Authors: Lisa Pliscou
“Well, I haven't actually memorized it, but he's in the directory, isn't he?”
“It's taped to my lamp too.”
“Thanks.” I look up at her quizzically. “Have fun tonight.”
“Don't work too hard, okay?”
“Me? Well, listen, since you're so concerned about my school-work, I'd like to point something out to you that you may have overlooked.”
“Well?”
“The longer you stay here, the less likely it seems that I'll get anything done at all.”
She grins. “Is that a hint?”
“No, but I wish you'd get the hell out of here already.”
“Bye.”
When I hear the door slam, I stand up and go over to the radio and switch it off. I stand for a moment by the window, looking out at the Charles and at people going in and out of Harvard Pizza. Then I go into my room and sit at my desk with my notebook open in front of me.
The phone rings, but I don't move from my chair. As I'm closing my notebook I notice that I'm a little hungry, and I contemplate going downstairs and across the street to Tommy's. But no. The way the day is going, I just don't think I could stomach it.
2
THURSDAY
Something is tickling my hip. I roll over: a soft crackling noise. Now it's lodged just underneath my kidneys. Sleepily I wonder what it could be. A candy wrapper? A pencil? Then again, maybe it's just a cockroach.
“Shit.” I jerk myself upright and peer around. Then I see that there's a little piece of paper crumpled up among the sheets.
A note! I snatch it up, but am disappointed to see that it's my own handwriting. I lean back against the pillows and close my eyes, but now there are soft moaning noises coming through the wall from next door in C-41.
Oh, shit. Not again
. I get out of bed, hitch up the waistband of my pajama bottoms, and scuff into the living room. Bright morning light pours into the room. Grimacing, I sit in the armchair and limply cross one leg over the other. Is it my imagination, or do my feet look blue? As usual they are freezing cold.
Slowly it dawns on me that I'm still holding the scrap of paper in my hand. Too enervated to reach over into the fireplace for a magazine, I smooth out the note and blink a couple of times to get my eyes to focus.
1. UHS
2. buy lucky rabbit's foot (ha ha)
3. laundry (?)
4. career services (?)
5. Mug ân' Muffin 4 pm Angela
6. Robbins 6â10 pm
7. Dean (?)
The telephone rings, catching me in mid-yawn. “Hello?”
“Have you gone to UHS yet?”
“Hi, Jessie. How's everything?”
“Well, have you?”
“I'm still in my pajamas, so I guess that means I haven't.”
“Miranda, the lab closes at nine.”
“Really? What time is it?”
“Eight forty-five. You haven't gone to the bathroom yet, have you?”
“God, you're nosy.”
“Goddam it, Miranda. Get the hell over there.
Now.
”
“I love it when you talk dirty.”
She screams. “Will you go?”
“Can I change into my clothes first?”
“Just shut up and go.”
“Jessie?”
“What, for god's sake?”
“Thanks for calling. I'll save some urine for you.”
“Don't be disgusting.” She hangs up.
I yawn one last time, and do a few neck rolls. Then I jump up and dash into my room, which is now blessedly quiet, and waste a few more seconds scrabbling around for a pair of clean underwear. I pull on the same clothes I wore yesterday: a man's extra-large white shirt, a favorite black sweater, baggy black pegged trousers, white socks and sneakers. One earlobe with a tiny diamond stud, the other with two gold hoops, followed by a dab of the Paco Rabonne that I swiped from Michael. I can't seem to locate my hairbrush just at the moment, and so by default my toilette is complete.
I slip into my jacket and I'm off down the stairs at a good clip, this time counting four stereos and only one whiff of pot. In the foyer by the mailboxes I run into Dean's girlfriend Jennifer. Her hair is wet, presumably from her morning shower.
“Aren't you the early bird,” I say affably, poking around in my pockets for my sunglasses. “How's everything?”
“Just fine, thanks.” As she smiles at me I notice that she's got lipstick smeared on her front teeth. “How about with you?”
“Me?” Actually, I muse, she's a rather nice girl aside from an erratic tendency to speak with a British accent, a habit I find a trifle confusing as I understand that she grew up in Rhode Island. “Oh, I can't complain.” I nod.
“That's good.” She nods also.
“Yep.” Nodding one last time, I saunter along the foyer, step outside, and viciously kick the door shut with my heel. “Ow.”
It's a brilliantly clear Cambridge morning, with the kind of cool, invigorating breeze that makes my nose run. In the five-minute walk along Mount Auburn Street I'm forced to recycle both of the two little dried-up wads of Kleenex I've found jammed into my jacket pockets. By the time I reach UHS my nose is raw and the urge to pee is ferocious.
The staff is brisk and casual about the whole business; they hand me various forms and ask questions about my sex life I'd just as soon not answer. I notice that my hand is shaking as I sign the consent papers, and for a moment I'm tempted to run through the waiting room tearing at my hair and screaming for Ryan O'Neal. Instead, five minutes later I find myself quietly handing over my urine sample. The technician, a marvelously sickly-looking specimen himself, accepts the warm little plastic cup with a distinct look of nausea on his face.
“You can call after four-thirty for the results.” His gaze is apathetically fixed on my right ear.
“Great. Thanks.” I give him a big insincere smile. “Have a nice day.”
“You too.” Holding my urine sample at arm's length, he lists off down the hallway. There is a large greenish stain on the back of his lab coat.
I walk back down Mount Auburn Street muttering reassurances to myself.
Cheer up. You lead a charmed existence, remember? The best and the brightest, right
? All at once I catch myself thinking about those big grainy posters in the subway, the ones showing a sad-eyed teenager with a football under her dress. Sniffing damply, I wrench open the door to Adams House.
Bloody good cheering-up job. Maybe you should become a Planned Parenthood counselor
. I slink into the dining hall singing “Life During Wartime” under my breath, breaking off only when I get into the kitchen and pick up a tray, a grapefruit half, and some yogurt.
A pale, pear-shaped junior whose name I don't know looks at me strangely as I pass him by the pastry tray. I nod at him but he immediately turns his wall-eyed attention back to the chocolate twists.
Frowning, I go into the dining room and look around. Jessica is at a table with John, Clark, and Roald, three juniors who share an enormous A-entry suite in which they often throw loud, successful parties, notorious for the way in which their respective girlfriends somehow seem to end up in the wrong bedroom at the end of the evening. Of course, I remind myself as I move toward them,
wrong
is rather a subjective term. Nobody else seems to be complaining.
“Good morning, gang.” I sit down between John and Roald. “Isn't it a glorious day to be alive?”
“Oh, Jesus.” John jabs his fork into an egg, bursting the yolk all over his toast. “Never a moment's peace.”
Roald smiles at me. “Good morning, Miranda.”
“Good morning, Roald. How's everything?”
“Just fine, thanks. And how are you?”
“Can't complain.”
“That's good. Uh, Miranda?”
“Yes, Roald?”
“Can I have your grapefruit half?”
“Get your own grapefruit half, Roald.”
“That's not very generous of you, Miranda.”
“That may very well be true.” I nod judicially. “Pardon me while I dig into this luscious pink grapefruit here.”
“After all I've done for you, Miranda.”
“What have you ever done for me, Roald?”
“I brought you a cup of coffee once.”
“I asked for tea.”
“All right, Miranda.” He rises and starts dragging himself off to the kitchen. “I'll get my own grapefruit.”
“Bring me some coffee, will you?” I call after him. “Cream, no sugar.”
“Jesus, Miranda.” John wipes grapefruit juice off his cheek. “You almost got me in the eye.”
“Sorry.” I lift another spoonful to my mouth. “My aim's not very good in the morning.”
Jessica clears her throat. “Did you have a nice little walk, dear?”
“Yes, thanks. There's nothing I like better than leaping out of bed and going for a hearty stroll first thing in the morning. And I don't mind saying so.”
“Keep it down, Miranda.” Clark frowns at me. “People are looking at us.”
“I'm from California, remember?” Gently I spit a grapefruit seed onto my tray.
“Oh yeah.” He nods and jams an immense forkful of waffle into his mouth.
Jessica slopes forward over the tabletop. “Hey.”
“Hey what?”
“You're not lying to me, are you?”
“About what?”
“Yes, I think I will slug you after all.”
“No, no, that won't be necessary.” I brush a few drops of grapefruit juice off my shoulder. “Listen, I made it with three minutes to spare. I have the deposit slip to prove it, too. Time-stamped and everything. It even smells likeâ”
“Oh, shut up. Good thing I called, or you'd have slept till noon.”
“Possibly. By the way, your hair is dangling into your coffee.”
“Shit.” She tilts away. “Why didn't you tell me?”
“I just did.”
“Sooner, dope, sooner.”
“Oh, look,” Clark says thickly through a mouthful of waffle and syrup. “Katherine got her hair cut. Looks awful, doesn't it?”
“I guess Halloween came early this year.”
“Who's that she's with?”
“I'll bet he's from Lowell. She always goes out with guys from Lowell.”
“I hear she had mono last fall.”
“Really? Somebody told me it was herpes.”
“Goodness,” I say genially. “You boys certainly have your ears to the ground, don't you?”
“She told everybody it was anemia.” Chuckling, Clark opens a box of Cocoa Puffs and pours it into his bowl. “Hey, Miranda. Didn't you just get a haircut too?” He sprinkles three packets of sugar into his cereal and adds milk.
“Me?” My maladroit self-barbering tends to result in odd little spikes and asymmetrical lines. People are constantly asking me where I get my hair done; most often I tell them that my haircutter is an East Village acupuncturist-cum-graffiti artist named Popo who also repairs Vespas on the side. Though I embellish the story more and more outlandishly in the expectation that someday someone will actually challenge me about it, no one has, but I'm cherishing high hopes based upon Popo's recent appointment as Secretary of State. “A haircut? No.” I shake my head. “I got them all cut.”
Clark laughs uproariously, pounding the tabletop and making the dishes rattle. “God, you're a scream, Miranda,” he gasps.
“Prettier than the painting, don't you think?” Out of the corner of my eye I spot Dean coming into the dining hall. He shows the checker his ID card and goes into the kitchen.
Clark wipes his eyes with his napkin. “What painting?”
Roald returns with his grapefruit half and a cup of coffee. “Here's your coffee, Miranda. Cream, no sugar, right?”
“Right. Thanks.” I stand up. “Anybody want anything?” I turn and go off without waiting for a reply.
In the kitchen Dean ponders the pastry tray. He's wearing Levis and his bright-red windbreaker. His hair is damp and slicked close to his head in dark waves that will lighten to blondish brown as they dry.
“I recommend the crullers.”
He turns. “Oh, hi,” he says in his low, somehow silken voice. “But I think I'd rather have one of those chocolate twists.”
“I hear they're fabulous too.”
“Oh, really?” He hesitates, and then takes one and puts it on his tray. “Okay.”
“Good choice. Oh, by the way.”
“Hmm?” He's looking at the pastries again.
“I tried calling you last night.”
“I know. Kevin left a message.” He puts the chocolate twist back and takes a bran muffin.
I find myself noticing a large jagged patch of cheek where he didn't shave. “So did you have a nice dinner?”
“Yeah, nothing special. Went to Charlie's.”
“Talked Advo over cheeseburgers?”
“The usual.” He glances nervously over his shoulder. “Well, I guess I'd better beâ”
“Yes.” I turn to look at the cereals. “Enjoy that bran muffin. It's good for you.”
“Hey.”
I swivel around by forty-five degrees. “Yeah?”
“I tried calling you back, but you weren't home.”
“Oh?”
“Is tonight still okay?”
“Tonight?” I arch an eyebrow. “Oh, that's right. We were going out for a drink, weren't we? The Ha'Penny, did we say?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay.”
“When?”
“I get off work at ten. How about ten-thirty or so?”
“Cool. See you later.”
“Yeah,
ciao.
” Discreetly I remain behind, whiling away the proper interval by trying to picture him and Jenny without their clothes on.
“Corn flakes, darling.” Jackson speaks softly into my ear, and I jump. “Ever seen them before?”
“Christ.” My heart is pounding. “You scared me.”
He's smiling down at me. “Did I?”
“No, I was only faking it.” I draw an unsteady breath. “I suppose you've just been waiting to creep up on me?”