Love and Other Things I'm Bad At (24 page)

1/9

6 pages left in this journal. Should probably start a new one to indicate new semester. Really should. But don’t want to waste paper. New group in Badicals is going to focus on enforcing campus recycling and on saving the giant oak trees that circle the oval near the admin building, and on saving all trees from being killed.

Hope they don’t make me sleep in those trees or strip to draw attention to the cause. Very cold. 5 below. Even Wittenauer would not strip today.

I must set an example for new focus group by reusing all half-filled notebooks this semester. Also I really need to cut down on printing emails and sticking them on my bulletin board.

Phone just rang. It was Dean S. Calling about a new work-study job for me. “But—the Funders,” I started to say.

“Oh, no, this is a much more interesting and exciting proposition,” Dean S. said. Proposition? I was starting to get very worried. “Also, a lot more hours. You won’t need to keep working at that bagel shop. Are you ready?”

“Um . . . I doubt it,” I said. Leave BF? Leave Ben and Marcus?

“You’re going to be assisting the deans’ offices. You’re going to assist
me
, Courtney,” Dean S. said.

I was highly suspicious. “You’re just doing this so you can keep an eye on me, aren’t you?”

“Just the same way I like to keep an eye on all our Cornwaller Fallers,” Dean S. said. “Report to me on Friday at 10
A.M.
All right?”

Do I get a helmet with this job? I was wondering. Dean S. is very dangerous to be around, constantly flinging and throwing things around. Got kind of depressed about losing the funding gig. Called Wittenauer to tell him.

“That’s okay,” he said. “I got shucked.” He’s no longer the mascot. “It’s
such
a stupid job. But I just . . . liked it,” he said, sounding really down.

“So you’ll get it back,” I said. “We’ll protest. Don’t even worry about it.”

“They said I defiled the image of Cornwall Falls College and they couldn’t be sure I wouldn’t do it again,” Wittenauer said.

“Well, good for you,” I told him.

We started laughing and then he asked if I wanted to go for a walk. Was feeling adventurous, so I said yes. We went to see the actual Cornwall Falls. We walked. It wasn’t that far—2 miles, maybe. The falls were unfortunately frozen over, just like everything else here. At first I was laughing because it seemed pathetic. Then I sort of had to acknowledge how pretty it was, thick crystallized ice, frozen tundra and all.

“They’re really beautiful,” I said.

“Yeah. I know,” Wittenauer agreed.

We stared at the Falls for a while.

“You know, polar bears trap warmth against the snow with their fur,” I said as my teeth chattered, repeating some line I’d heard on a nature special I’d watched 50 times.

“Is that a fact?” Wittenauer said, teasing me. “Let’s try it.” So we both threw ourselves onto the snowy ground to try to trap warmth—kept missing it. Kept trying again. And laughing.

Then we started walking back to town. Worked up a humongous appetite on the way. Needed hot food, fast. Ice crystals formed on Wittenauer’s stubble. Sexy in an “Everest” kind of way.

First restaurant we came to was Brat Wurstenburger. Didn’t even discuss it, just barged in past steam-covered windows and grabbed the table closest to the kitchen. I got the onion soup. Delicious with cheese on top. Forgot to tell waitress no cheese. Didn’t care. At some point I realized this outing was sort of datelike, but not really. And then I realized I had a lot more guy friends than ever before, like maybe this was a “mat-oor” thing one does when one goes away to college. More guy friends, more weird friends, more friends who drink way too much milk.

So maybe there sort of could be something between me and WW III? But I’m not going to push it right now. Just because basketball season is starting up does not mean I should be Rebound Girl and leap into my next relationship.

“Oh yeah,” Annemarie said when we were discussing it tonight. “Consecutive monogamous relationships make
no
sense.”

Well, um, okay. So what else is there?

1/10

It’s official. Mary Jo and I
both
have decided not to date anyone seriously this semester. Got too ugly and mixed up last fall. We’re going to be single. Focus on classes (she was already doing that—I wasn’t). Friendships. Checking account balances. We’ll join more groups. Try out for some rec clubs.

“But you know, when all is said and done, I still think you should get back together with Grant,” Mary Jo said as she chewed on a stale Twizzler.

“I know you do,” I said. “But it’s not going to happen.”

“Yeah. Well, there’s always my brothers. If it doesn’t work out with Ed . . . you know. There’s five more to choose from.”

Threw Twizzler at her head. “Thanks. I’m sure Soren and I would be really happy together.”

“Who?”

“Wait. Is it Kierkegaard? Or Hegel?” I asked.

“Who?”

“Maybe it’s Wittgenstein,” I guessed.

“I thought his name was Wittenauer,” she said.

“Not
him
!” I said. “Your . . . never mind.”

Still too embarrassed to tell her what I was trying to get at: name of 6th brother, who does not speak. Must sneak into her desk tomorrow and find out once and for all. If I can find her desk drawer handle under all the knickknacks.

1/11

Last page of a journal always makes me turn back to see where this all began. Started this journal missing Grant intensely. Still miss him. We made a pledge to stay together, to make our LDR work. Didn’t know what I was getting into. Honestly.

How many pledges have I made and not kept? It’s got to be in the hundreds by now.

On reflection, thinking about what I said to Grant . . . that whole “maybe by the summer” concept . . . I sounded exactly like annoying ex Dave with my stupid time line. Also I broke it off just as he was about to leave town, which I swore never to do.

Resolution: never sound like Dave again. Bad idea. Watch for Dave-isms in speech and seek to eradicate them.

And that whole thing with Mary Jo a couple of weeks ago about not dating anyone this semester. I mean, that seems
very
silly in retrospect.

Oops. That was yesterday.

Well, anyway.

Here’s what I’d say to Grant if he could read this. But of course I don’t want him to read this. Except for the last page. Which I could possibly tear out and send to him if I’m feeling adventurous and if this comes out halfway decently.

Dear Grant,

I was thinking it over, and maybe I was too hasty the other day. Not hasty, exactly. How about wrong? I don’t want to be separated from you. Ever. And I don’t know about this whole “exclusive” concept, but I’m willing to try again. I think.

What would you think of both volunteering at the humane society this summer? We could work together, and that way we’d get to spend more time together, which is really important.

See, I always kind of pictured us running this animal hospital, only I’m a real wimp about blood and body parts and singed fur and euthanasia.

But I could file, right? I’m really good with the alphabet. Remember: D comes before V except after C.

Love,

C.V.D.S.

P.S. In the meantime, how does spring break look for you? I was thinking maybe Cancun. Please get back to me ASAP.

Sundae My Prince Will Come

8/26

How do you say good-bye to a dream?

I’ve always wanted to start a journal like this. Really dramatic and over the top.

Wait. I think all my journals have started like this—dramatic and over the top. Oh well.

But this time, it’s serious. And true. And heartbreaking.

Just when I finally get used to being away at college, just when I have found utter bliss with college boyfriend, I get the news:

Scholarship. Not. Renewed.

You. Are. A. Loser.

Soon to be an Alone and Lonely Loser.

“The thing is, Courtney . . .”

That’s never a good start to a conversation. Trust me.

“Your scholarship.” Dean Sobransky’s hands were shaking as he tried to casually sip his morning coffee when he called me into his office as if it were any other weekday morning, but he slipped and spilled some on his lap, which made him yell, “Stupid! Stupid! One cream, I said!” He finally composed himself and managed to mutter, “Your scholarship,” again.

“Yes?”

“It’s . . . well . . . the economy. . . .”

“What are you saying?”

“It’s over. Our endowment is plummeting. We can’t afford to help all the students we’d like to, and . . . well, you’re a sophomore and we have seniors who have been here three years so far and . . .” Then Dean Sobransky burst into tears and what could I do but try to cheer him up, because I’m, like, his assistant and that’s my job, but the whole time I was thinking, what does this mean for me? And what good is it being the dean’s assistant if he can’t even save you? And if he’d left me to founder in the Cornwall Falls College Campus Funders, maybe I could have convinced alumni to give the school enough money to keep me.

Well, probably not. I kind of sucked at that job, unlike Wittenauer, best caller ever.

Oh God. Sinking in. Am going to throw up. I have to leave Wittenauer. I have to move back home to Denver. Because I called home and Mom said she had already heard from Dean S., and she was sorry but she couldn’t afford to keep me there at full cost. Yes, she’d already asked Dad. Yes, she’d already appealed to my grandparents. Both sides.

“So you were just waiting for the dean to break the news to me? Thanks, Mom.”

“I was hoping I’d come up with a solution on my own. I’m sorry, hon!”

(“Hon?” Since when does she call me “hon”?)

Adding insult to injury, the school had already gone ahead and bought me a plane ticket home. That’s how much they want me gone. (OK, so it’s a voucher thingy and I can change it, but the way I feel now, I’m so mad I want to be gone. Except for Wittenauer! Not leaving Wittenauer. No way.)

This whole cancelation thing isn’t even just about me, it’s about fifty other scholarship students, too. Our generation is, like, bankrupt before we even get started. We’ll be known as Generation B. They’re ditching us and importing students with cold, hard cash. And trust funds, probably, so they’ll spend lots around town and keep the town afloat, too.

It’s like being kicked off Noah’s Ark. “Sorry, but we actually
don’t
need one of you.”

Now I have to try to get into another college at home. Like I’ll be able to. Whatever happens, I won’t need this stupid CFC notebook that I bought for class, so it may as well be my journal.

I’ll have lots of time to write in it because I’ll be living
at home
. I can’t even think about that.

So many things have changed since I last lived at home. Puny little brother, Bryan, is now a high school senior. A
senior
. He’s the captain of the cross-country team at Bugling Elk, my alma mater. He gets college catalogs in the mail daily. He tweets. He has interests. He has, apparently, no girlfriend “right now” and says nobody does anymore, that it’s not cool. That’s code: It means he asked a girl out and got rejected.

We don’t usually do well with the love connections in this family. Big sister, Alison, recently got dumped by Jessie, the girl of her dreams.

Beth, my best friend from HS and Bryan’s former girlfriend (
ew
, still
ew
after all these years), is in Italy on a term abroad to study art history. Hate her hate her with intensity of 100 suns. Is it too late to fly to Italy to join her? Jane is still at UW and happy there. She constantly texts me about fun things she’s doing. It’s like . . . everything is still moving forward, everyone has moved on to something new and exciting. But not me. I moved backward. There was a board game and I drew the card that read “Go Back Three Spaces.”

Dean Sobransky shoved this recommendation letter at me, begging me to take it, as it would help me get transferred somewhere else. Felt sort of like a foster child. Or foster kitten, anyway.

Is it because I was responsible for getting that amendment to the college constitution, stating that the CFC initials could not be used anymore because they kind of promote a pollutant, chlorofluorocarbon? I thought the trustees were over that. Apparently not.

There was a brief discussion among the campus Badicals about holding a protest over this drop in financial aid, but then we realized that half of us were on scholarship and would quickly need to pack up and move home, so we didn’t really have time to be political about it. I mean, sure. Get rid of the politically active ones first. Stupid CFC.

Could they not have figured this out before August???

Friends are at door to commiserate. They have Ben & Jerry’s. Must go.

8/28

Mary Jo, former roommate and now friend and again roommate, insisted on exploring every possible option to keep me here.

“What about loans? Can’t you just get loans?”

We went downtown (not much of a downtown, but we still call it that). Of the three banks that used to be there, two are closed—completely—and the one that’s still open is no longer making loans to students.

“Well, this is lousy,” she said.

That’s as close as she ever gets to cursing.

I figured I might have stood more of a chance if I hadn’t bounced a bunch of checks freshman year. Maybe the banks would still be in business.

We went back to our apartment. On the way, Jane called. “What’s going on?” she asked.

“Oh, not much,” I said. “Just being forced to move home.” Then I burst into tears. She talked to me the entire time I was crying about how she thought she had sophomore slump because she wasn’t excited to be at UW, either, but it’s not the same thing. She can suffer in place. I have to suffer in motion. And a thing in motion . . . stays in . . . whatever.

That’s why I’ll never take—or at least never pass—physics.

Jane said moving home wouldn’t be so bad and would just be temporary. She tried to point out all the great things about Denver we’d both missed so much: mountains, sun, good shopping. “And I’ll see you at Thanksgiving, or at least Christmas,” she said. “Cheer up, Court. It’ll work out for the best, it always does.”

Easy for her to say.

Started packing up my stuff. All we need now are labels and packing tape for the boxes. Courtney Von Dragen Smith—return to sender. And all Mary Jo needs is a new roommate or else she’s going to be stuck paying really expensive rent.

A bunch of our other friends came by later, threw me a going away party with pizza and last-minute gifts like bars of soap and travel-size toothpaste and tacky CFC sweatshirt:
CORNWALL FALLS INTO YOUR HEART
.

As we packed my stuff, Mary Jo insisted on my taking her clock that’s shaped like a potato. Used to hate that thing. Couldn’t stop crying.

Wittenauer came to whisk me away to his place, where I’m going to spend my last night. Would be a tad more romantic if he didn’t share the house with four other guys. It’s completely messy most of the time and smells like perhaps a dead mouse is under the sofa. (Well, they found one once, so it’s not a far-fetched thing at all.)

Wittenauer had a blender and attempted to make fancy “adult” malts. (Ice cream with schnapps.) I was too upset to drink one. He’s cleaning blender now. He’s actually been in the kitchen for, like, hours, I think, cleaning. I think we are both panicking a little.

Somehow this isn’t how I anticipated my last night being, but then again, I’ve only known about it for 2 days so at least I didn’t get the chance to get my hopes up.