Principles of Love (3 page)

“Cordelia, as in one of King Lear’s daughters, and a fac brat just like you.”

She rattles off other information — about me, my dad, the house (turns out the heart-shaped door knocker was put on by some old headmistress who died a spinster, so not a lot of romantic omen there).

“I’m Love,” I say, even though Cordelia knows this already. And before she can make some joke about it, I add, “Bukowski. Love Bukowski.”

That’s the trick of my name — I say Love, visions of cuteness — but when followed by Bukowski, I’m safe from cliché.

“Bukowski as in Charles?” Cordelia asks. I’m impressed — most people don’t know who he was.

“No relation to the poet, although I like his stuff.”

“Love is a Dog from Hell,” Cordelia twists her fingers into her messy ponytail of dark curls and recites Bukowski in a poetic voice, proving she’s not just making an empty reference.

I grin. “Nice to meet you, too.”

The next morning, Cordelia’s at my bedroom door knocking before nine, courtesy of my dad’s attempt at getting me a new friend.

I let her in while I’m washing my face. Dressed in low-slung khakis, tiny tee-shirt and flip-flops, Cordelia’s the essence of preppy casual.

“I’ve been here forever,” she says. “Born here — not in this room, but down the street. Never lived anywhere else but campus.” She looks at me. “Not that I’m going to name my first kid Hadley Hall or something, but I do like it here.”

I nod, rummaging through my as-yet-unpacked bags for a clean shirt.

“Dress sexy,” Cordelia puts on a voice, “Today’s the Welcome Picnic after all. I’m totally kidding, of course. No one gives a shit how you dress — that’s the plus side of boarding life.” I layer a tee-shirt over my tank top and then strip it off, grabbing a faded blue zip-up sweatshirt instead.

“All set?” I say, hinting we should leave my room though I have no idea where we’ll go.

Cordelia stands up and stretches, eyeing my sweatshirt. “Ooh looks like a cast-off. Do tell.” I stare at her. “Cast-off, you know as in used to be your boyfriend’s clothing but now yours.”

We walk through the living room and the kitchen, and I peer into my dad’s empty study. On his desk, papers are already heaped into mini-skyscraper towers, folders piled up, and the photograph of me as a sticky-faced kid holding a lollypop graces the middle of the mess.

“Yes,” I say to Cordelia once we’re outside. “This is a cast-off.” I tie the shirt around my waist and explain the bland nature of my freshman year unromance with Paul Paulson.

“What were his parents thinking?” she asks when she hears his name. “I mean vulgar poets like Bukowski and clichéd Shakepearean fodder not included, don’t they know they were dooming him?”

“I know — it’s worse — just like his name, everything about him was the same. Day in, day out. He called every night at seven exactly, sent me notes twice a week, emailed and IM’d on Wednesdays and Fridays.”

“Jesus, were you dating or playing secretary?” Cordelia leads us down the back trail through the shady woods in back of the gym. “Boring.”

He was so boring that once when we were kissing, I thought of all the synonyms for boring: uninteresting, tedious, dull, lackluster, dreary, mind-numbing, monotonous, humdrum, uninspiring. Not words I’d like to associate with romantic aspirations of lust, love, desire, flirtation, or connection.

The smallest girls’ dorm, Fruckner (common campus slang according to Cordelia=frucked her. Commonly accepted question “did you two fruck?”), sits perched on the edge of campus. Cordelia brings me inside and I meet a gaggle of girls readying for the picnic. Without make-up and in old jeans, comfy sweaters, and mere slicks of lip gloss, they all look beautiful, and I wonder if I stick out. Maybe a bit. Maybe it’s just in my psyche. I need a sign to warn visitors or just myself,
beware of own brain
.

One girl, Sienna, marks something in her magazine and Jessica speaks up, “I’d go with answer B — definitely.”

“Me, too,” says another.

I look to see what they’re doing — it’s a glossy magazine quiz titled “
Are you happy?
” And I can’t help but feel that if you need to take a test to find out, you probably aren’t.

“We’ll see you guys later!” Cordelia says. I smile and nod, following her outside and back onto the dorm path that connects one side of campus to the other. We walk in silence for a while and Cordelia says, “There are lots of different types of people here, Love — some brains, some Lip Glossers, some alternas, some preppy kids who are the fifth Hadley Hall generation — but the boundary lines are blurry.”

I wait for her to say more. She doesn’t. She’s given me some basics, I guess, and I have to fill in the blanks.

I stop to tie my sneaker. Through a clearing in the brush, I can see Whitcomb, one of the boys’ dorms. I haven’t had a chance yet to commit to memory the vast number of academic buildings and dorms, but I know Whitcomb since it’s the closest to my house — directly across the street. Near the patio in back, two guys fling a Frisbee back and forth.

“Hurry up,” Cordelia says.

I finish tying my lace, but notice that one of the Frisbee tossers is the incredibly beautiful guy I’ve seen around campus. He’s got that prep school hair that refuses to stay out of his eyes, full mouth, but not so full he’d Saint Bernard-kiss you, and the physique of — I’m pathetic. I need to stop. I stand up, wishing I were alone so I could stare and long from afar.

“Where are we going, anyway?” I ask.

“Whitcomb — for a small matter of business,” Cordelia says. “Then for a brief appearance at the Welcome Picnic.” Every time she mentions the picnic, Cordelia puts on a Stepford Wife face and semi-salutes.

The boys’ dorms face east on campus, making one half of an arc on the far side of campus. The girls’ dorms are flush on the other side, with all the dining hall, theatre, arts center, and academic buildings in the middle. It’s as if whoever planned the property had the segregation of sexes in mind, even though the school used to be all boys. Whitcomb is the largest of the dorms, three floors of testosterone, shirtlessness, cell phones, and various musical tastes blaring from the windows.

Cordelia marches over to some boys in front and motions for me to come with her. There’s a bunch of gesturing I don’t understand, a couple of hello hugs, including one for me from some guy Cordelia will later describe as a Mlut, one of the Hadley Hall Male Sluts. Still, it feels nice to be included. We’re in the common room when Cordelia announces she’s “getting parietals” from the dorm parent. I know from going over the Hadley Hall handbook with my dad that this is a fancy way of saying she’s getting written permission to go upstairs into a boy’s room. There are really funny/stupid rules like you can be in the room, but not have the door closed, and you have to have three feet on the floor at all times (obviously, not one person’s three feet — that’d be highly unusual — but I suppose this is meant to keep two people from, uh, lying down).

I’m left sitting in a worn-in leather chair. In front of me, the empty fireplace looks like a hollow mouth. Logs are stacked next to the grate for far-off winter nights, and I wonder what life will be like then. Just as I’m thinking this, the hot guy comes into the cool darkness and rushes over to me, leaning down to give me a slightly sweaty hug. Yum. He backs up and looks at me.

“Sorry — my eyes are out of whack in here — I thought you were someone else.” He stands there for a second, politely waiting for me to introduce myself, but my mind is flipping through inappropriate responses (oh my god I love you, do me now, hey — get some Right Guard — no, wait — don’t) and my body is still reeling from his sweat.

Cordelia comes down the stairs two at a time and hot guy wanders off, playing catch with his balled up shirt. “We’re all set,” Cordelia says, and pulls me up from the chair and my hot-boy stupor.

“Get ready for a J. Crew catalogue montage,” Cordelia says and I don’t know what she’s talking about until I see the Science Center lawn, bannered and bright with plaids, khakis, shrunken cable sweaters and tank tops, faculty in their Hadley Hall blue blazers. Perfectly-highlighted blondes (“I used some lemon juice at the beach” is a line I hear not once but four times in an hour) and well-formed guys high-five and catch up on summer situations.

“All we need are a bunch of slobbery dogs,” I say. And, as if on cue, shaggy golden retrievers and muddy brown Labradors weave in an out of our legs in search of hot dog ends and burger buns. “I see my dad.”

“Meet me by the creepy fish statue in an hour,” Cordelia says. I know the landmark she means — it’s at the back of the old health center. Some alumni artist famous for his murals finally succumbed to the Hadley Hall pressure to donate his work — only he gave some sculpture he’d done while actually at Hadley. My dad says the kids make fun of it, and that seniors decorate it every graduation, but I don’t mind it — it’s like a metal fish trying to jump out of its iron ocean. The times I’ve jogged past, I’ve wondered if the fish is meant to be escaping from its metal pool or jumping up in a vain attempt to capture some prize that’s nowhere to be found.

“This is my daughter, Love,” Dad says over and over again and I try to eat watermelon while being introduced. Several students say hi and I’m half-in, half-out of conversations, mainly floating from group to group, swatting mosquitoes away.

I hate the feeling of being on show. It’s like I’m a pet or a diversion, like a newborn or something. The academics have to pay a little attention to me out of politeness to my father, but I can tell most are none too fascinated by yet another young woman, starting out at Hadley, even if she — that’d be me — is the headmaster’s daughter.

“Love, this is Mrs. Gabovitch,” Dad says and I shake hands with the nearest conception of a hippy I’ve ever encountered.

“Wow,” Mrs. Gabovitch says. “What a great vibe you have.” She waves her hands over the air in front of me and I wonder if she’s kidding then decide quickly she’s not. “I expect great things from you, Love.” She tucks her silky scarf into her gauzy blue and green mottled top. Five of her could fit in the outfit. “I’m dance, by the way.”

This is how all the teachers introduce themselves. “George Philanopolous, History.” “Margie Kempner, Physics.” How would I sum up myself?

I notice that little by little certain kids drift away from the picnic and don’t come back. There’s still a big crowd, some parents, kids, and teachers, but I tell my dad I’ll see him later. He nods and mouths
your name here
. I say it back.

Cordelia grabs me and tells me to run — our ride’s about to leave. Without asking where we’re going, I pile on top of random laps in the back of someone’s Volvo. Against highway safety recommendations and my own recent Driver’s Ed knowledge, we hunch untethered, driving past the campus outskirts until right when I think my head will pop through the ceiling and we stop. Everyone filters out.

Our destination turns out to be Josh Bradenford’s house, some upper classman who hosts regular parties. I wander from room to room with Cordelia alternating back-to-school hugs and explaining the Hadley Hall dating chain to me — who dated or hooked up or slept with, or wants to date, and so on. Beer sloshes from plastic cups decorated with out-of-date slogans; Happy Birthday, St. Patty’s Day Charm, Aloha, etc. I take a couple sips from a Happy Fifth Birthday cup and feel decidedly un-fifth birthdayish.

“Hey,” this plus a nod from the hot boy who hugged me.

“Hey,” I say back. I managed to speak! I’m improving.

“It’s starting you guys!” comes a voice — and instantly herds of people moo their way to the back deck where four Twister boards are set up. I watch as simultaneous games of Drunken Twister are played. Excuses for the stray-hand-on-breast routine, the occasional break in the game to puke over the rail, and lots of sit-com style laughter and groping.

Later, Cordelia finds me in the house, getting juice from the fridge. In the summer, I used to babysit and after the kids were asleep, I’d make some dinner and hang out like I lived in the house by myself. I had sort-of the same feeling now, minus being in charge of toddlers. I felt the urge to clean up after people, to put the house in order, to do
something
other than make an ass out of myself.

“What’s up?” Cordelia’s swaying slightly, and tips some beer on her hand. “Good for the skin, don’t you know.”

“I thought that was oatmeal,” I say.

“What’s oatmeal?”

“No, oatmeal being good for your skin,” I explain. Cordelia stumbles into some guy and it’s clear she’s more than a little drunk. “You okay?”

Cordelia gives an exaggerated nod then slowly shakes her head. “No. Actually, no.”

I look around for anyone I vaguely recognize and find hot boy, who I pull aside and ask for a ride. “I’m a boarder,” he says, “No car.” But when I explain he just says to meet him out front. I pull Cordelia along and load her into someone’s car. During the quick ride, hot boy sings along to Crosby, Stills, and Nash, out of tune, but with the right lyrics, even the Spanish ones. Impressive. Though not quite as impressive as his physique. I believe the word I’m looking for is luscious.

“Hey,” he says suddenly looking back at me. “Don’t worry about Cordelia.”

“Okay,” I say, aware that I still will.

“She does this every year,” hot boy shakes his head. “Never learns.”

I take this to mean he disapproves of binge-drinking (good) and hasn’t fallen for Cordelia’s feminine charms (also good) but thinks of me as Brick — a worrier (possibly not good). We arrive back at the faculty housing ten minutes later. Cordelia stumbles to the lawn and lies down.

“Thanks,” I say to the driver. And then I look at hot boy. In the movie scene, he’d get out of the car and stay with me and after we’d cleaned up Cordelia, we’d sit on the night lawn and talk and connect and kiss. But he gives me only a nod and adds, “Get some sleep — have a good one.” I always wonder what that means — a good day? A good year? A good soda? A good life? We’ll see. Then they drive off.

After I set Cordelia up in her room with a trash can, water, and Tylenol, I head home. From outside the house, I can see my father in his study. Does he look at the photo of me as a kid and wonder where the time went? Or does it feel natural as you get older, that days slip by until everything you know seems different, and suddenly you’re you — in your life, with a kid or not, a job or not, love — or not. I’m being Brick here, I know, and Aunt Mable would tell me to take a breath, but when I do — I inhale a mosquito and need to hack it up. Typical.