Principles of Love (6 page)

“John Mayer is NOT obscure,” I say, clearing our paper cups and reaching, yet again, for my schedule.

“Whatever,” Cordelia stands up. She does what I call girl maneuver #2 (#1 being hair flip with a giggle), the yawn-stretch combo that makes her sweater ride up just slightly so it shows a good three inches of mid-riff skin, then coyly tugs it down. Up until right then, I’d wanted to invite her to come to Slave to the Grind, Aunt Mable’s coffee house, this afternoon, but I decide against it. Cordelia is fine — and I’m grateful for her company and Hadley Hall expertise, but she’s never going to be the friend I’ve always wanted. “See you later?” she asks.

“Of course,” I say, and head off in search of French III, then American History, and then — a subway ride to relief — the latte lounge at Slave to the Grind.

“You again?” this from Robinson Hall, who gracefully claps my airborne schedule between his palms (oh, to be born a piece of paper) and hands it to me.

“Thanks — I’d be lost without this,” I stick the schedule in my bag and pull a couple of strand of copper-colored hair in front of my eyes. A nervous habit. Robinson waves to a group of girls — Cordelia included — who wave back, and clearly make note of him talking to me. Great — now I can be the subject of Hadley Hall tongue-wagging, without any of the glory and fun of actual tongue-wagging.

“Let me know if you need me to be your map,” he says and walks off, feet shuffling along the brick-edged path. Be my map? He could be my foot fungus and that’d be swell.

The language classes are held in the rotunda — a huge, yes, round, building with an open top (where the bi-weekly conversationals take place) and rooms on the bottom (where the thrice-weekly classes are held). While waiting for French III (imagine! J’attend! = imagine, I’m
waiting
rather than showing up late) to start, I check out the bulletin boards. Announcements for the literary magazine, band tryouts, play auditions, and senior-taught electives flutter in the open-door inspired breeze. I’d like to do something extra, not just for college applications (since you can’t just list the 1970s lyrics I’ve committed to memory as counting for extracurricular activities).

I miss being in a band — I miss singing. I’m humming to myself (Chicago’s
Baby, What a Big Surprise
, if you must know — an Aunt Mable hand-me-down song that rocks) when I see the fine print on the senior elective ad. Extra credit, one night a week, cool subjects (Art as metaphor, Chocolate for Beginners, Fiction into Film — that one, I notice, is conveniently taught by R. Hall — must be Robinson Hall, my hottie, right?). So I put pen to paper, determined not to be “cut form the team” — out of my league indeed. We’ll see.

Friend-Girl — step aside. Girlfriend wants a shot at wearing the cape. Just for kicks, I also take down the email of a couple band members searching for lead singers. They all sound vaguely lame if you go by cheesy email monikers; Pianoman4, SinginDiva, GeetarGod, DrakeFan. I rip one off anyway, then I head to Francais.

At Slave to Grind, mellow tunes drift from the speakers, and hot cocoa laced with espresso drifts into my stomach. Aunt Mable sends over a caramel-coated graham cracker (she makes them herself) dotted with tiny chocolate chips and baby marshmallows — my own, indoor s’more.

“Do you mind if I take this?” a girl I recognize as one of the shiny field hockey players asks, gesturing with the sugar shaker. Quite frankly, it’s a relief to see a female other than me have an interest in real sugar as opposed to its various substitutes (I will puke if I hear one more thin girl mention the caloric-deficits she’s managed to accrue throughout the day — Look, ma, no fat! No Fun! No food!).

“Sure,” I say, “Sugar away.”

“It’s just so much better than the other fake shit,” she explains.

“Seriously,” I nod. “Nothing Splendid about Splenda.”

She sits near me and we proceed to make up alternate names for sugar-substitutes,
Tasti-lame
,
Air-honey
,
BullSugar
, then progress to Hadley Hall and what we did over the summer.

“I volunteered full-time at this shelter, The Umbrella Project, you know, like everyone deserves to be under one umbrella, dry and with a home.”

“Sounds interesting,” I say. “Was it a good experience? I think if I did that I’d have a really hard time separating at the end of the day.”

“Tell me about it,” she swallows hard and plays with a strand of her perfect hair. “I’d be around these girls with nothing, no one, no support and then I’d go home and my slightly psycho mother would be like, ‘do you want to get a massage this weekend or a pedicure?’ and I’d sit in my room feeling guilty.”

Hard to believe she’s so untrue to her stunning blondeness and tall-glass-of-water body. If she weren’t so genuine and nice — at least so far — she’d be hugely annoying.

She tells me about the young moms, the street life, the fastest way to make lasagna in bulk (don’t pre-cook the noodles, just add a big can of diced tomatoes).

I tell her about moving to Hadley. “I got totally lost this morning.”

“Campus hazard, without a doubt.”

I reminisce with my own sad self about sexy Robinson and then reenter reality. “Luckily, someone showed me the way.”

Oh my God — I love this song!” she blurts out and then hits herself in the forehead. “Could I sound any dorkier?”

“Perfect Way,” I say to let her know I know the song, too. I say, “Now this is truly an eighties classic — so underrated.”

She agrees and we sing along for a verse or two and then she stands up to go. “You have a really good voice.”

“Thanks,” I say.

“Don’t say ‘
you do, too
’, because I know I suck.” She does, but she’s fun. “You can’t have everything.”

Later, when she’s left to go to varsity practice, I realize I haven’t even asked her name. But at least she’s proof that good conversation and potential good friends are out there. And that, no, you can’t possibly have it all. Right?

When the caffeine-crazed crowds thin out, Aunt Mable comes over and plops down next to me.

“Ah, Hester Prynne,” she eyes my
Scarlet Letter
, “The ultimate in misunderstood women.”

“It’s good so far,” I say. “My enjoyment is only slightly marred by the fact that I have to finish almost the whole thing in a matter of days.”

Mable nods. As the light outside starts to fade, I’m suddenly glad Hadley Hall has the somewhat moronic policy of starting classes on a Friday. Maybe the administration knows just how fatiguing first days inevitably are, and how a weekend is necessary to regroup.

“My dad’s working late tonight,” I say. “Any chance of getting a ride back?”

Mable looks around, and nods. “Sure — but let’s order Chinese first. I have a General Gao’s craving like you wouldn’t believe.”

“And lo mein?”

“But of course,” Mable says. “But you’ll have to sing for your dinner!” She does this all the time — makes me belt out embarrassing show tunes (example =
You’re Never Fully Dressed without a Smile
) or Miss America-style ballads in the voice of her choosing.

“If you insist.” I dramatically clear my throat.

“Do the Mattress Discounter’s ad — but in faux British!” I put on my Gwyneth Paltrow as Emma voice — all upper-crust and flouncy dress — and sing the bargain sleepware tune. Mable’s so impressed she begs me for more, “Make up one about this place.” She commands so I improv jingles about Slave to the Grind, alternating vocal style somewhere between Stevie Nicks and Gwen Stephanie in the early days of No Doubt. Mable claps and goes to the back of the cappuccino bar to call Peking Dynasty for delivery.

When she comes back, a man in a coat and tie approaches us. First I think he’s going to ask Mable for her number, which would be great since she totally deserves a love life, but then he turns to me — which I first think is pervy — until he hands both of us his business card which reads blah blah blah
voice-over productions WAJS
.

“You’ve clearly got what it takes — or will,” he says to me, “call me if you’re interested in recording some ads.” It’s my very own American Idol moment, with no Simon in sight — me, Love Bukowski, on the radio! Hawking pizzas, selling shoes — singing my little inexperienced heart out about dog food. Sign me up.

In the car ride back, Aunt Mable and I drive in comfortable quiet. Then we play a quick round of Radio Love Gods in the driveway. I turn the volume down and say, “This is from…” Mable waits patiently. “Robinson Hall to me.” When the volume is up again, the station is in the middle of an emergency broadcasting tests — one of those offensive, loud, insistent beeps.

“Oops,” Mable says.

“Forget it,” I say. “It’s not worth it.” I switch it off. She won’t ask and therefore I offer up my who-is-Robinson tale. This leads us into a brief discussion of senior-sophomore love and lust.

“I loved dating seniors!” Mable gushes. “Burke — Burke, um, wait — I’ll remember in a second.”

“Burke Fredrillo,” I say, reminding her.

“How pathetic — my niece has more of my memories than I do.”

“You’ve told me a bunch of times,” I say smiling. “Burke, Burke, first prom and then a jerk.” That was the little song Mable had made up to get over her dumpage after said prom.

“Yeah, fine, you tell me your news then.”

“Nothing, really. Maybe nothing. Maybe potential.”

“Oh, check out the vagueness with which Love speaks! Means trouble’s a-brewing.”

I push her shoulder and grimace. “No, no, nothing good.”

“Well, speak for yourself!” Mable smacks her lips and turns to me. “I just might have a fix-up. My bean supplier…” she looks at my face and interrupts herself. “Shut up, seriously, it gets harder to meet people when you’re older. I don’t have a hottie in a dorm to drool over. Anyway, my bean supplier has a bean supplier — and blah blah blah, the coffee connection is strong — we’re all wired from too many shots of espresso.”

“So, who is the lucky latte lad?”

“Miles — Miles something or other. God help me remember the current names.”

We drift into quiet, each envisioning our own happy endings to imaginary dates and then I say, “I wish Dad weren’t alone.”

“Yeah?”

“I mean, I wish he’d date people.”

“He will,” Mable says, confident. “He needs time.”

“Hasn’t he had, like, a decade and a half?”

Mable doesn’t answer. Inevitably, because I poke and prod — the conversations turns to my mother. Or rather, my attempt at info-gathering about said non-maternal presence in my life.

Forever, my father’s point of view, and thus Mable’s (though I believe she would crack if given the chance), is that out of sight is out of mind. Either dead or gone, the woman who birthed me serves no role now, so the past isn’t worth dredging up. I should remind my dad of this when it’s American History exam time, and he goes on and on about how the past is so important. Apparently, only where dumping tea into Boston Harbor is concerned. Not in matters of maternal mystery.

Lying in bed, digesting the lo mein and the low-down on the day’s events, I think about identification; radio station i.d’s, name tags, nameless intros, building names, and emails for potential band-mates, and then drift off into a nameless void.

One of the weird parts of high school — and maybe this continues when you leave education or pre-20s life behind — I’ll have to see when I reach that stage — is the feeling that each day takes forever. The minutes from first light until the last IM at night stretch out like an eternity and yet, when I think back on entire years (freshman, for example), I can only recall one or two vivid moments, or a generic feeling that sums up the whole twelve months. Emotionally, each day brings cause for me to run the gamut between relatively calm and collected (not necessarily cool) to head-in-a-grey-cloud funk.

Each day can produce a huge range of feelings; security (Dad and I walk to school together), anxiety (still not entirely sure of where things are, so am either late or too-eagerly early), hormonal surge (Robinson waves from across the quad), minor depression (Robinson fails to see me two feet in front of his face at the snack bar), excitement (A- on
The Scarlet Letter
paper), confusion (where will I be in ten years, will I really need trig to function there?)…and so on.

And then there are days like today that seem minimally invasive to brain function and emotional well being. Thor the golden retriever (and when I say
the
I mean one of the plethora of retrievers that constitute the canine population of Hadley) has been barking at the acorn-gathering squirrels that congregate outside of my window, and now I’m used to it. I’m used to my view, too, of campus and the red and gold-hued leaves, the gentle smoke that wafts from Whitcomb’s chimney, the early runners — sometimes I am one of these. Classes are good, slowly I’m learning the lingo (DSG = day student girl, BG = border girl) and the codes of conduct (everyone dumps their bags under huge signs that say ‘do not place bags here’). Cordelia flits in and out of my daily routine, again — not the friend for life, but fun.

And I even have my first real confidante. As of two days ago, I am in cyberspace with
[email protected]
(and yes, I’m aware of the hot male/hotmail potential — then again, who signs up for free email at vileboy.com?). After staring at the emails I’d written down on the back of my French notebook, I chose to email DrakeFan, a musician whose email I plucked at random of the many on-campus bands. Actually, it wasn’t totally at random — it was the least obviously cheese-induced of the group — and I like a Drake’s Cake as much as the next person, so I figured I’d go ahead and see what music DrakeFan is into.

Even though my email was of the uninspired
I’m a singer
form, and I doubted I’d get a response, DrakeFan wrote back nearly instantaneously (praise be to the internet Gods). And not only that, DrakeFan managed to genuinely entice me to write back to him (also right away) with his verbal quips and tales of world travel. At this point, I don’t care who he really is — it’s just nice to have a daily (or more true to fact, nightly) email to look forward to. With just wires and enter buttons between us, it’s been easier (so far) to let my guard down — and a relief to be faceless, known only for my words.