night of our first and infamous lip nip so many years ago. Barry Manilow drifted through the ceiling at Silver Meadows when you consoled me about my breakup with Len, which made possible everything that followed, including today. Barry Manilow poured out of the tent when we bumped into Sierra, a flesh-and-blood notch in your bedpost, and I realized that your promiscuous past troubled me after all.

What does this all mean?

According to Jung, synchronicity is an unpredictable moment of meaningful coincidence. More than that, he believed it to be a paranormal phenomenon that reveals the miraculous connections between the subjective and objective worlds:

“A dream dance, a sleep trance, a shared romance . . .”—
The Police

Freud thought Jung was full of shit. (He would have thought Sting was, too.)

I’m siding with Freud. Humans find meaningfulness where none exists because we want to create a sense of order in this chaotic universe. It’s called apophenia. (And it’s also the reason people believe in God.) Barry Manilow sang in the background during four distinct Marcus Moments. But what about all the times he didn’t? It’s much easier to forget about those.

Of course, it was a nice touch, making sure I got it tonight, on New Year’s Eve, a date that’s been so significant for us. You did your research, too, sending it to my parents’ new address, a house you’ve never seen, yet somehow known to you. This proves my point. Your postcard is too calculated to be the result of synchronistic Truth with a capital T.

And so, I’m refusing to read too much into the fact that of all the singers in all the world, it was Barry Manilow playing at the exact moment I read your final word. After all, Barry Manilow has
always
been the sound track my mom cleans the house to, which is admittedly rare these days since she has hired a service to do most of the dirty work. But it makes perfect sense that my mom was listening to Ultimate Manilow on New Year’s Eve as she took the vacuum in her own manicured hands to remove every invisible dust mote in preparation for the first party in her new home.

Barry Manilow crooning about lost lovers meeting up again someday, somewhere down the road only proves that my mother has suck-ass taste in music. It does not provide adequate evidence of the oneness of the universe. It does not mean our destinies are transcendentally intertwined. I am so sure that I’ve decided to write this letter to break it to you.

I, too, wish our love was right. But it wasn’t. Not at all.

Regrettably wrong,
 Jessica

the second

I was expecting Wallach, my residence hall, to be deserted. But while the campus isn’t exactly teeming with students, I
have
found company with a coterie of holiday refugees.

Wallach is quite a comedown after two years of luxurious living in Furnald. It’s one of the oldest dorms on campus and looks every minute of its age, with paint-over-paint-over-paint-over-paint jobs and industrial carpeting in that vague grayish-brownish hue designed to hide all manners of filth. Wallach is one half of Hartley-Wallach, twin buildings that comprise the so-called Living and Learning Center, a program meant to “integrate academic life with residential life and create a distinct society of scholars within the larger campus community.” (Or so it says in the brochure.) I’ve lived here for a semester, and as far as I can tell the only unifying trait among all inhabitants of the Living and Learning Center is that we all didn’t want to risk getting an even shittier room through the housing lottery.

Each room in these suites is depressingly cold, boxy, and utilitarian, facts that no amount of ironic artwork (e.g., a black-and-white poster of a beefcakey hunk cradling a kitten in one steroidal arm and a newborn baby in the other) can overcome. The only exception is the ground-floor lounge, with its high ceilings, marble fireplace, and shiny grand piano. The lounge became the de facto social center for winter break malcontents like me, for whom even Wallach was better than home.

One was Tanu, who I was friendly with as a first year, but kind of fell off with when she moved to East Campus as a sophomore, which is only, like, a quarter mile away but you know, location, location, location. I might have made the effort, but she got way more entertainment value out of our friendship than I did. As a Biophysics major, devoted Claymate, and writer of
7th Heaven
fanfic, Tanu is someone I’ve long considered to be the human equivalent to unbuttered toast. Square, dry, and bland.

Another was this guy named Josh, whom I’ve nicknamed
ALF
because I swear he crash landed from Melmac.

Then there’s Kazuko. When I showed up yesterday, she was reading a graphic novel, idly kicking her chunky-heeled, silver-buckled Mary Janes over the arm of the couch. I sort of recognized her, but there’s a surprising number of little Asian-girl goths who wear petticoats and carry parasols, so I couldn’t be sure. Tanu and
ALF
were both into their iPods, and Kazuko looked the most interesting, so I surprised myself by boldly making an introduction.

“Hey, I’m Jessica,” I said.

“Ohhhh, I know you,” Kazuko said. “You’re the girlfriend of that guy who died.”

First, it struck me as funny how the term “girlfriend” is only used on this campus when the “boyfriend” half of the coupling is, in fact, a corpse. Then I remembered where I’d seen Kazuko before: She broke the news on the sidewalk that afternoon.

“I’m not,” I said. “I mean, I wasn’t.”

“You’re talking about that guy who died?” asked
ALF
, jumping right into the conversation. “How’d it happen?”

Everyone at Columbia refers to William as “that guy who died,” and not only those who were there that day. I assume it will continue until some new guy (or girl) dies on campus in a mysterious way.

“Tanu knew him, too!” I said, hoping to redirect the questioning.

“Yes,” Tanu replied sheepishly. “But not as well as
you.”

“They ruled out suicide, right?” resumed Kazuko.

“And drugs,” said a drowsy male voice coming through the front doors.

It was Kieran, who was in my Music Hum class last semester. He’s two years younger than I am, a first year who still possesses that obnoxiously brainy hubris people develop when they have been told by every teacher since kindergarten that they’re the smartest student ever ever ever. It will fade after another semester or two of impassive, unimpressed silence from his professors. He’s one of those shaggy-haired, sideburned emos who owes a great debt to Conor Oberst as the champion for man-children with ink on their hands and poetry in their heavy, heavy hearts. Hailing from the lush lawns of Greenwich, Connecticut, Kieran is a Philosophy major who smokes a ton of weed, which is a pretty redundant description. (“Is the existence of this bong a matter of faith?
[Long, bubbly hit.]
Or can it be proven?”)

Kieran has this adorable baby face, with pinchable apple cheeks and long, dark eyelashes that you often see on toddlers but rarely on grown men. But any physical attractiveness is totally undone by his conceited need to namecheck Descartes and Devendra Banhart when rhapsodizing about disillusion and dissolution, sense and nonsense. And yet, I usually see him surrounded by those sullen argyle girls who are burdened by the mass of their messenger bags almost as much as by the ontological weight of the world.