Long May She Reign (49 page)

The dorm was unusually subdued, by Saturday night standards—she must not be the only freshman suddenly getting alarmed by the reality of midterms approaching. Among other things, she had to write a paper about presidential power and accountability within the confines of a democratic system for her political science class, and the whole assignment mainly just seemed
funny
, so it was hard to take it seriously. So far, her professor didn't really seem to be enjoying having her as a student, both because she didn't participate enough in class, and because sometimes, apparently, she grinned when he made certain pronouncements about aspects of the federal government and the executive branch. Or that's what he'd told her, when he had asked her to stop by his office one afternoon to discuss “her work”—or lack thereof. She tried to characterize any possible grins as nothing more than inappropriate affect, but he seemed to think that they fit into the category of outright smirking.

Whenever he mentioned any current political figure during lectures, someone in the class would inevitably look over and ask if she'd ever met the person—and, almost always, the answer was yes, although she usually shook her head, just to save time.

At about midnight, she took a break, which she used to answer email. One from each member of her family, except for Steven—who pretty much seemed to have forgotten that she existed, a friendly hello from Josh, who was having a great time at Stanford and possibly—if she was reading between the lines correctly—had a new girlfriend, an “
Everything okay? I'll be up late
” from Beth, and a single sentence from Preston, which simply read, “
We must do it again sometime.
”

In her campus account, along with some class-related and general announcement emails, there was also one from Jack, who had written, “
Goodrich? J.
” She wrote back, “
I'm way behind on everything, so have to study. But, thanks.
”

He must have been online, too, because his response was almost immediate—although not an instant message, because she found them intrusive, and always blocked that function on her computer. She wasn't wild about text messaging, either—to Neal's dismay. “
Meet you there in twenty minutes,
” his email said. “
Okay?
”

She really couldn't take the time, and besides, she was pretty sure there was a concert or a contradance or something over there tonight, for which she wasn't at all in the mood, even though it was probably starting to wind down by now. “
Too crowded
,” she wrote back, and then added, without stopping to decide whether it was a good idea, “
Snack Bar?
”

“
Leaving now
,” was his swift answer.

There was something gloriously lazy and liberating about the laconic informality of email. She logged off before giving herself a chance to change her mind, and got up to brush her teeth, straighten her hair, ease into a blue cashmere sweater, pop a painkiller, and put on just enough perfume and lip gloss to be able to pretend to herself, convincingly, that she had done no such thing.

By the time she'd made her slow, stumbling trek over to Paresky on her cane, Jack was already waiting out front, talking to a very slim and striking African-American girl who she recognized from their psychology class, although she didn't know her name. But, either way, the girl seemed to be standing much closer to him than was probably necessary, and kept touching his arm at approximately six-second intervals. She almost turned around and went right back to her room, except that it would be embarrassing to be so thoroughly rejected—and disgruntled about it, to boot—in front of her agents, so she kept limping forward.

“Hey,” Jack said, when he saw her.

If this was going to be a threesome, count her out. “Hi,” Meg said, and gave them each a nod. “How you doing?”

Jack looked amused, which displeased her. “You two know each other, right? Meg, Frances; Frances, Meg.”

“Sure,” Frances said, and, naturally, touched his arm again. “You're in our psychology class, aren't you?”

The two of them spent a great deal of time alone in class together, surrounded by lowly, admiring onlookers, of which she was thought to be one, apparently. Meg nodded. “I guess so, yeah. Nice to meet you.”

They all stood there. It lacked congeniality.

“Well,” Meg said. “I just came over to grab a cup of coffee before getting back to work, so I guess I'll see you all later.”

To her annoyance, Jack laughed. “We were
meeting
here, Meg, remember that part?”

Better than he did, it seemed.

“I'll see you back at the dorm, Jack,” Frances said, and nodded at Meg before walking away.

Jack watched her go, and then grinned. “You really think I was going to pull something like that right in front of you?”

Yeah, far better to do it in the privacy of their dorm. Meg shrugged, looking down at her cane. Frances was distressingly graceful.

“I figure it's a good sign if you're already jealous,” he said, and then frowned. “Or else, a really
bad
sign.”

Meg shrugged again.

“At least give me a chance to screw up, before you get mad at me,” he said.

Yeah, that was probably a legitimate request. So, she nodded, and they stood there for another long, stilted minute.

“You want to call the whole thing off, or you want to say what the hell, and go inside for a while?” he asked.

The former, definitely. At this point, she'd just as soon stagger back up to her room, and sleep for as many hours as possible. But, he was waiting for her to answer, and it would be incredibly rude if she sighed deeply or looked resigned or any of the other similarly inhospitable reactions which came to mind.

“Let's give it a try,” she said.

29

PEOPLE KEPT WALKING
by, most of whom she didn't know, but they almost all said hi, anyway. It was possible that Jack was unusually well-liked; it was also possible that they were only saying hello because of who she was. Or, in the spirit of fairness, they might simply be friendly types.

“New knee brace,” Jack said.

Meg nodded.

“Did you tear anything?” he asked.

She should actually speak, since this was supposed to be a social encounter. “Yeah. A ligament and some cartilage, they think. I guess they're going to go in there when I get back to Washington next weekend.”

“So, you won't be able to spend Spring Break in the Caribbean with me,” he said.

Meg grinned in spite of herself. Had that been a viable option? Maybe she had missed something. “Where are you actually going?”

He shrugged. “Home.”

“Got anything interesting planned?” she asked. Better than surgery, say.

“Um, no,” he said, without looking at her. “Not really.”

She desperately needed more people in her life who bloody well made eye contact. “Jack, it's not a big deal if you're going to see an old girlfriend or something,” she said. “I mean, if my friend Josh's break was at the same time as ours, I'm sure we'd go to a movie or get coffee.”

Jack frowned. “I don't think any of my old girlfriends are still speaking to me.”

Oh, swell. But, be that as it may. “So, what are you not telling me then?” Meg asked.

He looked guilty, and glanced at her brace. “I might go to Mammoth or Tahoe, and do some skiing. They've had a lot of spring snow.”

“Sounds good,” Meg said.

He just shrugged, uncomfortably.

“My family is so busy trying not to upset me that they haven't been going at all this season,” Meg said. Although they didn't know that she knew that her father and brothers had gotten in one day at Innsbruck during the trip to Europe, because she'd seen a photo of them in a magazine someone left down in the laundry room. “Which is stupid, because they all
love
skiing. It's not like I'm going to hold it against anyone because they can do stuff I can't.” Or, at the very least, she would probably have the decency to keep it to herself.

He held the door of the building open for her. “I just didn't want to, you know, flaunt it, or anything.”

“It's no big deal,” she said. Okay, it was a
huge
deal, but a tactful lie seemed to be indicated. “Thanks, though.”

There were a bunch of people hanging out in the Great Hall talking, or lounging around on the couches or by the fireplace. The Snack Bar itself was about half full, and the line to order was pretty long, but almost everyone seemed to be picking up sandwiches and ice cream and that sort of thing to go.

Meg was only going to get coffee, but then decided to have a grilled honeybun, too. If she were a male heterosexual, women who never ate anything would make her nervous, so maybe it was worth pretending to have a hearty appetite. She probably should have ordered even more food, but she—big surprise—wasn't hungry.

They ended up sitting at one of the tables on the left side, away from most of the windows—which, no doubt, pleased her agents. It occurred to her, then, that she hadn't been on anything resembling a date since she and Josh had broken up—Christ, that meant that it had been a
year
—the notion of which made her so nervous that she wasn't sure if she'd even be able to manage a few sips of the coffee.

Of course, it was inevitable that she was going to start thinking about it, but drinking scotch with a terrorist had
not
been a god-damned date. She'd been a prisoner, trying to survive. Nothing more, nothing less. What she was doing right now—Saturday night, in the student center, with a guy her age—was absolutely normal. Downright humdrum. Jack had even ordered a Chocolate Frost to go with his cheeseburger and french fries. How much more wholesome could a get-together
be
?

“Your coffee okay?” he asked.

She blinked, nodded, and took a sip. Her hand shook, which made her feel—well, even more feeble and aberrant than usual. This was a casual date. It wasn't as though they were going to get involved with each other—hell, he was probably just being polite, and counting the seconds until he could leave without hurting her feelings, so there was no reason to be having
quite
so much trouble swallowing, and getting her breath, and keeping her expression pleasantly blank.

And there was nothing quite as appealing to a prospective suitor as watching someone have an intense anxiety attack.

“Your JA doing okay?” he asked.

Was she? Probably not. “I hope so,” Meg said. Could he tell that she was in a near-total panic? A veritable whirlwind of irrational fear? A couple of seconds from throwing up, fainting, bursting into tears, or racing out of the building as fast as her leg would allow? Or maybe even having all four unlovely reactions simultaneously? She sucked in a deep breath as subtly as possible. “But, her parents showed up today, so I don't know. I guess she's still pretty upset.”

Jack nodded, most of his attention on his cheeseburger, and she wondered if he might be nervous, too.

“So, um, are you really an Economics major?” she asked.

He nodded, without much fervor. “My father wants me to go to business school.”

Her parents would probably be overjoyed if she could manage to eat and sleep regularly. “At some point,” she said, tentatively, “isn't it up to you?”

He shrugged. “He says college isn't cheap, so you shouldn't waste time with vanity and hobbies.”

Pretty harsh. Although, somehow, she would have guessed that he came from money. “Well, sending their kids to private colleges is usually a huge financial sacrifice for people,” she said. “And I really respect that.”

Jack grinned a little. “No, they're definitely okay there. It's just what Dad tells me because—I mean, I'm not saying I don't love him and all—but he's one of those guys who thinks that if you like art, you might turn out to be gay or something.”

Mr. Taylor couldn't be very observant, then, when it came to his son. “You are
so
not gay,” Meg said.

Jack laughed. “I'll tell him you said so.”

Well, maybe not. It would make a poor initial impression. She drank some coffee, ate a bite of her pastry, and put her hand back in her lap.

“Meg, I've already seen it shaking,” he said. “Don't worry about it. And you've had a bad couple of days, right?”

No question. She brought her good hand back up, but wrapped it around her coffee cup to try and minimize the trembling. “It doesn't make you uncomfortable?” she asked, keeping her focus down. “I'd think it would be sort of—off-putting.” To say nothing of the handcuff scars gracing her wrists.

“I'm probably pretty shallow,” he said, “but aren't you kind of hoping I'm not
that
shallow?”

Yes.

“You don't have to hide the other one all the time, either,” he said.

An ingrained habit, by now. She started to lift it up, then lost her nerve. “It's, um, more fun to be around people who aren't impaired.” Frances, for instance.

Jack shrugged. “I don't know you well enough to know how impaired you are.”

Nice try. “You're on a campus full of women in admirably good physical and psychological shape,” she said. “Take advantage of it.”

He looked irritated.

Maybe that had been too harsh. “Or,” she said, “for that matter, a lot of extremely healthy
men
, in case this art foolishness really does go to your head.”

That one got her a smile, at least.

Since they
already
weren't having fun, this might be a good time to do the standard double-check, and find out if he was another one of the status-conscious sycophants. Before things went any further, and she forgot and let lust turn into actual liking. Plus, she was out of practice, and might not pick up on the signs quickly enough, if she wasn't extra careful.