Principles of Love (12 page)

“I would — seriously — but I’m meeting my aunt for a pedicure,” I say and hope Cordelia doesn’t bring up the e-mail thing again — I know she wants to find out to whom I’m writing, but then it’s sure to become campus scandal. She’s first (or even if she’s not, she says she is) to spread the word about the latest hook-up or break-up, even when it comes to faculty gossip. I’ve been lucky enough to be flying under the radar so far, but it’s a conscious effort on my part to go unnoticed.

At the suggestively titled G-Spa downtown, Mable and I roll up our pant legs and take our seats on the pedicure thrones, dangling our legs into the blue-tinted bubbling whirlpool water. Mable uses the built-in back massager that works via remote control but I switch mine off — the rolling and kneading feels too automated and inspires nausea rather than relaxation. The pedicure, however, is fantastic. Massage, snip, paint. All good things.

“Anyway,” I say to Mable in regards to Robinson, “I just like him so much it’s dumb. He’s become this mythic creature in my mind.”

“Like the Loch Ness Monster?” she asks, eyes closed and smile on her face from the treatment.

“Well, just as unattainable.” I look around at the other customers. Well-coiffed women with fancy bags and spotless (as spotless as a Shiney Hiney bowl) heels flip through
Architectural Digest
. A group of girls my age sit in a cluster, tearing apart model-actresses in
InStyle
photos and debating the merits of lipo and Mystic Tan (as someone with reddish hair and pale freckled skin, I would look creepy with an all-over spray tan, but I get why it’s popular). One of the girls looks up and I recognize her as Lila’s field hockey teammate, Colorado (that’s her name, not her state on a map). Colorado, as Cordelia’s gossip vine relates, has a bit of a snow problem herself — as in snorting the white powder not skiing on it. Possibly because of this or maybe she was like this prior to the drugs, Colorado isn’t the nicest person in the world. Or the country. Or the state. Or the room. She’s pretty much a colossal bitch.

Unfortunately, she notices me right when I’m noticing her. Cackles and whispers abound and I’m trying not to laugh at the scrub brush tickling my feet but it comes across as me laughing at them.

“Like, she’s totally laughing at you,” one girl says and nudges Colorado who sniffs and stands up. She pads over to me in her paper slippers and tosses her straightened hair to one side. Then she looks at Mable. Then at me.

“Your daughter needs a lesson in minding her own business,” Colorado says to Mable who is practically dozing off in the throne. And to me she adds, “Get a grip.”

This shouldn’t bother me. I should be immune to the bitch-witch ways of the airbrushed crew. But I’m just not — not completely. I can write them off as dim and dull, likely to be floundering at our tenth reunion (when I have my second album coming out and a Hollywood Spawn at my side), but the fact of the matter is right now it makes me feel like shit. I need to Shiney Hiney myself!

“Ignore them,” Mable says when the front door of the spa has swung shut and they’ve left. Our feet are under little heat lamps and fans and we watch the shoppers outside as we dissect my latest interaction. “They’re not worth it. I know — easier said than done.”

“No, I’m fine. I don’t even know them.”

“They’re probably jealous of your friendship with Lila, not to mention Robinson,” Mable says. She’s looking at an old home décor magazine and I wonder if she’s imagining her Coffee Distributor (real name: Miles) urging her toward domestic bliss. I ask her about this possibility. “It’s definitely occurred to me,” Mable says. “But then, it’s so odd to get to this stage in life — and think about being a couple forever — maybe even having a kid.”

This last part makes me excited and teary at the same time. Like Mable could all of a sudden drift away from me into Ecuador or Mexico or Sumatra or wherever they harvest coffee beans now and live her life with Miles and a baby. But on the other hand, I’d love to have a cousin-aunt relationship with Mable’s offspring. And then my dad could be an uncle — he’d be so cool and helpful. But I’m getting ahead of myself. It’s not like Miles has proposed marriage (and I know Mable won’t live with him without a ring, having tried that — twice — and deciding that she’d rather live alone than share the bills on a touch and go basis).

Mable hasn’t offered to introduce us, maybe she just assumes we’re both too busy. Or, what I really think, is that she keeps all the parts of her life in distinct categories. Me and my dad on one side — and hey — we don’t even see her together much. He’ll have dinner with her downtown and I’ll meet up with her on the weekends, but we don’t all hang out that much together. Thinking about this in terms of Miles makes me wonder if maybe Mable protects herself this way — no overlaps, just different parts of herself and important people spread out over the days of the week.

My dad and the English Bloke come outside to greet me and my newly painted toes (which are sadly shoved away, hibernating for the winter in my pseudo-riding boots). Rather than the dark-haired brooder of my visions, the exchange student is a thin, wiry orange-haired boy named Clive. So not my image. In the movie version of this, Clive would open his mouth and explain that he’s not the real exchange student — it’s his older, hotter brother, who would magically appear in the doorway, touching the heart-shaped knocker and give me a look that in two seconds lets me know we will be together — on the floor, in the woods, near Big Ben when he whisks me back to London.

But the reality tv moment goes like this:

“Hal-lo!” from the very enthusiastic Clive.

“Welcome,” I say. “How was your trip?”

“Very nice indeed,” Clive says, his sweaty fingers and hand shaking mine. And so on, through a cup of tea that Dad makes us all sip, until I excuse myself and grab my journal and go to Slave to the Grind.

Some nights, Mable has local entertainment — good acoustic guitarists or folky women in long skirts. Even bands — with skinny sexy Depp-esque drummers. A couple of times famous bands have actually come and played under a cover name. Tonight, latte-sippers and mocha blended mothers recline and relax to the tunes some guy strums out. He’s pretty good, mixing sixties sounds like Blind Faith with his own stuff. I drain a couple of chocolate drinks and eat my way through several s’mores talking to Miles, the Coffee Man. I see why Mable likes him, he’s mellow and funny like she is — not likely to be upset or flustered, kind of a hippy trapped in the body of a grown-up Boy Band member. And I like seeing him help her, do things for her, take care of her the way that she’s so good at taking care of other people.

Once most people have cleared out, my dad comes in (minus Clive, who — thanks to jet lag — is home sleeping) and sits next to me. While Mable picks up the last of the cups and spoons, the balled up paper napkins, I wander over to the microphone and talk to the performer. He asks if I want to sing something and my heart is immediately on the fast track to exiting my body. Even though I know I can sing, I just get nervous and have that outer-body experience where I’m outside looking at this girl who needs to — get a grip. I think about Colorado saying those words to me and take the mike.

With the help of the guy’s guitar prowess (I can play chords, but not fast enough to keep tempo) I sing an acoustic version of the Stevie Nicks song “If You Ever did Believe.” As the words flow out of me, first shaky, then stronger until I’m pulled into the music and not thinking about what I’m doing — just doing it — I feel free. Happy. Whole. I look out at the people hearing it and wonder what they’re thinking — am I good? Decent? Totally forgettable? I can see in their faces that at the very least, I’m okay. And I feel it, too. One guy stands up and does that double whistle — then goes to toss his latte cup in the trash.

Even though the song I sang is kind of sad, I smile as I mumble it again as I make my way home. Later, when I’m back in my room, wonder if my choice of songs (it’s a song about being left behind) has to do with Mable or the snooty girls or Robinson or my mother — or no one. Just a song and a girl who can sing it.

When I do laundry I put all my faith in the Sock God. Mostly, I am let down. I keep all the mismatched, single socks in my laundry bag, washing them over and over again, despite not having seen their partners for months in the vain hope that a pair will be reunited. Today — an omen? — my olive green soft ones with the black toes find each other and I wear them back to school. I’ve gotten in the habit of driving to school and parking in the very far end of the faculty lot where the pine cones and clumps of leaves make it nearly impossible to park straight. From there I cut by the lower school and past the music building. Sometimes I pick up boarders form the very far end of campus and give them rides on cold mornings — and I take Lila into town for doctor’s appointments sometimes. It’s fun to feel like I can just pull over or head to the Gass n’ Mart up the street for instant nourishment.

Today, it’s so cold that I go through the music building, lingering since I’m early for assembly. From one of the rooms I hear beautiful piano music and, like a cartoon dog following a scent, let the chords pull me towards the sound. The practice room door is ajar and I can see a head of hair bobbing up and down to the music, but not the face. I stand for a minute and the person looks up — it’s Quiet Jacob from English. He doesn’t stop playing, he just looks at me and keeps going. I didn’t know he played piano — and I didn’t recognize him without his curly mop of hair — clearly a Thanksgiving cut. I want to comment on it — he looks good — but it’s way too intimate a thing to say here. I back out of the room without saying anything and walk towards my desk.

On top of my desk — next to the small circular hole where an inkwell used to rest during the olden days of note-taking — I find an envelope announcing the Hadley Hall Awards, including the English essay Mr. Chaucer spoke of. First I think I’m the only one to get the announcement and then I see that all the desks are dotted with envelopes and I crumple it up. I’m not spending my free time writing some essay based on the school motto
I am myself, I am of the World
only to find out I’m not either.

I get through the first day without so much as laying eyes on Lila, Robinson, Cordelia — just classes and home to dinner with Dad and — no Clive! — he’s been sent to the dorm finally and I won’t have to make nice-nice anymore. Not that he was so bad, it’s just draining to entertain all the time. I get home and I want to eat, give my dad a hug, take my shoes off and get my work done so it doesn’t hang over my head. My exam schedule was posted today and though it doesn’t sound bad — six exams over the course of an entire week — I’m shitting myself. I feel the pressure not just from myself to do well, or well enough, but not to humiliate my dad. He’s hinted at, but wouldn’t say directly, that he expects me to pull through and prove myself (myself or him??). The Hadley Hall calendar is strange — you come back from Thanksgiving, have a couple of days of classes, then reading period starts and exams for a week and then Christmas break.

When I log on after reading about the plethora of ways white men fucked up this country, I find my email empty of DrakeFan mail — nearly a first — sadness ensues. Then I surf around and check again — only one from Lila, saying she’s coming back late from break and NEEDS to talk ASAP. Immediately, I wonder if she and Robinson have broken up and then feel like a Colorado-esque bitch so I take it back. Lila could have any number of things to talk about — the way I never confronted Channing but never touched him again after our night walk (and maybe he’s asked her to talk to me — to give him another chance — though I doubt it since he seemed to loose interest in me rather immediately after our one-time kiss — why do guys do that? It’s like they’re taste-testing or trying on lipstick at the Mac counter — um, wrong color, thanks anyway). Or maybe Lila had some family crisis come up and needs to vent (her brother is at boarding school, too, but one of those last shot places before military school) or possibly Robinson is in love with me and Lila’s cool with that. Or none of the above.

Just my luck, the first and only of my ads to be picked up for national syndication is the Shiney Hiney one, so as of today — EVERYONE — has had the pleasure of hearing me sing the praises of the cleanser, thanks to The Hadley Hall News, which has its own pseudo-gossip page (creatively titled Heard Around Hadley). Apparently, the ad has been heard enough times in fact that I was the subject of a school skit this morning involving several faculty members and upper classmen walking around with toilet brushes and mimicking my singing. I am trying to take it all in stride and find humor in myself.

Before my last senior seminar starts, I take a tour of the new sculpture exhibit (bye bye naked men, hello well-endowed naked women — what is this gallery? An ode to teenage libido?). Paused near a chiseled naked woman who lies on her back with her legs slightly open, Robinson finds me and gives me a post-vacation hug. I wonder if he can feel my boobs on his chest (they aren’t the smallest in the world — in fact, I kind of wish I had less up front) or if he’s into the stone lady spread at our feet.

We talk about the seminar and I tell him how fun it’s been. He mentions film school at NYU and how his dad is some producer and bits of his life start to make sense. I can imagine his world in Manhattan, his cool friends and famous-filled dinners in the Hamptons. He takes the time to ask me about my break, my dad, even Mable. Then he checks his watch. I wish I’d thought to check mine first.

“We gotta get in there,” he says and we go to the AV door. I’m just about to sink into minor blues — no more seminar, not too much running in the winter, no excuses to meet up with him — when Robinson turns and asks, “Love?” He reaches out and touches my arm. “Want to meet at the mat during exam week?” I’m sure my face is betraying my emotions, but I try to nod nonchalantly. “Thursday afternoon?”

“I’ll see you then.” I spend the rest of the final seminar creating sculpture images of myself and Robinson, interspersed with trips to New York where we mingle with film folk at his house and stroll hand in hand in Central Park. Never in any of these images do I feel the wind chill factor, nor have chapped lips, nor feel crappy for sneaking behind Lila’s back.