Principles of Love (9 page)

Already there are eight, maybe ten people — mostly underclassmen like myself, mostly girls and film freaks. Harriet Walters give me a feminist salute and waves me over. I sit next to her down towards the front and compliment her newly silver-fringed hair.

“Very Debbie Harry,” I say.

“Cool,” she says. I drum the beat to
Heart of Glass
on my knees, picking at the mustard drops on my shirt hem.

Enter Robinson (no, not my plea for virginity-loss, though it could be — more a stage direction). He comes in from the emergency exit (or as Prince or Led Zep would say,
in through the out door
) and pushes up the sleeves on his wooly sweater. He’s got that guy in autumn look down — with worn-in jeans and an oversized knitted sweater (probably listed in the catalogue with a color name like
storm cloud
or
Atlantic grey
). The kind of top that’s made for girlfriends (not Friend-Girls) to steal.

Robinson gives his intro about the translation process of making a novel into a film, and gives some examples of success (
The Godfather
,
The Age of Innocence
,
Lord of the Rings
) and, in his opinion, some failures (
The Remains of the Day
,
I Capture the Castle
). I’m right there with him, listening and even forgetting that he’s the best-looking, most magnetizing person I’ve encountered thus far until he — in the middle of deconstructing a clip from
Gone with the Wind
(a battle scene, lots of rotting bodies in a field) — slips his sweater off, balls it up, and chucks it to me with a wink. All thoughts of film, literature, and coherency are momentarily out the proverbial window. I hold the item of clothing in my lap like it’s a gift from an on-stage rock star, then feel pathetic and discard it. Then I think that’s rude, so I pick it up and drape it carefully on the seat next to me. Would he care if I took it? I picture myself somewhere — some cobblestone street in London, some cityscape in New York, wearing the sweater while holding his hand.

And it is of course at this very moment that the door swings open and down the steps trots field hockey girl. I wave to her but she’s past my aisle already, past all the rows of seats, right up to the front. She doesn’t stop until she reaches Robinson and with mercury-style fluidity, puts her arms around him and they kiss. Deeply. And then a peck to seal the deal.

Field hockey girl is —

“Hi, sorry,” Robinson pseudo-blushes. “I’m sure you all know Lila Lawrence, my girlfriend.” We sure do. Now.

Then, as I’m sitting with a sweater I’m sure Lila’s been naked in, she comes and plants herself in the chair next to me. She takes Robinson’s sweater, drapes it over her shoulders twin-set style and says, “Thanks for saving me a seat.”

Reading and underlining my Howard Zinn text for history class, I’m taking advantage of a free period and relishing what is sure to be one of the final warm days of fall. Soon, the leaves will drop and so will the temperature, banishing us to indoor studying. Right now though, the scene in front of me is perfect prep school, with guys draped over their sophomore girlfriends, heads in laps, fingers in hair. Couples sunbathe back onto their backpacks. Pro-SPFers shield their faces with books and marked-up papers, and I sit observing all this. Not apart in a bad way, just slightly distanced. I count how many senior-sophomore couples there are and come up with eleven.

“Fourteen,” Cordelia corrects me when she slings her bag onto the lawn next to me and perches herself on top. “It’s the perfect situation, really.”

“Home court advantage?” I say, not entirely sure what this means in this context, but my dad’s always using sports analogies to get his point across.

“Yeah, kind of. Like, it’s just really typical, because in the end, the senior goes away and is free and there’s no real thought of being together past the graduation parties. Pretty much Vineyard Cove is the break-up point.”

“Sounds superficial, but not totally bad,” I say. “And what is Vineyard Cove?”

“Ah,” Cordelia raises her eyebrows. “A beach on the North Shore — it’s where many a final party, and a final fuck take place.”

Got it. Note to self: would I go, given the chance? Sex on the beach, aside from being a cheesy bar drink, sounds — well, grainy. But I digress.

With Cordelia, and of course now with Lila Lawrence — and Robinson — I haven’t really let my guard down. Maybe I’ve taken a couple of bricks off the top, but no crumbling. That is, except with my email pen pal, DrakeFan, who is a daily part of my life even though I am not and have no intentions of trying out for his band. Being completely natural around Hadley Hall campus comes in fits and starts — a joke slides out unedited or I just blather away about books and movies in Mr. Chaucer’s class, but there’s still my inner-feeling of being on the periphery of it all. And maybe this isn’t something that’s done to me — rather, I’ve been wondering lately if I do this to myself. Either as coping mechanism or safety measure. This is what I write tonight to DrakeFan. As usual DrakeFan writes back long enough afterwards to let me know he’s read my mail and digested it, but fast enough to reassure me that I didn’t bore him too badly.

“Love,” Mr. Chaucer says when I go to collect my Buffy meets Powerful Women paper back from him today. “I’d like you to consider applying for the Hadley Hall English contest.” He explains how it’s an annual thing — with two prizes, one a series of books about how to find your writing voice and the top prize having an essay published in an-alumni magazine. I thank him and say that I’ll think about it, but I know I won’t. The whole thing sounds too blue-blazer bound and old boy networky to be for me. Probably the essay gets published in WASP Weekly or Old Money Magazine, read by no one but Hadley Hall trustees.

Just when I need a pick-me-up I get news that I might have a life, a glimmer of hope in my small high school world. No, I didn’t win a date with Robinson Hall (or any other would-be glam Hollywoodesque boy)… but I rock. I rock and record and am now the official, local voice (at least for this one ad) of Pizza Plus, the chain of
thin-crust in half the time
pizza places around Boston. At WAJS, I stand with headphones on and sing the opening line.

“Ohh…sausage,” I say, and it comes out kind of like a moan. Hard-core blushing on my behalf. Then I talk my way to extra cheese (
oh, it’s melting
!) and special toppings (
roasted red peppers, just like in Tuscany
!), but then I fuck up the part about double-size, half-time, golden brown and have to start over. After four takes, I get it, but go back and “sultrify” the talking part. During playback, I cringe, listening to my voice sound like I want to be naked with the dough. But the studio head pipes in on my headphones with, “Nice work, Love.” And gives me a nod. I feel for a second like I’m on my own reality show!

Ohhhhh, cheese!
I think to myself on the way out of the station. Yeah, that’s perfect. I could be the only woman to have her first serious sexual experience with a bread and mozzarella product. Charming. But since WAJS seems pleased with my work, and I’m going home with at least one commercial on my demo reel, I just don’t care about giving innuendo to carbs. If all goes well, next weekend I’ll come back for another advertisement. This time — for, yes, say it with me —
feminine protection
…the blessed maxi-pad ad.

I stir the granules of sugar into my decaf (decaf = don’t want to be tossing and turning at night any more than I already am with impossible thoughts of stumbling upon Robinson in a half-dressed situation, not to mention the outline for my history term paper due in two days) and manage to walk my over-filled cup to my favorite spot in Slave to the Grind. The double-sized chair is wedged into the front right corner of the shop, and from where I sit I can see the other coffee customers and still have a street view. This time of year, people are picking up their paces, hurrying from one store to the next, tucking scarves into their coats. The leisure feeling of summer and early autumn has drifted away with tan lines.

I watch a woman with a girl I assume to be her daughter. The daughter shows the mom how to loop her long scarf through and tuck it in a la a Benetton ad, and the mother returns the favor by fixing the girl’s hair. Tiny moments like this make me feel like I’m stealing something from strangers — maternal comforts or efforts. Not that I know what I’m missing, because I really don’t. And when I’m honest with myself, it’s more the idea of not having a clue as to the story of me that is bothersome, rather than, say, not having a mom to listen to my guitar strumming or tell me about dating in her day. I have my dad, and he’s more than enough — plus Mable — and they’ve both been with me from overalls to my first date. But there’s something to be said for missing what you don’t know; a mom, a certain boy you like but can’t have, or even a part of yourself.

I go for a refill and burn my wrist on the huge brass cappuccino maker. The welt comes up in the shape of a distorted pumpkin smile, crooked and eerily grinning up at me. With Halloween two days away, I wonder whether this is an omen of some kind.

Song of the moment:
Fooled Around and Fell in Love
, the 1977 classic by Elvin Bishop. From the first twangy chords, I know I’m going to love this next Time/Life CD — they never fail to disappoint. Unlike certain other aspects of my teenage life. I have neither fooled around nor fallen in love (lust, maybe) with Robinson Hall despite numerous encounters in the hallways, lawns, and academic centers of this fine institution. Sadly, I am now in the bizzaro-world position of being sort-of friends with him (hall friends, no pun intended — not Hall friends — but the kind of friend you talk to in passing but aren’t calling to talk to at night) and getting to know Lila much better. And I wish her arachnid legs and Sleeping Beauty locks betrayed her, but they don’t. She’s still fun and cool and great at making an ass of herself (for example, she will stuff her shirt with oranges at lunch and look like the citrus Pamela Anderson or, on a dare, write a paper on the erotic undertones of the Gettysburg Address).

All this friendship leaves me and my chest organ (that’s heart to the biological-knowledge impaired among us) in a state of palpitations. So far, I’ve opted for the Love Bukowski technique of doing…nothing. Three cheers for being proactive! Good thing there are no cheerleaders at Hadley; they sure as hell wouldn’t seek me out for the squad (short for squadron, which I find weirdly militant and army-based for something that’s supposed to be about building people pyramids and school spirit — Give me a B for Brick!).

Not only are there no cheerleaders, there are no pep rallies, no typical high school things. No lockers. There are antique desks in two enormous social halls (segregated by sex, but only for morning assemblies) that were built in the early eighteen-hundreds, and at the beginning of freshman year (or whenever you start Hadley) you get assigned a desk that remains yours until graduation. Actually, until precisely two hours after the graduation ceremony at which point the campus cleaning crew (the CCC — as in, “Shit, I spilled my beaker of semi-poisonous liquids in IPS lab — better call the CCC”) comes and empties the contents into a massive pile outside Grainsburg Hall. According to Lila, students wind up ravaging the remains for CDs, text books, and incriminating evidence — love notes and such — and then all that’s left are rectangles of stale gum and dried up pens; the debris of all the years of academic gain and sweat.

So for the moment, I am sitting at my desk (halfway back and towards the window side of the room), studying the black streak I’ve put at the front of my hair in honor of Halloween. Lila and I went to the drugstore yesterday and, on a bit of a chocolate and marshmallow pumpkin high, bought one of those spray on costume dyes. I could say it looks lame, but I think we both look kind of cool. Not that I didn’t notice the eye-rolls from her field hockey teammates whose idea of non-conformity and fun is shaving instead of waxing.

When morning assembly starts, Cordelia and Lila and Harriet, accompanied on guitar by Mr. Chaucer and Quiet Jacob from class, do an acoustic version of “Birthday” by the Beatles.

“You say it’s your…” Lila starts. Lila’s in the girls’ octet group and has a great voice, despite what she said to me originally back in Slave to the Grind when I didn’t know who she was.

“Birthday!” Cordelia chimes in. Cordelia’s strength is her stage presence, and Jacob and Mr. Chaucer ham it up — and all for me! At the very end, Robinson Hall makes a guest appearance and does a ridiculous falsetto, and smiles broadly at me. It’s so weird to see these people I’ve only known for a couple of months acting silly and singing for me. But I’m glad, relieved, to be honest, since it was entirely conceivable that I’d wind up friendless or forgotten amongst the prep school mobs.

“Happy birthday, Love!” The group ends their skit and assembly resumes with notices of sports and language sectionals, required attendance at various functions — I’m not listening, just thinking about being born and being here.

I am sixteen. Sixteen and seven hours, having been born (according to my dad) at two-thirty in the morning during a wind storm that swept electrical wires onto the streets and caused one of the biggest power outages in East Coast history.

“So in honor of all the energy that went from the city of Boston’s supply right into you,” Dad says in the dining hall. “I give you your own mode of power…sadly non-electric, but…” He reaches into his pocket and produces a small box. I carefully tear at the paper and open it up. On top of the square of cotton wool are three T tokens.

“Subway fare?” I ask, trying to sound grateful.

“Look underneath,” Dad says. I lift up the cotton and find one of the most beautiful items in the world — a car key. And not just any car key, the black-topped Saab key that’s dangled from Mable’s key chain forever.

“The Saab?” I ask.

“It’s rusting and has nearly a hundred thousand miles on it, but it’s all yours,” Dad says. I can tell he’s proud of himself for fooling me with tokens and keeping this a surprise. “The tokens are just in case you ever need to leave the car or want a reminder of your past transportation mode.”