30 Guys in 30 Days (15 page)

“I should leave you alone more often,” I joked, realizing as I said it that I
would,
in fact, be leaving him alone more often, from now on. It was a sobering thought.

Drew must have sensed the shift in atmosphere as well. He dropped his bag and moved to me, taking me in his arms. He took my face in his hands and kissed me on the forehead. “Well be okay,” he said. “I promise.”

I nodded, and walked him to the door. One last “I love you, Bee,” and he was gone.

It wasn’t until I was back in bed, swaddled with pillows, sheets, and blankets again, that I let myself cry. I curled into as tight of a ball as I could manage and let loose, letting go of all of the frustration, tension, and bittersweet pain of the past two days. When I was done, I closed my eyes and slept.

It was Charlie who found me four hours later, still in sweats, still in bed. She took one look at me and called in for pizza. “Well just have a girl’s night, you and
me,” she said. “I’ll do your nails. Does that sound good?”

I nodded weakly. “Don’t you have a pledge event?” She always did, it seemed.

“I think there’s another sister who needs me tonight,” she said, jumping into bed next to me and giving me a squeeze.

“Thank you,” I said. It was all I could manage.

LOCAL STUDENTS GET TOSSED AT THE TIN ROOM

Mad Salad Rocks the House on Saturday Night

Mix one part the raw, stripped-down essence of the White Stripes with two parts the crowd-pleasing listenability of Maroon 5, throw in a front man with more sex appeal than Usher. Shake, don’t stir, and you’ve got Mad Salad. More than that, you’ve got the reason why the Tin Room rocked to the rafters this weekend.

Indeed, though the bulk of the
audience was students from the greater Boston area, some in the crowd had traveled from far-flung Williams, Amherst, and beyond, just to have their salads tossed.

The band did not disappoint. They played nearly every song from their most recent release,
Eat Your Vegetables,
as well as drew from their insanely popular debut album,
Five Servings a Day.

The band members, friends dating back to elementary school, were happy to sit down with the
Chronicle
for a quick chat.

“Oh, yeah, we just love playing Boston,” lead singer Kyle Merrin said, pausing briefly to tune a guitar. “The college kids-they’re our core fan base.”

“Yeah, Boston rules!” drummer Trent Billie chimed in. “We were just down in New York, and let me tell you, those crowds get ugly. We were, like, not feeling the love down there!” He leaned
forward and lowered his voice.

“They throw stuff.”

9/26, 10:02 p.m.

from: [email protected]

to: [email protected], [email protected]

re: Rock stars are…

… different from you and me. But my interview with Mad Salad knocks four more targets off of my list.

Gabe let slide the fact of my being twenty-four hours late with a story that ended up being more pre-fab than fab. I assured him I’d done my best (leaving out the part where I’d had to cut the interview short after the bassist—the
married
bassist—propositioned me). I’d e-mailed the article to him and then spent the better part of the evening in the library. I’d made a serious dent in my outline for the pop culture essay and was feeling pretty proud of myself. I gathered my books and wandered outside for some fresh air. The roof of the library offered a gorgeous view of campus and, beyond, downtown Boston. As such, it was
the site of many a smoking break and confessions of undying love. I, of course, just wanted to stretch my legs.

“Hey, Claud!”

I turned to see Charlie walking up the steps to the roof. She was a little bit overdressed for a random Monday night, swathed in tailored wool pants, polished, heeled boots, and a cashmere sweater set. “Where ya been?” I asked, indicating the ensemble. That’s what it was, really. An
ensemble.
I was suddenly aware of how long it had been since I’d washed my jeans.

She pointed. “At the house.”

“The House” meant the Tri-Delt mansion, located just one block parallel to fraternity row.

“I should have just assumed,” I teased. “Good night?”

As a pledging sister, Charlie was often sworn to secrecy about many of the goings-on of the process. This was for the most part okay with me, except for those moments when I could tell she wanted to talk. This was one of the moments. The
dying for a cigarette
look on her face was a dead giveaway (she’d been a chimney in
junior high, she told me, but had had to give it up when the pageant circuit kicked into high gear).

She shrugged. “Yeah, it was fun. I mean, it was nice.”

I frowned, not sure of the difference between the two and not wanting to pry. Fortunately, Charlie was feeling talkative. “We got our big sisters tonight.”

“Oh, cool!” I said. This was, like, a thing, I knew. Each pledge was paired up with an older sister who would look out for her and guide her through the process. It was all about mentoring and fostering friendship. Which, in that case—why did Charlie look so miserable? “Not cool?”

She sighed deeply. “Anu Shah is my big sister.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“She goes out with Zach Masters?”

“Still not ringing a bell.”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “Well, perhaps that’s because the first time you met them you were so drunk on Cosmopolitans that you basically threw yourself at Zach!”

Oh,
Zach.
Sure. I remembered him.
President of the Inter-Greek Council, no? His girlfriend was pretty pissed…. “Oh, Charlie,” I said, realizing.

“Yeah.”

“But, I mean,
you
weren’t the one throwing yourself at Zach that night. It was totally me! I don’t think you were even anywhere near me in the room!”

“Judging from the way that Anu was behaving tonight, I’m not sure that matters.”

“But I thought the big sisters got to pick their own little sisters. I mean, she wouldn’t have picked you if she hated you, right?”

“It’s not an exact science,” Charlie explained, shaking her head. “There are a certain number of upperclassmen who sign up to be big sisters. They put in their requests, but it doesn’t always work out. So I don’t know. But based on the looks she was shooting me all through our ceremony, I’d say she isn’t thrilled about this matchup.”

“I’m sure you’re just being paranoid,” I said, even though I wasn’t. Charlie was a frighteningly good judge of character. If she thought this chick was pissed at her, then the chick probably was.

Charlie shrugged. “Whatever. There’s
nothing I can do about it now, anyway, right? I guess the trick is to be Super-pledge. Make sure she doesn’t have any reason to dislike me.”

“Well, that shouldn’t be too hard,” I said. “I mean, you already
were
Super-pledge.”

“Well see,” she said worriedly.

I didn’t like the tone in her voice. It was one I’d never heard before. Charlie didn’t normally get rattled by social situations and the like.

“Charlie, I am so sorry,” I said. “Honestly, it was just me being stupid, trying to prove to myself that I was capable of talking to boys. Which, clearly, I am not, given the stupid chain reaction of events I seem to have set into motion.”

“No way,” Charlie protested. “Ami’s being a freak. My friend hit on her friend’s boyfriend—unknowingly—a month ago? Please.”

“Good point. But you still have to make with the nice.”

Charlie leveled me with her patented
Are you kidding?
look. “Do you really think I wouldn’t?”

“Of course not!” I insisted, wrapping my
arm around her. Her thin frame felt frail to my touch. “Enough of this sad pondering,” I insisted. “The yogurt shops still open.”

At this, she perked up slightly. “Your treat?” she asked playfully.

I groaned. “I guess I owe you.”

“Oh, Claudia.” She sighed wistfully. “You’re like the big sister I never had.”

9/28, 12:38 p.m.

from: [email protected]

to: [email protected], [email protected]

re: Good morning and happy lunchtime!

Hola, Chicas—

Just coming from the comp sci lab. Always an invigorating way to start the day. But today I come bearing good tidings. For starters, Hartridge (who seems to like me better now that I’m wearing pants and coming to class on time) has graciously offered to let those of us who failed that last quiz turn in some extra credit. Which is a shame, really, for all those kids who were cruising straight to A-ville on the basis of my contribution to the curve. But no complaints here. At this
point I’d be thrilled to make a swift pit stop over to D-town.

Of course, with every rainbow comes just a little bit of rain, mainly in the form of my own semipublic humiliation.

After several weeks of smiling shyly at Jesse and hoping he’d managed to get the espresso out of his pants, I decided to step up the flirt level. I knew, technically, that talking to Jesse wasn’t the same thing as approaching someone entirely new, but the fact was that as my own skills evolved, so, I believed, should the game. Meaning that I was ready to progress with Jesse beyond the hasty “Whoops—sorry!” I’d originally offered.

I was ready to ask him out.

And the announcement regarding the extra credit gave me just the opportunity to do so.

I wanted to talk to him after class, but he seemed to have other ideas. He went up to the front of the room and started an insanely long diatribe with Hartridge about coded matrices. I wondered furtively if I was supposed to know what those things were. No matter. If Jesse was actually
good
at comp sci, then instead of offering to work together, I’d just ask him to tutor me. See? Easy-peasy. I was a master adapter, proficient in the Art of the Flirt.

As the moments dragged on, it became increasingly difficult to pretend that I had any reason to be lingering in the lab. Finally, I grabbed my bag and made my way into the hall. I stalled rather impressively—checking my cell, consulting my PDA, looking over my list of reading for bio.…I was halfway through creating a new iPod playlist when Jesse finally emerged from the classroom.

“Hey!” I all but shouted. “I was looking for you. I’m, like, so excited that we’ve got a chance to do extra credit for this class,” I gushed. “Believe me, I need it.”

He smiled at me sympathetically. It was all the encouragement I needed.

“But
you
really seem to get the hang of it,” I commented. “So maybe you’ve got some time, like, this weekend, to go over it with me?”

He shrugged. “Sure, why not?”

It wasn’t the most gracious response I’d ever gotten, but there was no need to
quibble. “So, urn, it’s Wednesday. How about tomorrow, maybe around six?”

He frowned. “I don’t think I can make it then.”

I nodded and went for broke. “Right. Duh. Thursday, whole start of the weekend and everything. I’m sure your girlfriend would be thrilled if you told her you were busy
studying.”

He looked at me for a moment, then burst out laughing. “Yeah,” he said. “Well, no. I mean, I don’t have a girlfriend.”

Had I really read him so wrong?

“But I’ve got tickets to this gallery showing downtown that starts at seven. And my boyfriend would be really pissed if I missed it.”

Yes, yes, I
had
really read him so wrong.

Anyway, I think we’re going to meet up on Saturday. Which is actually good news because I think I need to pass comp sci more than I need to find a date. Though, of course, it would have been great to kill two birds with one stone.

—xx

9/28, 3:34 p.m.

from: [email protected]

to: [email protected]

re: uh-oh

Oh, my. Should I be concerned about this little comp sci grade situation? Don’t believe a word of it, kid—you’ll never need this stuff in “real life.” Now, the motifs of the female anatomy found in third-world feminist literature? Yeah, that’s the stuff of six-figure salaries.

Do the extra credit and I won’t say anything to Mom and Dad.

And re: your unreliable gay-dar? Shame on you! Surely I’ve taught you better than that!

9/30, 6:56 p.m.

from: [email protected]

to: [email protected]

re: hello?

Haven’t heard from you in two days. Slightly concerned. Was only kidding about the comp sci grade, you know. You’ll just have to do extra well in women’s history to compensate. Which is as it should be, anyway.

Please shoot at least a quick note to reassure me that you haven’t been dragged off,
Mr. Goodbar
-style, by your most recent target? Okay? Because then I really
would
have to tell Mom and Dad.

10/1⁄04, 8:53 p.m.

from: [email protected]

to: [email protected], [email protected]

re: Sorry…

… to have been so MIA. Apparently raising one’s average from an F to a sweet D-requires some serious mental energy. Not a lot left over for writing.

Lest you think that I’d forgotten, “target practice” is proceeding with its typical semi-smooth regularity. To recap:

• Tuesday, 9/27:
Delivery boy at the
Chronicle
office. Dropping off some paper goods. I mentioned that his uniform really brought out the … yellow in his eyes. He looked at me as though he’d won the lottery. I guess he doesn’t get that a lot.

• Wednesday, 9/28:
Jesse in comp sci. We’ve been down that road already. Let’s not go there again.

• Thursday, 9/29:
Neo-beatnik I met at on-campus poetry slam. (Our friend Shelley had entered a poem, and Charlie and I went in support.) The look: black-on-black clothing, goatee, John Lennon glasses. All was a-okay until he asserted that I was “altering his experience of reality,” at which point I decided I needed to find a new reality of my own.