Love and Other Things I'm Bad At (30 page)

9/23

I need a new cell phone plan. Have spent approx. 1,500 anytime minutes talking already this month, which is about 500 too many. Had to call Dad to appeal to his sense of guilt; he agreed to add me to his family plan but only if I start keeping control of my minutes.

My minutes are out of control, apparently.

It’s not like my
life
is out of control or anything. . . .

Crap. Have to write my first essay for Art of Essay and can’t think of anything.

We’re supposed to write about something we feel passionate about. Well, obviously, I’m not writing about Wittenauer. I mean, that is way too personal.

Maybe the TA doesn’t mean passionate that way. Maybe he means an issue that really concerns us?

Wait, I know. I have something very current: “The Evildoers: Phone Companies and the Overcharges.” But that subtitle sounds like a band. Besides, I believe my mother already wrote that story when she took on the giant MegaPhone corporation.

I do
not
want to copy my mother. Especially when it comes to cardigan sweaters.

9/24

Near disaster in Environmental Activism class today.

First of all, I found out Dr. Bigelow knows my name now.

Second, halfway through what was a slightly boring lecture, I thought I saw Grant go past in the hallway and I kind of, sort of, leaped out of my chair. I was so happy to see a familiar face.

See, at a small school like CFC, occasionally it gets old running into people. You sometimes wish you didn’t see someone you knew everywhere.

But then here, it’s the opposite. And I’m new. So I hardly ever see anyone I know.

“May I help you, Ms. Smith?” Dr. Bigelow asked. “You’re already starting three weeks late. Now what?”

“I just . . . excuse me. Sorry.”
I saw my ex-boyfriend go past and, uh . . .

“Are you feeling all right?”

“Yes, yes, fine. Sorry. Leg twitch. Cramp thing.”

“Maybe you should see a doctor about that. But in the meantime, let’s keep our focus.”

“Sorry.” I stared down at my notebook, feeling like I was about eight years old.

“Oh, Superfund. I lost my place.” Dr. Bigelow shuffled through his notes. He glanced up to glare at me.

I couldn’t slouch any lower without landing on the floor.

9/25

Is it my fate in life to always have crappy, part-time food-service jobs?

Because that’s how it’s starting to feel.

Oh, wait. I’m in college so that I
won’t
have to do that. When I feel like giving up, I must remember that. I am avoiding having my career stop at the Smoothie Stop.

Fortunately, Dara and Shawna dropped by to visit, which made working with Guy Nicollet, SuperZero, better. Dara hates all things fruit but had a hot fudge sundae, and Shawna opted for an Orange Immunity Blast.

You can learn a lot about people by what they order.

But usually, you really don’t care.

9/26

Grant’s house had a party tonight. Yesterday night, since it’s now 2
A.M.
?

Whatever. I had too many energy drinks at the party next door. Great for mingling but not recommended if you plan on sleeping. On the plus side, I can chat/IM with Beth in a few hours. Or now, maybe.

Grant wasn’t there at the beginning. Which was actually kind of nice and relaxing and gave me a chance to meet other people.

“What’s the occasion?” I asked the Grant look-alike, Cody. Except they don’t really look that much alike. Cody is a cargo shorts/flip-flop/T-shirt person. Every single day, as far as I can tell. That’s not really Grant’s look. Grant’s more of a cargo shorts/tee/flip-flop person.

Wait. That’s the same thing.

Anyway. “It’s Saturday night, dude,” Cody said, as if he didn’t need a reason to trample the grass, rent a keg, blare music, and annoy the neighbors.

“Well, yeah. Of course it is,” I said. I clinked my can of Rockstar against his cup of beer. “Party on.”

“Right on,” he said, nodding.

Sometimes those of us in tragic long-distance relationships lose track of things like parties and fun and weekends.

I sat down in a webbed chair to watch some volleyball. Game was kind of boring. Meanwhile, I kept texting W. We talked a few times and I held the phone out so he could hear what a Saturday night party in Fort Collins sounded like. Same as it does anywhere, just at slightly higher altitude. Does the air being thin make the noise louder, or softer?

Eventually met some people, including Matt, Grant’s roommate from last year. We talked for kind of a long time, just small talk, naturally. I was wondering how much he knew about me and whether he loathed me for the way I’d acted toward Grant. “On behalf of Grant Superior, I’d like to punch you . . .” could easily have been his greeting.

But he was just a nice person who seemed to be genuinely interested in my life and felt bad about the fact I had to transfer but was glad to meet me, etc.

I was talking with Shawna about a million different things, like people we both knew from Bugling Elk sophomore year, for hours. I think we ate three bags of tortilla chips. Jane called and she totally remembered Shawna, so they talked for a while. Jane pointed out something I already knew: I’m so lucky that even though I moved to a new place, I live with someone I already knew, totally nice Shawna. (Then Jane complained about her own housemates for a while.)

Finally Grant showed up. Said he’d been at work. Man, whenever I think I have a bad social life . . . Grant is working at a grocery store on Saturday nights. I hate to say it, but . . . that’s slightly loseresque. Wonder if he is steering away from vet science into food science. Only explanation for his devotion to customer service desk and green team initiative.

We talked for a couple of minutes. I told him about the Smoothie Stop, and my classes, and how I’m already on Dr. Bigelow’s hit list. I told him about the time I thought I saw him walking by the room and how I jumped up and got in trouble. He laughed a lot but told me not to worry, that everyone starts out there and has to earn their way up. He started to tell me a story about what happened to him freshman year, until the guys started setting fireworks on the street.

When there was a pause in the action, I heard this howling sound coming from somewhere. Then I realized. It’s Oscar. Poor Oscar. Scared to death of fireworks.

I ran home and Oscar was running in circles around the room. He had started to wear a path in the basement rug. I crouched down to catch him, midlap, and got him to stop by giving him a bear hug. He was shaking all over and kind of whimpering.

I’d been hugging him for a second when there was a knock on the door. I looked up and saw Grant, just as another firecracker whistled into the sky. Oscar and I both must have looked pathetic and helpless, or maybe he only cared about Oscar. Anyway.

“I’ll take care of it,” Grant said in this deep, somewhat manly voice. He was off, up the stairs, back outside. A minute later, he got everyone, even the really drunk people, to stop doing fireworks. He made some argument involving post-traumatic stress disorder and its effect on animals. He was Oscar’s hero. Again.

When I went out to thank him, a thought occurred to me: There was another favor I needed. “So I have a kind of strange question to ask.”

He looked very nervous.

“Can I borrow your car tomorrow? I have all this stuff I need to get and—I can’t drive Dara’s because (a) it’s too expensive, and (b) it’s a stick shift, and (c) she refuses to lend it to anyone—”

“Say no more. Sure. Of course you can. But I hope you drive a car better than you do a shopping cart.”

“What? You’ve driven with me, like, a thousand times!”

Suddenly, we started arguing about driving, and I said then I wouldn’t take the car, and Grant said, yes, I would, he’d leave me the key tomorrow night, and I said, don’t bother, and he said, no, it was no bother—

Then someone threw him a glow-in-the-dark Frisbee and he was gone.

As we went inside our house, Shawna had a kind of singsong taunt going. “You guys used to date, you guys used to date . . .”

I dragged her off to the kitchen for some ice cream.

Now, sitting here, wide-awake with a gut ache.

Should see if Dara wants to use that line in any of her poetry. It’s golden.

9/27

Dara, Shawna, and I were sitting outside having coffee and doing homework on the front porch when Grant came out and headed for his car.

“Hey, Grant?” I called over to him. “Thanks again for last night!”

Dara nearly spit out her coffee and she slapped me on the leg. “Who says that? You don’t just
say
that.”

“What?” I said, completely innocent.

Grant walked toward us and Oscar immediately jumped up and ran over to him. “What for?” he asked, rubbing Oscar behind his ears.

“Calming down Oscar. Getting your friends to stop the fireworks,” I said.

“Oh, so
you’re
the one who, like, killed the party,” Shawna said.

“Sorry.” Grant shrugged. “But it’s Oscar. Sometimes animals have to come first.”

Right. It
was
all about Oscar, of course.

“I still can’t believe your mom made him leave home. I mean, that was sort of cruel, don’t you think?” asked Grant.

Don’t get me started, I thought. First I had to go, then Oscar. A person should never get caught up in someone else’s midlife crisis. For that matter, neither should a dog. “Totally. He’s not the kind of dog that can just move around and adapt to new environments.”

“No. I’m glad I can help. I mean, if I helped at all,” Grant said.

“Definitely.” I smiled at him, and he seemed a little startled—or pleased, I couldn’t tell. Or maybe just late to his volunteer gig.

“You didn’t ever move Oscar to Wisconsin, did you?” he asked.

“Oh no.”

“Good.”

“Why? Wisconsin would’ve been nice to him. What do you have against Wisconsin?” I asked.

“Nothing!” Grant laughed. “Well, except it made you leave. I mean, Colorado was hurt. For a long time. States have feelings, you know.”

“States?” Shawna asked. “They do?”

“He’s kidding, obviously,” said Dara.

I wondered. Was he just trying to be funny, or was he talking about . . . him?

“See you, guys.” Then he headed off to the Humane Society, where he volunteers every Sunday.

I should volunteer there, I thought. I love all animals. I remembered thinking once that Grant could open a vet clinic and I would do all the filing and receptioning. But maybe there was somewhere a little less smelly and barky to work?

We were joking and laughing but at the same time it all seemed kind of flirty and serious.

“Wow. He really loves Oscar, doesn’t he?” Dara said, looking slightly dreamy. She had this soft, sweet expression that changed her entire face.

“It’s not just Oscar. He used to work at a pet store, and he’s volunteered for the ASPCA and the Humane Society. And, I mean, he loves all animals.”

Just then, DeathKitty leaped up on the ledge and hissed at Oscar, taking a swipe at his eyes.

“Well. Almost all,” I said.

Even Dara had to laugh at that.

I thought about how obsessed I used to be with Animal Planet. Why did I stop watching? When did I stop caring?

Maybe it was when I got too much homework. Like now. I’m at least 3 chapters behind in everything. I hate Sundays. Hate them hate them hate them.

9/28

Grant left his car key in our mailbox today so I took his car to Target. I needed stuff for my room, plus my grandparents had sent me a Target gift card that was burning a hole in my pocket. Grandparents understand what it’s like to be kicked out by Mom. She once made them spend the night in their RV in our driveway because she had turned what had been the guest room with a futon into her home office. She has a history of being a bad host.

Yes, I’d love to always ride my bike or take public transportation, but there are some things you just can’t put on your bike or the bus. Like trash cans. Beanbag chairs. And large bubble mailers to send W care packages of CSU Rams T-shirts (RAM ’EM!). And “feminine hygiene products.” And this really cool new kind of mascara that is clear but also brown/black so you get this double coating action thingy going on.

Sitting in Grant’s car again was weird. Really strange. It was the same car that we’d driven around, you know,
around
around when we were seeing each other. We drove to school, to prom, to graduation, ski trips. Things had happened in this car. Important things. Kissy things.

That was when I had to slam on the brakes because I hadn’t seen the truck in front of me stop and I nearly crashed into it. Whoa. Nearly totaled Grant’s car.

Anyway, lots of memories were in this car. Mostly good ones, but a few bad ones, like when we’d driven it back to Wisconsin together, at the end of Christmas break last year, before we broke up.

Probably it was a mistake to borrow it, because it was acting sort of like a time machine on my emotions. It even smelled like Grant. I think it’s his deodorant.

On the way home, the sun was in my eyes so I folded down the visor.

A note fell down.

I knew I shouldn’t read it, but I did.

Because that’s the kind of person I am. Nosy.

It was written on a napkin from a coffee shop near campus and read, “Hey, Grant—nice talking to you last night. Have a good day.” There was a picture of a cat with a smile drawn on it, and the word
Meow
in a small bubble over it.

What? Who wrote this? When was this written?

Just as I was about to analyze the handwriting, the light turned green, I accelerated, and my bottle of juice spilled onto the napkin. The ink ran a little bit and the napkin turned slightly orange.

I quickly waved it in the air, turned the AC on full blast to dry it off, then put it back where I’d found it. Drove with fingers crossed on both hands the rest of the way home that it was just a silly memento from a long time ago and he’s completely forgotten about it. Made it hard to use steering wheel.

Don’t crash don’t crash don’t crash
, I told myself, thinking of Grant’s shopping cart comment. If I crashed, he’d find the note for sure. That was my twisted logic. Not that I or someone else might get hurt.

When I brought the key back, Cody answered the door and told me to go ahead down the hall to his room. Their house had the exact same setup as ours, and Grant’s bedroom was on the left. I peeked inside. Grant was lying on his bed, headphones on, studying. I stood in the doorway for a second, just watching him, waiting for him to notice me.

We used to do this thing where we’d lie end to end so we wouldn’t talk and we’d tickle each other’s feet if we dozed off. I don’t know what came over me, but I leaned down and touched his bare foot.

He nearly hit the ceiling.

So did I, because he kind of kicked me. I coughed. “Sorry, just wanted to give you the key.”

Grant asked if everything went OK with the car. “Sure. Fine,” I said. Then I told him that I had used reusable bags instead of plastic ones.

He said, he actually said this, “Courtney, I don’t care what you do.”

Ouch.

I guess he could tell how hurt I was because he said, “I mean, with your bags. Shopping bags.”

OK then. I hurried home. Confused. Not that there’s anything new about that.