Principles of Love (24 page)

“So,” Dad asks when we’re back on Route 128 and the sunset has fizzled out, “how was the Big Apple? Did you take a bite?”

“I got in! I got in!” Lila rushes up and hugs me, practically swinging me around. “I’m going to Brown!”

“That’s great — you rock,” I say.

“Now I’ll only be, like, forty-five minutes away next fall. You totally have to come and hang out with me — we’ll have a blast.” This sends me reeling back into my post-Providence slump.

After my colossal mix mix-up and my distaste for all things apricot-flavored, I’ve been sloughing through work and trying to forget my woes. I would have told Lila bout Robinson but I didn’t want to talk about Jacob. And I would have told Cordelia about my dad dating Thompson and how he’s “really quite taken with her” — blech — but she would have made it campus-wide news. And I would have told Mable about most of it but she’s been unreachable — too wedding-absorbed to call me back. So instead, I pour it all out in an epic email to DrakeFan. The whole Jacob/Robinson conundrum, the Dad saga, even how I’m determined to finish one song before the academic year is through. I don’t know why I want to complete it now — I just want to know that if something’s important to me I can get through it and not shy away. That I’m not just the friend in the corner waiting to be liked, nor am I Love Pukeowski — I’m just Love. Not just. That my name and who I am speaks for itself.

Rummaging through my journal and messy desk drawers, I find the lyrics Jacob printed out for to
Which Will
— that song he played at the coffee house so long ago. I shove them into my journal and then check email.

Like the heroine in a teen flick, I should be overjoyed right now after reading Robinson’s message asking me to go to the senior prom with him. The prom. Isn’t it supposed to be a dream come true for sophomore girls? The perfect dress, the perfect guy, the perfect theme song and — it’s enough to make we want to stop seeing movies altogether.

The next day I find a disk in my mailbox. Not a mix, thankfully since I don’t think I can take having to decipher lyrics and meanings at this point. It’s a real disk — a purchased one, still in its wrapper;
Way to Blue
by Nick Drake. Oh, DrakeFan. Nick Drake Fan. I guess I bypassed the singer and thought of Drake’s the snack food. I put the cd in my bag and go to class, thinking how nice it will be to listen to something unfamiliar. I remember Mable talking about Nick Drake and how she crushed out on him back when she listened to vinyl, but up till now I’ve never listened to his songs before.

I call her from the phone box at school using the Nick Drake info as my rouse for making contact. She’s been so out of it — not even my dad knows why. He just says she’ll call or stop by when she’s got the time. Maybe her business is faltering. She used to run a greeting card company and that folded — maybe Slave to the Grind will, too. But instead of bearing bad business tidings, Mable gives me the low-down on her love life.

“Anyway, to cut to the chase — I’m calling off the wedding. I hope you understand.”

“What? Me? Don’t you mean Miles?”

“For someone who wasn’t exactly jumping for joy during my dating process, you seem kind of upset,” Mable says. She sounds far away.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” I say.

“No,” she says, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be laying all this on you. It’s just — Miles and I…listen. Relationships are different when you get older. More complicated.”

“I know about complicated,” I say and then wish I hadn’t.

“Well, if you think things are complex now, just wait.”

I hang up a few minutes later after saying I’ll return the fabric for the maid of honor dress to which Mable replies that none of it matters. It’s no big deal and she’ll sort it out. She’s seriously down and I don’t know how to help her. Part of me wonders if it’s more than Miles, more than the wedding that’s the issue. But probably I’m wrong and it’s just the complexity of love that’s got her down. We’ll have to see.

With the disk safely tucked away, I realize I’m a tad freaked out with the DrakeFan scenario. On the one hand, the guy could be my long lost soul mate. On the other hand, he could be a psychotic weirdo with intentions to track me down and… well, at the very least, he knows WAY more about me than I ever thought I’d reveal to a total stranger. Which leads me to my next thought which is that — maybe he’s not a total stranger. Maybe he’s someone I kind of know. And just as I’m thinking this, I spot Chris the MLUT across campus and it dawns on me — guitar player, musical, kind of known to me, flirty — shit — I could have revealed my inner life to the sluttiest guy around. Or maybe, like in a John Hughes movie, he’ll turn out to have a heart (or some other body part) made of gold and the slut thing is just his protective coating. Or maybe DrakeFan isn’t a student at all, but some creepy slacker hacker on line. Or a teacher. Mr. Chaucer? I shake my head at the thought. How can you ever really know what’s going on in someone’s head, what drives them to act in certain ways or share their bizarre thoughts? Everyone tries to manipulate or come across in a particular way, right? Robinson, the one I thought could have been meant for me, clearly had an agenda. And look where that got me.

I meet Robinson by the pole vaulting mat but I don’t sit down. I don’t lie down and look up at the bright blue sky. Nor do I relish in the weather and the way the sunlight gleams off his hair sending glints of blonde into the atmosphere. I am about to break up with him.

He walks over and puts his hands on my shoulders. I’m not nuts, I remind myself. Hot and fun does not mean it’s the right fit.

“Listen” I say. “I got your email. And about the prom…” I try to find the words to say thanks but no thanks, but Robinson interrupts.

“Wait — I shouldn’t have sent that — it was like a guilt-reaction.”

I try to follow as I figure out how to say what I want to say. “Robinson, I liked you right away…”

“Love — I fucked up.”

Maybe he will admit to his scripted actions, his Mr. Manhattan attitude.

“No,” I say. “It wasn’t just you — it was me, too. I think I wanted it to happen so much that I…”

“I slept with Lindsay Parrish.” Why the hell he feels the need to use her full name I don’t know, but it annoys the crap out of me. But more importantly.

Five words. A figurative slap. It doesn’t matter that I was going to dump him — he cheated on me. When he thought I still liked him. I will not cry. I won’t cry because I don’t feel sad, I feel revolted. Mr. and Ms. Manhattan — now they can me Mr. and Mrs.!

“She found out she’s accepted to Hadley for next year and we were celebrating and — if you hadn’t left New York early maybe we…”

“Oh my God — don’t you even think of blaming this on me. The fact that I was on a train…” Okay, sitting sharing a soda with Jacob in a diner, but still. “While you were screwing your ‘just an old friend’ makes me sick.”

Robinson tries to hug me. I bristle. “So why even bother inviting me to the stupid prom?”

“I don’t know — guilt?” It’s his honest reaction but it makes me so mad that my first prom invite is based on guilt rather than romantic desire.

“Why don’t you ask Lindsay Parrish? I’m sure she’d love to come.” I start to walk away.

“Love — don’t leave it like this,” he says. He’s right. I should be the bigger person here. The more mature. Sucks that it feels so good to be petty. I walk over and can’t face the goodbye hug he so obviously wants — the one that would make him feel guilt-free. I reach forward and sort-of tousle his hair, like he’s a retriever or a kid. He takes my hand and tries to hold it and I pull back. Of course, not before Jacob and a group of his friends walk by and catch the rather intimate gesture. Did I detect a glare from him?

“Goodbye,” I say to Robinson, my campus hottie, my photo lab fantasy. “And by the way — out of curiosity, what happens to Chester and Lucy? Do they attend a formal ball together?” Robinson is horrified and blushes. “Maybe with an apricot rose as the corsage?”

The End. Roll credits.

I could have tried to sprint after Jacob to explain my hugging Robinson was a parting gesture, but I don’t. Instead, I sprint home and open my journal. Words come flowing out of me — not angry words of being cheated on, not words of disillusionment — just feelings. My feelings about Jacob. An hour later and the only thing that’s missing from my first song is a title.

“Welcome to the last open mike night of the season,” Mable says and tries to quiet the crowd. I do a quick Jacob scan. No dice. “We’ll be closing for inventory after this — but come back and see us in two weeks.” Two weeks? This strikes me as very peculiar since inventory takes a day or two at most. Maybe Mable’s heading for a mid-life crisis in the nullifying of her nuptials.

I listen to performers and serve iced coffees, lemon sherbet in tall glasses with long spoons, and enjoy the breeze through the open windows. In the spring and summer, the entire front façade opens up and lets in street noise, making for great people-watching.

This time, I don’t wait to be asked or urged. I write my name down like everyone else and bring my guitar up. I’m still not good enough to completely accompany myself, but I can sufficiently strum chords and make slow changes. Heh — just like in life. I look into the crowd and see a couple people from WAJS, who Mable must have asked to come since they are habitual caffeine consumers. I’m happy to see familiar faces as I play my first, original song.

How can I explain what I never have before?

Who is there to blame for what was once an open door?

The more you walk away, the more I want to follow

But I’ve been down that road before and it lead to only hollow

Tell me once and tell me more

I’ll be the one who knows you to the core

Say you’ll stay and let me learn

How to put out the fire and keep the burn

There was a night I felt so sure of it all

And a bus ride, a diner, nights I never called

Say you’ll stay and keep me warm

Tell me more, I promise no harm

I’ll explain what I never have before

That where there’s Love there’s an open door

The applause is nice but what hits me in a way I never would have expected is how good it feels to do what I said I would. I wrote it. I sang it. And hopefully, it’s not a one-off and more will follow. I leave the stage and before I can serve another drink, Mable tells me to go outside. In front of the blooming apple blossom tree, standing in the confetti of the strewn petals, is Jacob.

“I used to think I was one of those people who wouldn’t find anyone worth being in high school — or college — maybe never,” Jacob says.

“Tough critic?”

“I guess.” He reaches up at clasps at the leaves above him. A hail storm of petals rains down. “But right away, that first Chaucer class, I wanted to know you. What you’re thinking, what makes you happy.” He moves towards me, but doesn’t touch me. “What makes you sad. Where you come from. And I knew it wouldn’t be easy.”

“Sorry I made you chase me.” I smile at him and let my hands find his. They’re warm and soft.

“Are you kidding? I’m still a guy, despite the affinity for acoustic music and poster glitter. I won.” He pauses. “Right?”

I’m well aware I’m not a prize, but I feel so good right now that maybe I deserve to be the blue ribbon. “You won,” I say. “But it wasn’t a competition. “It was just…” I try to find a coherent way to tell him. “I feel like I won, actually.”

Flowerless and without pre-scripted dialogue, he isn’t perfect. He’s real. And, according to him, really more than ready to kiss me. Which is what we do for the rest of the night.

At home, I look out my window and see Jacob waiting for me to wave. He’s near the walkway lamp and I can see his smile from where I sit on my bed. He waves back and walks toward the dorm.

Only one thing left to do now to put everything in order. I log on and write to DrakeFan.

Writing to you has helped me through this whole year. I haven’t had the chance to listen to the Nick Drake cd, but I’m sure it’s as great as you are — or are via electronica. I hope you understand when I say that I can’t write anymore like this. I have someone I can talk to face-to-face and I feel like it wouldn’t be fair to any of us to continue…

I go on for a bit more and thank him and click send. Can’t get it back. Then, to commemorate the moment, I open the Nick Drake cd and put it on. The songs are lovely and sad and contemplative — and then I get to one called
Which Will
and my mouth drops open.

I get an IM from DrakeFan and take a risk writing back:
You’re Jacob?

He answers:
The one and only.

Jacob is DrakeFan; life is good. Sophomore year is almost over, and the pieces are falling into place. I just have to figure out what I’m doing this summer (aside from swooning over Jacob) and then I’m all set. I even let my dad know that Thompson might not give me a good grade, and he was okay with it. He’s clearly so besotted with her that he’s blind to her classroom evils — and who am I to judge? Maybe she’ll prove to be a nice distraction for Dad this summer. Time will tell.

Graduation starts in seven minutes. I’ve SPF’d myself from head to toe and slide into my sandals before heading out the door. Underclassmen are wedged together, row after row of us in white dresses and blue blazers, listening to the speakers while we roast in the sun and check to see which seniors are crying on stage. I can see Robinson and Channing, and Lila gives a small wave from her seat far down on the left. She looks amazing, of course, and was completely horrified when I told her that Lindsay Parrish/Ms. Manhattan would be joining the Hadley Hall ranks next year. After the NYC debacle, Lila admitted her issues to me — she’d had the hardest time with Lindsay, and felt all along with Robinson that he wasn’t really a whole person, just a movie poster boy who didn’t know how to be real. When I asked her why she didn’t tell me that day in the café, she asked me if I would have believed her or just thought she was jealous. And she was totally right. When you’re blinded by lust and visions of perfection, there’s no use sprinkling reality dust anywhere — it’ll just blow past. Anyway, in terms of Lindsay Parrish, at least I have the summer to enjoy before seeing her face again — especially knowing that she bedded down with my first real boyfriend. Lila wants me to visit Newport for a weekend and I just might. I’ll miss having a friend around like her. My hope is that come September, I’ll find the friend I’ve been looking for — but for now it’s wishful thinking.