Authors: Marianna Baer
F
OR THE NEXT COUPLE OF WEEKS
, I divided my nonstudying free time between being with David and working on my room. Because painting edge-work around windows is so much more difficult than covering big areas of open wall, it took longer than I expected. But the meditative quality helped keep my mind off how much I missed Viv and Abby. And, in the end, the effort was worth it. With the paint, plants, shelves, and a new furniture arrangement, it was the nicest room I’d ever seen at Barcroft. I could tell how impressed David was when I showed him. “You did this?” he kept saying, eyes all lit up. He was still talking about it the next day as we sipped coffee at senior tea.
A change of expression on his face made me glance over my shoulder. Abby was headed in our direction.
“I think I’ll give you some space,” he said.
I brushed muffin crumbs off my lap and tossed my napkin in the trash.
“Hi,” I said as Abby stood in front of me. I scooched over on the small love seat. “Want to sit?”
She shook her head. Her nails were newly painted deep purple. I was suddenly conscious of my chipped and uneven ones. All the work I’d been doing wasn’t conducive to pretty fingernails.
“I want to make sure you know that you’re not coming home with me for Thanksgiving,” she said, crossing her arms.
“Oh? I hadn’t really been thinking about it.” I was surprised the lie made it past the grapefruit-size lump in my throat.
“Well, you need to make other plans.”
“Don’t you think, maybe, we’ll . . . we’ll be okay by then?” I folded my hands so my nails, which looked more disgusting by the minute, weren’t visible. “And, I mean, I always go with you. It’s our tradition, right? Remember last year, how funny your mom was with the turkey? Remember, you did that imitation of her during dinner?”
I dared to look up, and thought I glimpsed a bit of a softening in Abby’s face. She shrugged. “Yeah, but . . . just make other plans, okay?” She turned to walk away, the black-and-white wool skirt we’d bought together at Urban Outfitters swishing against the top of her boots.
“Abby,” I said. I didn’t know what I was going to follow it with. I just couldn’t stand for our interaction to be so brief. For it to end like that.
“What?” She turned back to me.
“You should come downstairs and see all the stuff I’ve done in my room,” I blurted.
“What stuff? Something to do with all the noise you’ve been making?”
I nodded. “Celeste moved across the hall, you know, so the room’s just mine until Kate gets back next semester. I painted, built some stuff. If you and Viv want to come down and hang out, we don’t have to worry about Celeste being there or anything.”
Abby shook her head. “I can’t be—”
She stumbled sideways with a jolt. Ponytail Guy, her crush from the beginning of the semester, had snuck up and hip checked her.
“Hey,” she said, regaining her footing. “Watch out.” I could tell by her smile she didn’t mean it. Something was going on with them, obviously, and I didn’t know anything about it.
“Did you get what Brighton was saying about that whole thing with peripeteia or whatever,” Ponytail Guy said. “The Aristotle stuff?”
“Yeah,” she said. “Why? You want me to explain it to you, dum-dum?”
“If you’ve got a minute in your busy schedule.”
“I might.” Abby cast a distracted glance in my direction.
“So, see you later?” I said.
“Yeah, later.” She nudged Ponytail Guy as they walked away. “You really don’t understand Aristotle?”
After dinner that night I spent a couple of hours cleaning and re-reorganizing so everything was just how I wanted it. (How could I have thought those Ball jars filled with pebbles and shells looked good on that shelf? Way too Martha Stewart.) Then I went upstairs for the first time since I’d told them about my meeting with the dean.
I knocked on Abby’s door.
“Go away, Viv!” she called.
Were the two of them in a fight now? “It’s me,” I said. No response. “I wanted to know if—”
The door cracked open and Abby slipped out, shutting it behind her. Her hair was all mussed up, her cheeks flushed pink.
“What do you want?” she said in a rough, low voice.
“Is someone in there?” I said. “Ponytail Guy?”
“Shhh!” she whispered. “Yes. Now what do you want?”
“Just for you to come see my room. But you can come down after he leaves, obviously. Or tomorrow. Sorry to interrupt!” I gave her a smile and started to head down the stairs. I’d taken a few steps when she spoke again.
“Don’t you get it?” she said. I stopped and looked back up at her. “You made your choice, Leena. All semester. You chose Celeste over us. And you screwed everything up. You can’t just come back now . . . like . . . I don’t know . . . like nothing happened.”
“You’re blowing this all out of proportion,” I said. “And it had nothing,
nothing
to do with choosing Celeste over you. Never.”
“That’s not what the facts say.” She rested her hands on her hips. “Why don’t you think about it from our perspective for once?”
“Abby, I know I screwed up. I feel terrible. But can’t we just have it out and be done with it? Get in a fight and make up?”
“Not as far as I’m concerned. And Viv is the one whose boyfriend is gone, so I wouldn’t count on her either.”
I didn’t know what more I could say. “Okay, well . . . let me know when you’re ready to talk.” My back was to her when I heard her voice again.
“You should know that we’re thinking about moving out next semester.”
“What?” I swung around to face her.
“You heard me. We’d both rather be somewhere else. I don’t know if they’ll let us. But we’re looking into it.”
“But . . . but Celeste won’t even be living here next semester! Kate will. The four of us. Like we planned!”
Abby reached to open her door. “It’s too late, Leena,” she said. “Maybe Kate will stay here with you. Viv and I don’t want to.” And with that, she disappeared.
I pressed my hands against the walls of the narrow staircase. It felt like they were closing in, shutting out air. I tried to breathe into my tight lungs and stepped down. The floor at the bottom looked so far away, then veered up toward me, then fell back down.
Just one step at a time
, I told myself, keeping my gaze on my feet now.
Step down and breathe. Step down and breathe.
When I made it to the bottom, I took my hands off the walls and forbade myself from turning around. I knew what I’d see: the walls of the staircase collapsing toward each other, closing me out for good.
The pain was physical. My whole body hurt as I crawled into the closet. I lifted off Cubby’s head, took one, then two of the strong oval pills that would help me relax, and waited for some of the pain to go away because I wasn’t sure I could stand it. I hadn’t felt this desperate since not knowing what to do about my parents, since feeling like my life was crashing apart. It was the type of hurt that felt like it wouldn’t ever let me go, that I’d carry it with me for the rest of my life.
I breathed in the soothing air and pressed my cheek against the cool wall, wishing I could just become a part of it. I let the pills seep into my cells, telling myself I’d feel better soon, that help was coming. And it did. I’m not sure how long it took, but the pills and the quiet and the walls of the closet worked together to build me back up. And eventually, what had happened drifted away into a haze of unimportance.
“Everything’s easy in here,” I said, lying down now, staring up into the dark. “If I don’t feel it, is the pain still there? Like the tree falling in a forest? Because I should care about Abby and Viv. But in here, I don’t.”
In here, none of that matters. What you don’t feel doesn’t exist
.
“I like that,” I said. “That’s how it should be.”
D
URING THE NEXT WEEKS
, my ability to concentrate almost vanished with the last of the tree leaves. Responsibilities faded into a sort of background noise that only rarely got loud enough so I’d pay attention. Not that I stopped attending class or doing homework, or that I wasn’t aware that college apps and interviews were looming, just that I felt sort of numb when I tried to care about any of it. Occasionally, I’d realize that I needed to pull myself together—when I got a B minus on an English paper, for example—but most of the time I couldn’t work up enough energy to make a difference.
Some colleges sent interviewers to campus. Columbia was one. The morning of my interview I woke up with the sudden realization that I’d done nothing to prepare. Hadn’t I received a Columbia catalogue? And hadn’t my college counselor given me a handout with interview tips? Well, if I’d ever had either of these things, I couldn’t find them. So instead of going to my Gender Relations seminar, I read everything I could on the Columbia website and printed out a few online lists of the most popular college interview questions.
After lunch I went home to change clothes and gather myself. I chose a black miniskirt, black tights, and a charcoal-gray turtleneck sweater. Then I went into the closet.
I turned on the camping lantern and settled into the corner with my list of possible questions. For a moment I closed my eyes and felt the calming effect of the space seeping into my mind and muscles. Everything was going to be okay. I had plenty of time to prepare. I just needed to concentrate.
I assigned Cubby the task of interviewer. I didn’t need her in here to hear her voice, but I’d have felt stupid being interviewed by the walls.
Why do you want to go to this college?
she began, her schoolmarm tone perfect for the role.
“I don’t,” I said, then laughed. “No, wait. I don’t think that’s a good answer. Ask me again.”
Why do you want to go to this college?
Even in here, without the pressure, my mind was blank. I couldn’t say,
Because I need to live in New York so I can shack up with my boyfriend.
Not to mention that I’d read on the website that first-year students were supposed to live on campus. (There had to be a way around that, right?) Such a basic question and I couldn’t even think of an answer, couldn’t remember why Columbia had been one of my top choices this past summer. My eye twitched. Okay, I’d come back to that one.
I moved on to the next question.
What do you think you can bring to this college?
“Uh, I guess I bring a concern and caring for the . . . the health of the community. I’ll talk about starting peer counseling here.” I didn’t think I had to mention that I was on hiatus from the program.
What is your biggest weakness?
“Hmm . . . I’m supposed to say something that’s really a strength.”
You don’t know?
I pulled my turtleneck up over my chin. “My biggest weakness?” I had plenty of weaknesses, but none of them seemed like the type I could spin into strengths.
This one isn’t a strength.
What did that mean? What was I trying to say? “If you’re trying to make me less nervous for my interview, it’s not working.”
I pushed Cubby aside. This wasn’t the time to be worrying about all of the things that were wrong with me. Maybe trying to anticipate questions was stupid. Not to mention, my body was beginning to crave a nap, the way it often did after lunch. Resting was probably a better plan than making myself more nervous about the interview. I slid down and curled up with my head on a pillow, and let my mind go blank, a slight ache pulsing at my temples. The minutes ticked by. My limbs felt heavier and heavier. At 1:45 I made a motion to stand up, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. It was like a multiple snooze-button morning. I kept trying to get up, but my mind kept dragging me down.
“I don’t want to go,” I said. And I knew what I meant. There were many ways it was true. I didn’t want to go to the interview. I didn’t want to go to Columbia. I didn’t want to go anywhere.
No one is making you
, Cubby said.
“But I have to.” I pushed into my palms, hoping I’d be able to raise myself up, hoping I wouldn’t be able to.
You don’t have to. You can stay right here.
David found me in the backyard where I was finally planting the bulbs I’d bought at Home Depot.
“Leena.” He crossed the yard with quick, long strides. “What’s going on? Why didn’t you answer my calls?”
“Sorry. I’ve been out here for a while.” My cheeks, cold from the damp fall air, heated up.
“Didn’t you have your interview at two?”
“Mm-hm.” I turned my attention back to the hole I’d been digging for the next bulb. An angular stone blocked my trowel from going deeper. I reached down and worked it out of the hard earth.
“So . . .” he said. “How’d it go?”
“Okay.”
“Just okay? C’mon, you’ve got to give me more than that.”
David leaned his knees against my back. His hands raked through my hair, tingled my scalp. The affection intensified the guilt in my stomach.
“Good. It was good.” I nestled a lumpy tulip bulb in the hole. “Harder than I thought, maybe.” I couldn’t possibly tell him the truth: that I’d been twenty minutes late. And that my interview clothes had been rumpled and wrinkled from my time in the closet. A raw breeze slid across my scarfless neck. I shivered.
“Hard? What kind of hard?” David said.
Why couldn’t he leave it alone? I filled the hole with soil and smacked it down with the back of the trowel, then brushed my hands together. I stood up and turned to face him.
“Look,” I said, “you’re not going through all this college stuff, so maybe you don’t get that it’s really not a fun topic.” My voice had an edge to it.
His lips parted for a moment. “I’m just asking because I’m psyched for next year. That’s all. Did it . . . did it not go well?”
“I’m going inside. It’s cold.” I walked around the side of the house. David’s steps crinkled dry leaves behind me.
“Leena,” he said. “Wait . . .”
My throat tightened. David had no way of knowing it was myself I was angry at. He followed me inside, down the hall.
Hot water from the bathroom faucet cut through the blackish soil on my hands and swirled it down the drain. Warmth flooded up from my hands and through my body as if the boiling liquid was running directly through my veins.
“I’m sorry,” David said from outside the bathroom door. “I just—”
“I can’t hear you,” I called over the whoosh of water. “I’ll be out in a minute.”
I turned off the tap and dried my pink hands on a towel. Afternoon sun filtered through the bathroom’s small stained-glass window, a window not so different in style from the one drawn on my skin, the one that continued to fade, as if my body was trying to forget the memory of my old room. The late sun cast a red-and-blue glow on the wall above the tub. The chalky white paint absorbed the color like a bloodstain.
I
did
want to live with David next year, didn’t I? Why had I jeopardized that by screwing up my interview? Twenty minutes late is unheard of. Unthinkable. A big, red X on my application folder.
What had Cubby told me when I’d been in the closet after my interview?
You’ll end up where you’re supposed to be
. A good philosophy to live by.
I found David waiting for me on my bed.
“Did you get parietals?” I asked.
“I checked before. She’s not home.”
“David.” I stood next to him instead of sitting down. “You know we can’t risk getting busted.”
“When has she ever,
ever
come back here?” he said. “Not once.” He reclined on an elbow and patted the bed with his other hand. Reluctantly, I shrugged off my jacket and sat next to him. He reached his hand under the back of my sweater. The cold touch sent tentacles creeping up my spine. I lay down so he’d have to move it. But he took my shift as an invitation to lean over me, to remove my glasses, to place hands alongside my shoulders and start kissing.
I want this. I want this.
I had to repeat this over and over in my head whenever we fooled around in Frost House. For some reason, at David’s dorm, I was completely relaxed. I loved every moment of touching him, and being touched. And loved that we were having fun without going further than I wanted, which, for now, meant we hadn’t had sex. But here, in my own room, my skin never felt quite right with someone else’s hands on them. My heart would pound, but not in a good way. My mind wandered . . . began to picture things like Celeste’s cockroaches lying right where we were. And, I hated to think it, because it made me feel like Celeste, but I had a bit of a sensation that someone was watching us. Probably because I knew she could be right outside the door at any time.
I rolled out from under David and reached for my glasses. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m just too paranoid. It’s not worth getting kicked out.”
He sat up, his face flushed, readjusted his pants. “So you want me to leave?”
“I don’t
want
you to.” I leaned over and nuzzled his cheek, rubbed my nose in the warm crook of his neck. Did I want him to leave? He smelled so good. And when he left, it would just be me. “I don’t know,” I said. “I’m just freaked about the probation thing.”
“That’s all it is?” he said.
“Yeah.”
I gave him what I meant to be a quick kiss but it turned into a long, hard one. For a moment, my body hummed and squirmed and wanted to be against his. This time, he pulled away.
“If I’m leaving, it has to be now.” His lips glistened, deep pinkish red.
I considered changing my mind. It had felt so good, for a moment there. But then, behind him, I caught a glimpse of something. The closet door was open just enough so you could see my mattress. Usually I was so careful. I couldn’t believe I’d left it open like that.
“Yeah,” I said. “You’d better go.”