Adam propped himself up on one elbow. He gazed at Charlotte with wondering eyes. Then he swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat up. Still looking at Charlotte, he allowed himself a wary, slightly befuddled smile, but a smile nonetheless.
Charlotte couldn't remember how Lazarus looked when he rose from the dead or if the Bible even got into that, but it stood to reason he must have looked like Adam Gellin did at this moment.
Â
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It so happened that Jojo was in the main reading room of the library at about eight-thirty, after team study hall, reading about Plato as a “fitting and yet illfitting successor” to Socratesâand puzzling over why these people, these philosophy scholars, kept writing sentences in which the ending contradicted what they said at the beginning or else reduced it to mushâwhen his cell phone rang.
Oh shit! That wasn't supposed to happen here in the libraryâyou were supposed to put it on vibrator or else turn it offâand the fact that his ring was a digitized rendition of “The Theme from
Rocky”âdah dahh daaahhh ⦠daaahhhh duhh duhâ
made it worse. He hurriedly, furtively
opened up the cell phone, hid it between his knees, swung his head about as if somebody behind him were the offender, then got down under the study table, as if he were looking for something, and said sotto voce into the phone, “Hello?”
“How's my Greek friend who grew up Swedish in New Jersey?”
Coach never said “This is Coach Roth” or “This is Coach” or anything else to let you know who was calling. He didn't have to, certainly not if he was calling anybody on the team or close to it. Jojo flinched instinctivelyâbut Coach didn't really sound like he was on his case this evening.
Jojo didn't take any chances, nevertheless. “I'm fine, Coach.” He probably didn't sound particularly fine, whispering from under a library table.
“Socrates,” said Coach's voice, “you Greeks are one lucky fucking buncha people, that's all I can tell you.”
“Whattaya mean, Coach?”
“Our friend Mr. Quat has dropped the whole thing. It's over, Jojo. It never happened.”
Silence. Then: “How do you know, Coach?”
“The President just called me,” said Coach. “He said, âYou can forget about it. Erase it from your memory,' or words to that effect.”
“Wow,” said Jojo in a dull fashion, he was speaking so softly. “What happened?”
“I couldn't tell you, Jojo. Mr. Quat is a mysterious fucking dude.”
“Wow,” said Jojo in the same flat way. “Thanks, Coach. I don't know what to say. I appreciate the hell out of this. You've taken a load offâoff my back, is what it feels like.”
“I'm glad to be the bearer of good tidings, Socrates. Now you don't have to drink that hemlock cocktail.”
“Hemlock cocktail?”
“Jesus Christ, Jojo, you're supposed to be the big Socrates scholar around here! I already told you about your boy and the hemlock. You don't remember?”
“Oh yeah, sure.” Jojo attempted a sotto voce laugh. “Mr. Margolies mentioned the hemlock, too, Coach. I guess I just got confused about the cocktail part.” He attempted a prolonged muffled laugh to show Coach he appreciated him as a wit, too.
They said good-bye, and Jojo climbed up off the floor and back into his library chair and returned to Plato, the fitting successor to Socrates except that it turns out he was ill-fitted. Then Jojo lifted his head and leaned back
in the chair and looked up at the room's massive wooden chandeliers and reflected a bit. A smile stole across his face. Coach ⦠The guy was too much. He could be rough. Nobody had ever treated him, Jojo, any rougher without having to roll in the dirt to pay for it. But Coach looked out for you. If anybody else started any rough stuff, Coach was right there by your side, and it was Shoot-out at the O.K. Corral for them that dared fuck with you.
Jojo shook his head and smiled at the same time. Old Quat had been around here for a while. You'd think he would have known. Nobody gave Coach any shit and remained standing afterward. Coach had talked about how both of them, coach and player, too, were examples, whether they wanted to be or not, for everybody on the campus. He hadn't really understood what Coach meant at the time. Now he did. Coach was loyal ⦠and he was a man.
I
t was nine-thirty p.m. by the time Charlotte left Adam's and walked alone in the dark through the City of God and across the campus and reached Little Yard. What a relief it was to escape at last from Adam's stifling, psychologically polluted sick bay of a slot ⦠and what a sour taste remained. She felt used. Adam had made an awfully miraculous recovery from terminal neurasthenia and the imminence and immanence of death. Once he got out of bed and began reading his thirty-four e-mails and started making phone calls and trying to figure out with Greg which TV and newspaper interviews to do and which ones not to bother with, his ego began refilling so fast Charlotte could see it and
hear
it ⦠Color and clear eyes returned to his face. Irony and intellectual showboating returned to his speech. “Tomorrow” returned to his vocabulary. He was so busy online and on the cell phone, he ⦠carved out ⦠the time it took him to thank her and say good-bye.
Her sense of relief had lasted barely one block into the City of God, however, and that had nothing to do with the slum's much-feared bad boys, who were not to be seen, in any event. Charlotte's night had just begun, not even counting all the homework she had yet to do for tomorrow. This was “it,” and “it” possessed her as she departed the elevator on the fifth floor of Edgerton and walked down the hall. How should she word “it” when she
called Momma? Nine-thirty was awfully late to be making the call, given the diurnal cycle of country people, but she no longer had a choice. What would work best? Contrition, confessionâa strictly academic confession, that isâhumility, a plea for forgiveness, and a promise to make up for “it”? Or what about a by-the-way approach? “Momma, it's me! ⦠Oh, I just wanted to hear your voice and find out how everybody is ⦠Good, and how is Aunt Betty's angina? ⦠That's a relief. By the way, I've run into sort of a glitch in the academic side of things. It's not the end of the world, and it'll be easy to turn it around, but do you remember at Christmas when I was telling you all about ⦔ Oh, sure ⦠the way she must have looked and sounded to everybody ⦠Momma was no fool. She would never swallow the notion that her prodigy's hog wallow in misery had been induced by a glitch. Well, what about a completely true confession, an abject, hold-nothing-
nothing!
-back confession, committing herself to Momma's mercy the way she did when she was a little girl? ⦠The blessed catharsis that always followed ⦠the blissful balm of Momma's mercy ⦠It had always brought peace to Charlotte's heart precisely because Momma refused to be “realistic” about “the way things are today” ⦠Oh Momma, Rock of Ages, cleft for me, let me hide myself in thee! ⦠Pop. The very thought chilled Charlotte to the core. It would be as risky as trying to beat a burning fuse to the dynamite.
Round and round such calculations went until Charlotte actually took a couple of steps past the door to her room. She backtracked and opened itâ
Bango!â
both Erica and Beverly stood there. Ohmygod, how could she even make the call?
Beverly cocked her snoot and said, “Well! I've been wondering where you were. Your phone”âshe gestured toward the white room telephoneâ“what's going on? It's driving me crazy.” She didn't say it nicely.
Charlotte was surprised by her own calm and insouciance, insouciance in the literal sense: just not caring.
“You know, it's your telephone, too, Beverly. In fact, you own it. You can pick it up and answer it or leave it off the hook or unplug it. If I'm not here, why would I care?”
Beverly bristled. To her, no doubt, those words were the equivalent of an impudent reprimand. Gesturing toward Charlotte, she turned to Erica and said in a bored manner, “My roomie.”
Silence. The moment stretched out ⦠stretched out ⦠and in that moment it occurred to Charlotte that she still envied the Beverlys and the
Ericas and the Douches and the Psi Phi Trekkies. She envied them for being wellborn, for having money and all the clothes they wanted, for their natural assumption of social superiority and their actual attainment and enjoyment of it. She admitted this to herself, and it seemed like little more than an observation. For reasons she couldn't have explained, if asked, she no longer felt cowed or intimidated by these people. They were what they were, and she was Charlotte Simmons. I
am Charlotte Simmons.
And in that moment it also occurred to her how rarely she had said that to herself over the past couple of months, and how even more rarely did it come burning into her mind with the old fire of defiance.
Perhaps to end the tension and fill the fast-expanding conversational vacuum, Erica spoke up. “Well, Charlotte, I suppose you've been keeping up with the adventures of our Mr. Thorpe today.”
Interesting. It was the first time Erica had called her by name. “I heard something about it,” said Charlotte.
“You haven't read the
Wave?”
“No.”
“You really
haven't
?”
“I really haven't.”
“Ohmygod, I don't believe it! You've got to read it! I don't think I've ever intentionally picked up the Wave, but today I did. Our Mr. Thorpe has been totally out of control. He's always been totally out of control, but now he's over the top.”
Erica paused, as if to see how this might strike the girl who was divested of her virginity by Mr. Hoyt Thorpe in what had been practically an
exhibición
in a hotel. Charlotte was absorbed in something else: the excitement in Erica's voice as she addressed her, the absolutely flashing excitement in her eyes as she questioned this infamous little freshman and studied her face for any little change of expression that might reveal the emotions she assumed to be boiling inside.
In fact, Charlotte was intrigued by how little Charlotte Simmons cared. She replied in a countrified voice, “Goodness me. I had noâiiiiâdee-a.” She gave Erica a supercilious smile.
That plus the sarcasm left Erica offended and speechless. Erica and Beverly exchanged glances and smiled at one another in a certain smart, galling mock-discreet way they had.
Without another word, Charlotte took off her puffy jacket, hung it on
the back of her wooden chair, turned on her gooseneck lamp, sat down, and began reading a monograph titled
Print and Nationalism
. The first paragraph had to do with the extent, demographics, and technology of reading throughout Ancient Greece and RomeâGreeceâwhich made her think of Jojo and his complete lack of guile or irony, which in turn made her think of Erica and Beverly and their excess of both, which in turn made her regret being so sarcastic and arch to Erica, which in turn led her to conclude, with nihilistic aplomb, that it made no difference anyway.
Erica said to Beverly, “You know the word âchippy'?”
“Chippy?”
“The Brits are always talking about people being chippy. They always have a chip on their shoulder, and they're so insecure, they think everybody's looking down on them.”
“I think I know what you mean,” said Beverly.
Charlotte's back was to them, and so she had to imagine their little smiles and suppressed sniggers.
Soon they went out, which shouldn't have made her feel unusually fortunate, since she couldn't imagine either of them staying in ⦠a dorm room at night ⦠before two or three in the morning. They didn't say good-bye.
Damn! Now it was nine-fifty, which would make everything just slightly worse when she called. Charlotte stared at the white telephone for a good two minutes before she screwed her courage up enough to dial â¦
One ring ⦠another ring ⦠another ⦠another ⦠four rings!âand such a tiny house!âcould they be
out?â
so unlike them ⦠another ring!âfiveâno, God!âif she had to wait until tomorrow to tell Momma, and the letter arrived tomorrow, it would be the same as not calling at allâanother ring!âsixâ
“Hello?” Momma, thank God.
“Momma! Hi. It's me!”
“Why, Charlotte! Did the phone ring a long time?”
“It did sort of, Momma.” She pulled
did
out into
dee-ud
in an instinctive and all but unconscious claim to Down Home closeness.
“Your Daddy and me been watching television with Buddy and Sam, and your brothers had on a movieâyou know the ones where the whole thing is just one big fireball after the other?”
Farball.
Charlotte laughed, as if their mutual awareness of silly farball movies was one of the funniest things they had ever shared.
Momma laughed, too. “I just barely heard it ring at all! You sound in a good mood. How is everything?”
“Oh, I feel good, Momma! And I just feel better hearing your voice! Well, there is one thing, Momma, I thought I ought to tell you before you just got it in the mail? You know?” Charlotte sped up her delivery to make sure Momma couldn't slip in a question. “It's sort of disappointing, actuallyâwell, not sort
ofâ
it is disappointing, Momma. Remember how I got four A-pluses at midterm?”
Pause. “I do.” A bit wary.
“Well, I think I got too sure of myself, Momma. In fact, I know I did. And I started letting a few things slide? You know? And I don't know, Momma, before I could do anything to stop it, it was like a whole landslide, you might say?”
Pause. “Whyn't you tell me what you mean, a landslide.”
“Some of my grades fell off real badly, Momma.” Charlotte closed her eyes and turned her head so that her deflated sigh wouldn't be transmitted. Then she blurted it all out, all four of the grades, the minuses and everything.
Momma said, “You got four A-pluses at midterm, and these are the grades you got for the whole semester?”
“I'm afraid so, Momma.”
“How can that be, Charlotte?” Momma's voice was preternaturally restrained. Or was the word “numb”? “Midterm was early November, best I recollect.”
“That's true, Momma. Like I said, I guess things just started piling up too fast, and I wasn't paying attention, and then it was too late.”
“
What
was piling up, Charlotte?
What
was too late?” Momma's voice was getting a bit testyâfrom her being double-talked.
Charlotte quickly discarded all the little cards she had been ready to play. She didn't have any choice. She had to move straight to the radical explanation, which was at least in the orbit of the truth, however remotely.
“Mommaâthe thing is ⦠I got a boyfriend right after midterm. I mean ⦠I just â¦
did
. You know?”
No comment.
“He's a real nice boy, Momma, and he's real smart. He writes for the Wave, the daily newspaper. As a matter of fact, he might be on television tomorrow, on the news. I'll call and tell you if I find out ahead of time.” Ohmygod, that was a blunder. If she turns on the TV and there's Adam talking
about oral sexâ“Anyway, he's part of a group of real bright students who have a sort of ⦠society.”
Silence.
“It's exciting just to hear the way they come up with ideas and dissect them. You know?”
“And that's why you ended up with ⦠the grades you got?” said Momma. “Because you got a boyfriend and he's smart?”
That hurt like a lash. If it wasn't sarcasmâand she couldn't remember Momma ever being sarcastic beforeâit was close enough. She felt found out.
Lies
! Momma had always held up the Cross to lies, and they always cringed and died in that merciless, unforgiving light.
“I'm not saying it's because of
him
, Momma! It's because of
me
.” The good daughter generously concedes that the buck stops here. “I guess I got too interested in him. You know? He's very courteous and respectful, and the last thing he would do is try to take advantageâ” She stopped, realizing that the fantastic leaps of logicâof illogicâshe was making from sentence to sentence were as much of a clue as Momma needed. She charged off in a different direction. “I'm already making a complete turnaround, Momma. I'm setting up a discipline for myself. I'mâ”
“Good. So far I haven't understood one thing you've told me, not one thing, except you got terrible grades. When you decide to tell me what's happenedâwhat's going onâthen we can talk about it.” Momma's voice was terribly controlled, which was somehow worse than testy or sarcastic. “Does Miss Pennington know about any of this?”
“No, Momma, she doesn't. You think I should tell her?” Desperately, Charlotte hoped to receive ⦠some low-voltage approval ⦠for having come to Momma first.
“What are you going to tell her, Charlotte, the same as you told me?”
Charlotte couldn't think of a thing to say to that.
“Sounds to me like what you need right now is a talk with your own soul, an honest talk.”