Love and Other Things I'm Bad At (3 page)

LATER . . .

Just had our first official 3rd floor meeting. It was called “The Settling-In Shindig,” and was supposedly happening on every floor of every dorm here tonight at the same time. Eerie. Freaky Friday. Except it’s Monday.

At the meeting, R.A. Krystyne
actually said
that “Alone” is just “Baloney” without the B and Y! Baloney metaphors. For people in college.
Meat
metaphors. It’s like . . . way to make us vegetarians feel welcome. Couldn’t she come up with something else? Like: alone is just . . . soybean. Without the s,y,b, and with an l, and if you rearrange all the letters? Sure, it’s a lot
harder
. Like everything is if you decide not to eat meat.

She made us all sit in a circle, introduce ourselves, and say something about what we did over the summer and why we chose to come to Cornwall Falls—what influenced our decisions.

“I worked at this smoothie and ice cream café called Truth or Dairy, and I came here due to temporary insanity,” were my comments.

Everyone laughed and then Krystyne said, “No,
really
, Courtney.”

Really. It’s true
, I wanted to say. But I came up with something about how I wanted to explore the world beyond in order to better understand the universe. Sounded sort of astronaut-like. Courtney In Space.

Here is my tally so far of the girls on the 3rd floor: Not a complete tally as 3 or 4 girls failed to show for the mandatory meeting. Krystyne went ballistic in a friendly sort of way about that. “Of course it doesn’t really matter,” she said. “But they definitely ought to be here and there’s no acceptable excuse.”

• 4 very brainy girls; spent the summer doing very impressive things like working at Wisconsin State Senate and internships at the U.N.; made me feel like a complete idiot

• 3 girls who talked about their boyfriends nonstop; what they did all summer was follow their boyfriends around; they came here because their boyfriends are going here; bluck

• 1 girl who said she came to Cornwall “under duress” because her parents went here and her grandparents went here (hey, I can relate, sister)

• 1 skateboard champion who did tricks on lounge furniture

• 6 girls from the soccer team; we’re like the Soccer Block

• 1 girl from Milwaukee

• 1 girl who wouldn’t talk, period

• me

• Mary Jo

• Thyme

After we all introduced ourselves, there was a talk from the student health service about not doing drugs and about having safe sex. Like we haven’t had the same talk since 6th grade, or 2nd, or whenever it was they started badgering us. (I know it’s important and everyone says it can’t be said often enough, but trust me, it can.) It went pretty quickly because nobody asked any questions. Nobody
had
any questions.

I caught Thyme’s eye a couple of times across the lounge and shook my head. “What are we doing here?” I mouthed.

She rolled her eyes. Later in the talk she interrupted to tell everyone about some new kind of natural-fiber 36-hour tampon that was better for the environment. Everyone looked at her sort of strangely, like you didn’t bring up stuff like that in polite conversation. But we were talking about really impolite stuff, like certain types of lubricating gels, so I don’t know what their problem was.

Afterward, we all dispersed and went back to our rooms. Which was good because I wanted to finish my package for Grant.

“What are you doing?” Mary Jo asked when I started filling an envelope with a bunch of different things for Grant: a goofy postcard of a cheese factory, a copy of my class schedule, a list of things that seemed weird about Mary Jo. Like the fact she used health and beauty products originally intended for horses or cows. (Grant would probably know all about them: Mane ’n Tail? Udder Butter? Bag Balm? Am I living with a girl or a thoroughbred?) I use stuff not tested on animals. She uses stuff
created
for
animals. Which means they have to test it on them, don’t they? How can you tell if a horse shampoo is bad, anyway? If its tail has split ends? Who cares?

“I’m putting together a letter for Grant,” I told Mary Jo. “My boyfriend, remember?”

“Tell me more about Grant,” she said. “What’s he like?”

I just sat there and stared at all the pictures of him on the bulletin board. “He’s great.”

“He’s really good-looking,” she said. “Are you going to get married?”

“What? I don’t know!” I laughed. “How would I know that? I’m only eighteen.”

Mary Jo shrugged. “Most people back home know. That’s all. My parents got married when
they
were eighteen.”

“Oh. Well, see . . . mine didn’t,” I said. I actually didn’t know how old they were, off the top of my head, but I did know they hadn’t
stayed
married. Which reminded me. Dad was way behind with his monthly check.

I started writing another letter.
Dear Dad . . . Hello? Do you expect me to live on Saltines and tap water?

“So, um, do you and Grant have a commitment?” Mary Jo asked. “Like a promise ring?”

I raised my eyebrow. “What? No.” I did, however, have the faux rabies tag necklace, which was almost the same thing. And he bought me a new hoop for my belly button, and if that isn’t commitment I don’t know what is.

“Oh. So you’re not serious,” Mary Jo said.

“Yes we are!” I protested. What was her problem? “We’re
extremely
serious. But we’ve only been together for about nine months.”

Which would mean, if you were my stepsister Angelina, that you’d have a baby by now, but still no commitment.

Getting engaged at 18? I mean, I love Grant and all. But that really hadn’t crossed my mind. Should it have? Am I weird for not thinking about it? Does Grant think about it?

8/22

So much for cool on-campus work-study job. I was supposed to be a research assistant. I was supposed to be in the law dept. Pictured myself writing legal briefs, wearing suits, appearing in court. Perhaps got a little carried away by watching too much
Law & Order
and
Ally McBeal
. Okay, I admit that. But do I deserve this?

I just called the work-study office to find out about my research-assistant job. The woman on the phone looked up my name, then she sounded nervous and flustered and told me to look in my “welcome packet” for my assignment—I must have missed it.

There was this letter stuffed in there, right underneath the list of Mental Health Resources (which I immediately stashed in my top desk drawer for easy access). It said that due to “changes in funding,” my work-study job in the political science/law department had been eliminated.

ELIMINATED. Like something in a James Bond movie.

And it had been replaced by a job in the Cornwall Falls Fun-Times Funders. What is
that
? Sounds like some sort of horrid barbershop quartet. Help me!

LATER . . .

Okay, I’m back from the Student Administration building. (Quit administering us already! You’re doing a really bad job.)

I now have a job as a glorified telemarketer. Must not tell Mom. She will be furious, since she is obsessed with running all telemarketers out of business, after she settles her lawsuit against the phone company.

Went down to find out what on earth they were talking about. They said my one job had been cut, which was kind of serious because it was lots of hours a week, and this new job was only going to be 5 hours a week. Which is going to amount to like $25 a week at minimum wage, which I can’t possibly
live
on, not happily anyway. But they were still giving me all this GRANT money, of course, so not to worry, I should be okey-dokey here at Cornwall Falls. I could either get a job in town. Or I could get loans to make up the rest. Or I could rely on my family’s trust fund, or I could start playing the lottery regularly, or I might want to start standing outside the student union, holding an empty coffee can and a placard that says: “Will Take Your Exams for Food.”

Okay, those last parts they didn’t say.

But the woman I was talking to was acting all bubbly about it, like this was
good
news and I should not be upset.

Excuse me, but that work-study job is part of why I came to this tofu-forsaken town in the first place!
I wanted to scream, but didn’t, due to the fact there was a line of 50 students behind me. Instead I asked who I should talk to about my assignment. They said I could talk to the Dean of Student Affairs, Dean Robert Sobransky.

I found his office and knocked on the door. In the catalog, they kept bragging about this “open-door” policy they had when it came to teachers and students. So why was it closed?

He opened the door. Apparently he had just finished getting changed for a tennis match. He asked if he could help me. Which was funny coming from someone wearing too-short white shorts against pale white legs with curly black hair and a bright green polo shirt with the collar turned up. If anything, he needed help. Fashion Emergency.

I introduced myself, calmly. Professionally. Then I went into a slight tirade and said I really had to have an explanation for this. I said I had specifically come to Cornwall Falls because I was promised a chance to work in the law department, and now I find out, after I get here, it’s all a ruse, a sham to lure me and innocent other people from Colorado—

“Whoa there, Courtney.” He sat on the edge of his desk. “Are you a conspiracy theorist?”

“No, of course not,” I said. Though the whole thing was incredibly fishy.

“Good. We have enough of those in our political science department already,” he said. “Ha ha ha.”

Ha. So hilarious.

He went on to explain that the school learned they had to make budget cuts over the summer, and they cut as few jobs as possible, and I shouldn’t take it personally, blah blah blah. . . . But he’d sure be happy to recommend me for anything I found in town, and next semester we could see about getting another work-study job for me, obviously I was in need. I should come talk to him anytime, and if I faced any hardships because of this he’d see what he could do, etc.

The whole time he was talking, he kept tossing a tennis ball up to the ceiling and catching it, over and over, sort of obsessively watching it and trying to get it as close to the ceiling as he could without hitting it. Very weird guy.

“So what is this job I have now?” I finally asked.

He checked out my paperwork and smiled. “You’ll be a key member of our Cornwall Falls Funding Team!”

“And that means . . . ?”

“Ah! I keep forgetting you’re a freshman,” he said. “You seem so much more ma-toor.” (That’s how he pronounced it.) (What the hell did he mean by that?) (Adults who say this to me always highly suspect.)

“It’s in our alumni relations office. You’ll be working with our gift programs, contacting alumni, and asking them to donate money, stock, land, what have you.”

I guess I must have looked sort of upset, because then he said, “Don’t worry, Courtney, I’ll work with you every step of the way.” At which point he walked into the desk, hit his knee, and started swearing profusely.

Afterward when I left the building, I was so mad I was walking really fast and not paying attention. I crashed right into this kiosk with a million flyers stapled onto it.

There was this girl from my hall standing there, drinking a Mountain Dew and smoking a clove cigarette, and she caught my arm. “Watch out, Courtney!”

“Hey . . .” I said really slowly, as I tried to remember her name. “Annemarie!” She is the one who didn’t say a word at our hall meeting except to keep reminding everyone her name was
1
word
and not 2, and her last name was Gustafsen with an e, not an o. She has one of the few single rooms on our hall. Her days so far seem to consist of coming home, slamming her door, putting on loud music like Garbage, Violent Femmes, Beastie Boys. She’s never even made eye contact with me, not even in the bathroom when we were both brushing our teeth at neighboring sinks. But now she was actually talking to me. It was so cool.

“You look upset. What’s wrong?”

“I just found out my work-study job,” I told her. “I have to call alumni and ask them to donate money.”

“That sucks. Hey, you know that chick on our hall who doesn’t wear deodorant and has that Eve Goddess tattoo? Call her parents,” Annemarie said.

“Thyme?” I said. “Why should I call her parents?”

She pointed to a brick building across the quad. “That’s theirs. I mean, she told me it’s named after them,” she said. “The Newell Hall of Economics. Maybe they can cough up some cash for a new dorm and knock ours down.”

Thyme’s parents are stinking rich? Huh. I’m surprised.

“I could never call former students and ask them for money,” Annemarie said. “Aren’t we paying this place enough? I mean, I haven’t even been here a week and it’s like they want eighteen thousand dollars before I can even sign up for my gym card. Not that I want one.” She took a drag of her clove cigarette, then offered it to me. “My work-study job is working in the
library
. I can’t stand libraries. They’re too quiet. I don’t know how I ended up here, but I’m transferring.”

Annemarie is completely right. I should transfer, too.

Why am
I
here? So I want a degree in environmental law. So my grandfather went here and says it’s a great school. Since when have I trusted his opinion? The man thinks pork rinds are a food group. So they came after me and promised me enough financial aid to support me for 4 years and a work-study job. Which they already pretty much took away. Didn’t they?

Isn’t there more to life? Like . . . a
life
?

Why can’t I be getting a scholarship like Grant to study veterinary medicine? Why can’t I be any good at the same subjects he is? Grant and I could study side by side. We could open our own practice together. We’d call it Superior Animal Hospital. Brilliant, perfect name.

Except I am afraid of blood. Seeing animals in pain also freaks me out. Could be a problem.

Then I’ll be the receptionist. I’ll sit in the outer room, away from surgical procedures, and schedule appointments on environmentally friendly 100 percent recycled paper without thinking too long about what they’re for. I’ll be oblivious. Negligent. Whatever.