Principles of Love (25 page)

My father leads us all in the school hymn, “Green Though it Yet May Be” and I watch the student body open and form words in unison. Thinking back to the opening day ceremony in the chapel, it’s funny how much has happened and still how seamless the year is from then until now. When we get to the part about lush hills and blossoms, I can feel tears welling up — and I’m not sure exactly why. Maybe I’m more sentimental than I think I am. Picturing Hadley without the current seniors feels foreign, but then again I know once I’m a month or two into junior year, it’ll be hard to remember what it felt like to be a sophomore. My dad’s cheeks are sun-reddened and I watch him sing the last verse. When we all sit back down, the air is full and humid, and I’m officially ready for summer.

“Love Bukowski!” Applause. Huh? I’m so busy reflecting and recalling the past nine months like the valedictorian asked that I don’t know what’s happening until Clive the English exchange student turns around and hisses at me. Am I graduating early?

“Are you a bloody idiot?” he asks. Clearly, the pot has been traded in for something else. I take a nanosecond to hope that next year’s exchange student comes with more tact, grace, and charm. “They’re calling you. You won.”

I won? What did I win? I’m on the way up to accept the award in my honor when I realize that I have won the Hadley Hall English Essay Prize. My father, from behind the podium, hands me the award (which he clearly knew I won prior to now — no wonder he didn’t mind my potentially lackluster grade in math) and smiles. Instead of shaking hands, we hug, which feels reassuring — not embarrassing. From the faculty rows, Mr. Chaucer gives me the thumbs up. I walk off the stage and find my way back to my seat noting the already crispy feeling on my shoulders from the strong sun. Attached to the frame-worthy piece of paper is a letter detailing how my essay will be published in an alumni magazine. For the whole year I assumed that this would mean a Hadley Hall magazine — but as I read on I learn that alum for my essay is the editor of
Music Magazine
. And my piece will be published in the August issue for new voices in the music scene! I’m the female Cameron Crowe! Whoa. Slow down.

My dad’s closing remarks about self-discovery and knowledge of our surrounding worlds is both beautiful and hypocritical — how will I follow these life instructions without him easing up on hiding the details of my past?

At home, I aloe myself and change into shorts and a tee-shirt. It’s summer. I am free from ringing bells and parietals and papers…until next fall. Three whole months. On my bed I find a present with a card that just says,
Love, Dad.
Inside are letters dated 1985–1988 — all from my mother to my father, and then some photos — with dad’s writing on the back explaining where and when and who…and an old tape. I don’t even read them now. I don’t look now. I know I will later — tonight or tomorrow or next week. I have some clues to my maternal mystery. Not everything, I’m sure. But the beginnings of figuring it out.

“Get your butt out here!” Jacob cups his hands to his mouth and yells up to my window. He’s holding two dripping popsicles and I rush down the stairs to meet him. I poke my head out the window.

“One sec,” I shout.

“I’m going to have to eat your raspberry ice,” he warns.

“Save me the last lick then,” I say.

Outside, in the shade of the elm tree we sit and wipe our sticky hands on the green grass. Jacob leaves in two days to go back to his dad’s house in New Haven. I’ve been wondering if another Amtrak excursion is in order.

“So,” he says with a massive grin.

“What?” I laugh and give his shoulder a push.

“Want to spend the summer with me?”

“Um, yes, please.”

Jacob reaches for something in his pocket. “I’m serious,” he says and shows me a photo of a house with a tumbling garden in front, hills in the background.

“Details?” I ask.

“Come to Europe with me. This is my mom’s house in the south of France — we can hang out there for a while and then meet my dad in Rome and tour around.”

“You want me to tour around Europe with you?”

Jacob nods. “Dad told me I could bring a friend — his treat. My choice of company.”

“And you choose me?” I smile and plant a kiss on his lips. He pulls me in.

“Always,” he says. The phone rings form inside and I stand up to get it. “But you have to tell me by tonight at eight o’clock. The tickets are on a twenty-four hour hold — and Dad’s insisting on buying them today.”

I give a whoop and run inside, heart racing. Would my dad say yes? I can’t even think of all the things rushing through my brain and then I pick up the phone.

“Love Bukowski?”

Hoping I’m not being offered a free sample of something or being asked my political affiliation, I say, “This is she.”

“Hi,” the voice warms up. “This is John Rickman, editor of
Music Magazine
in New York.”

Fluster, fluster, composure. “Oh, hi!” I say.

“We wanted to call and congratulate you on your success. You must be very proud of your essay.”

I think back to how long it took me to write it, and the struggles on and off paper. “Yes, I am.” Outside, Jacob is trying to make me laugh, dancing like a robot and then trying to flee from a bee. I suppress a giggle.

“The editorial staff and I were pretty taken with your writing — especially for someone your age.”

“Thanks — thanks a lot. I just want to say that I’m a big fan of the magazine and really am excited to have something published in it,” I say hoping I’m not coming off as a giant kiss-ass. Small kiss-ass, fine. Just not Cadillac-huge.

“Sorry, Love, would you mind holding for a moment?” He clicks off and I give Jacob the two minutes sign. Jacob shouts back that it’s no problem, not to rush and sits down in the grass, stringing together a chain of dandelions that will no doubt be given to me.

“I’m back,” John Rickman says. “That was Elton John on the line. Had to take it.”

“Yeah, I can see that you’d have to,” I laugh. So does Rickman.

“Listen — the reason for my call is this: in our staff meeting yesterday we were reviewing student internship proposals, and it dawned on me that you’re every bit as qualified as the high school seniors who’ve applied.”

I draw a breath and sit down, pulling the coil of yellow cord with me. I don’t say anything and he goes on. “Anyway, we’re wondering if you’ve got the time and interest to join our staff for the summer. I’ll be honest and tell you the position doesn’t pay much. Just a stipend, really — and you’ll have to research facts and get coffees and run errands for Eminem or Cheryl Crow when they come for interviews.”

Drool, drool, composure. “I see. And, ah, where and when and…”

“Our central offices. In Manhattan. I have to say, I’d be thrilled to have another Hadley Hall person here with me. So you think about it and let me know.”

“Wow — sure!” I say. “Should I call back to let you know or —”

“We can give you some time,” he reassures me. “I know it’s a lot to take in suddenly.” I breathe a sigh of relief. Between the phone call and the offer to go to Europe with Jacob — I can totally see falling in love among the trains and travel — I’m overwhelmed. “Why don’t you think about this for a couple of hours and give me a ring by the end of the day — say, seven o’clock tonight?”

I hang up and step outside to the porch. Up the driveway, I can see my dad and Thompson — holding hands and walking this way. First I think Dad looks really happy, then I notice the slump of his shoulders and the way Thompson pats his back — not out of love, more like an action of sympathy. I start to walk over to them, and Jacob joins me.

“So, mademoiselle, are we going on our world expedition?”

Next to me is Jacob, who slips his arm around me waist and offers me the world. In my head, the
Music Magazine
clings to me. And in front of me stand my dad, whose face tells me that something is wrong.

This is the moment that freezes like a photograph image — the start of my summer. The start of the next song in my life. The next version of my life as I know it.

Thanks to Faye Bender—the definition of good agent—and to Anne Bohner for seeking me (and Love) out. For their continued support, love, and encouragement, I thank my parents and grandparents. For enthusiasm, my in-laws (and RS)—if I could wrap you in tinfoil, I would. And to Kathy Franklin, aka The Namer, I give thanks and a roadkill bunny slipper. To Plumpy, the perfect blend of Watts, Blaine, and Duckie, thank you for the tidbits. Thank you also to Sara Woods. And a special thanks to Heather Swain, writing confidante and friend.

To the kids—thanks for not touching the computer (too much) and for the daily source of love, fulfillment, and laughter you bring to my life.

Most of all, thanks to AJS, Gold Medal husband and father (if only there were a Sandwich Olympics!).

Turn the page to continue reading from the Principles of Love series

With a name like mine, signing letters has never been easy. If I write
Love,
Love, I sound either redundant or drunk, and if I go with
From,
Love, I feel like I’m passing out third grade Valentine’s Day cards (and not in that ironic way), and
sincerely
sounds neither sincere nor friendly. So, though I’ve only gotten as far as scripting a letter to Jacob in my head, I haven’t committed the words (or anything else, for that matter) onto paper. I’m using not knowing how to sign it as my excuse. Besides, Jacob’s still in Europe, pouting in France or doing whatever it is people do in Belgium — and I’m here.

Here being a train en route from Boston to Providence to visit Brown University-attending Lila Lawrence (AKA Shiny Perfect Blonde Girl). After summering in Newport, I’m sure Lila’s a tan ten, and probably she’s been granted an enormous suite with other freshmen of her ilk (emphasis on ill). But I have to say, I’m psyched to see her. Since I pretty much lived in the editorial offices of
Music Magazine
this summer, staring out at a New York City I hardly ever got to experience, I’ve been missing actual human contact. Sure, there were other people in the office with me, but they were mainly of the tank-topped and toned hip set (of which, despite my internship, I was not considered one) and then forty-year-old editors who never knew who I was. One of them actually called me
Thingy
(ie “You there — Thingy — could you just run out and get me a soy macchiato?” or — even better — to the infamously cool guy rock star from Northern England whose wallet wound up lost in an uptown cab, “Don’t worry about canceling the cards — just have Thingy do it.”

Hi, I’m Thingy I wanted to say when I came back to Boston with my crumpled clothing (can I just say how much doing laundry is NOT like in those sexy ads where hot boys always seem to lurk by the fabric softener machines?). Back at my house, Dad was as remote as I’d ever seen him; tucked in his study filing papers or just sitting there at his desk.

“Hello?” I’d tried standing in the doorway, shifting my weight and scuffing the hardwood floors to get him to turn around, but he hadn’t. Finally, I went over to him and hugged his shoulders.

He tipped his head back to face me. “Hi, Love.” I’ve lived with my father and no one else for all of my nearly seventeen years, and I can honestly say that I’d never heard his voice so drained. Not even last year when I’d been in trouble at school, not even when I’d pissed him off by repeatedly wanting information abut my mother, not even in our early years before his somewhat cushy position as headmaster at Hadley Hall.

“Want to tell me about it?” I asked, trying to be the parent in an after school special (worst title ever =
Is Jenny Smoking The Dope? No, Jenny, Don’t do it!
— Lila and I found the grainy video from 1981 in the library last year — this summer, we reenacted it when I’d visited her in Newport, though substituting “The Pot” with one of her mother’s clove cigarettes, in a 1920s Art Deco holder, no less).

Dad didn’t pick up on my light tone. Instead, he turned back to his desk, shuffled through some papers and — when he saw me snooping over his shoulder — turned whatever he was reading face down. “Are you going to the Vineyard with Mable?” he asked. “It’s so nice there this time of year.” His face had that look of remembering something, but he didn’t offer to share whatever was mulling around in his mind.

I shook my head. “I was going to, but Lila’s got her second weekend at Brown — classes don’t start until Tuesday, so I thought it’d be…”

He cut me off, which — being a principle and convinced students and teenagers will spill their guts without being asked if they’re just allowed to ramble — he hardly ever does. “Well, have fun.”

“So I can go?” He didn’t even mention the lack of supervision, the fact that I’m a soon-to-be Junior heading off for a college weekend. I didn’t wait for him to reconsider.

Outside my Amtrak train’s window, Providence is in view. I don’t mean providence, like some devine intervention, but I’m not ruling that out. I mean the little city south of Boston, population 173618 (10.34% in the 15–19 year old age bracket — yes, I do spend far too much time on line with my God of choice, Google, but what can you do).