The Chocolate Money (12 page)

“What?”

“What Holly thought about Bettina.”

“Oh, no, Dennis, it’s stupid.”

“No, it’s really funny if you think about it.”

I look at both of them: open faces, shining. Wait.

“When we got the card with your name on it, Holly thought you were related to Ballentyne chocolate. That you must have pots of money and live in a fancy apartment.” Donna starts to laugh.

Her presumption pisses me off. It’s true, of course, but it is my secret to tell. It’s not a
really funny
one, no matter how you think about it.

“I told Holly she would be lucky because your family would probably send you big care packages of chocolate. Chocolate is Holly’s favorite food. I make brownies every Sunday night, and by Tuesday morning, they’re always all gone.”

“Not true!” I turn to see Holly standing in a peach robe, her long brown hair dripping wet. She wears teal flip-flops and carries a metal bucket that holds all her bathroom amenities. She’s beautiful. I can’t believe she left her parents unattended. Trusted them to be alone with her things. Make first impressions on the people who will make or break her Cardiss experience.

“My favorite food is ice cream,
then
chocolate!” She laughs. I see that her wet hair is making small puddles on our wooden floor. She is shorter than I am, probably five-four to my five-seven, but she looks more developed. She has boobs and hips, while I do not. I’ve gotten my period, but I have still not achieved a woman’s body. My fat has not distributed itself into come-hither sexy parts. It’s as if my hormones have gone on strike.

Holly’s eyes are brown, like her hair. There is a lightness and sweetness in them that makes them pretty. She looks wholesome, pastoral. Like a character in a Hardy novel but no one I have ever seen in real life. She’s near enough that I can smell her shampoo. It has a fruitiness to it. Probably some variation of Herbal Essence that comes in a pink or green bottle with complementing conditioner. In France, you buy shampoo at the pharmacy. It’s so expensive you are only supposed to use it once or twice a week. I hardly even bother to do that. Instead, I wear a heavy mist of Coco perfume, but with my smoking, I never manage to smell clean the way Holly does, standing there with her parents.

“As for the brownies, Jenny helps.” Holly puts the bucket with her bathroom things on top of her dresser. Begins toweling off her hair. Her towel is white with pink trim, and I can tell by the crisp white color and the way the threads are not matted together that it is new. Bought especially for her Cardiss room. A reminder from her parents that she hasn’t been permanently exiled from her home in Iowa City. When she comes home, all of her old things, towels and sheets included, will be waiting for her.

I look at Holly and try to initiate a casual conversation even though we have not yet been introduced. I’m still pretty dismal when it comes to making friends with girls my own age.

“Is Jenny your sister?”

“Best friend,” Holly and her mom say in unison, then laugh at their synchronicity.

“Jenny and Holly have been best friends since kindergarten,” Donna continues. “I’m really surprised she didn’t sneak into the car with us. Holly has already written her twice since we left.”

I picture big bubbly writing and envelopes with stickers. Purple ink.

“Holly is going to bankrupt us with all that postage.”

“Mommy, stop! You keep blabbing on about me like I am not here.”

Mommy?
Is she fucking kidding? I have taken to swearing, speaking Babs’s language. At my age, it is not clumsy, awkwardly precocious. Instead, it gives me an edge.

But I can’t be completely cynical about Holly’s Mommy. I still don’t even get to say Mom when referring to mine. Suddenly I feel like I have been cruelly tricked. I thought the whole point of boarding school was that there were no parents.

Holly walks over. Gives me a hug. I’m somewhat stunned but hug her back. Her robe is damp, but her body is still warm from the shower. I want to put my head on her shoulder and just let it stay there. I am so tired. But I pull myself away. Sit down on my bed. I want,
need,
a cigarette but know Holly and her mommy will be horrified if I light up in the dorm room. This is probably one of the best thing about Babs. If she were there, I would go right ahead. She would join me and later we would laugh at this earnest family from Iowa.

Holly doesn’t seem to notice my change in mood. She confidently walks over and grabs my hand.

“Bettina, I’m so excited we are going to room together! It’s going to be the best!”

I add exclamation points and double underlines to my growing list of her epistolary faux pas with Jenny.

“Mom, let’s give her the present!” Holly points to her closet.

Holly’s mom winks and digs in the back of Holly’s clothes. Hands me a fat cardboard tube with a red bow. I go from being disdainful to completely ashamed. It never even occurred to me to bring something for Holly.
That’s my girl, self-absorbed as usual.
But it’s not like we’re at a birthday party. It’s the first day of school. Not standard practice, as far as I know, to bring a gift. Still, I could’ve easily bought something, anything, from the duty-free at Charles de Gaulle. A mini Eiffel Tower? A pack of cards? But these people don’t even know I spend my summers in France. Have the chocolate money to travel outside Illinois. Didn’t come by Greyhound to Boston but flew internationally and then took an eighty-dollar cab ride to get to school. But Jenny would have brought a gift, I know.

I undo the package. It is a three-by-five-foot hook rug in Cardiss colors, a big gray
B
for Bettina, I presume, rising from a background of maroon threads.

“Thank you,” I say with as much enthusiasm as I can muster. I’m not exactly sure what the fuck it is or what I am supposed to do with it.

Holly whips one out from another tube. It has a gray
H
on it.

“Aren’t they great? My mom made them herself.” She puts hers down on the floor beside her bed. “So our feet won’t get cold in the morning.”

I kneel and follow her lead.

“See, it’s just like being in a hotel!” she adds.

More like a Barbie House, if Barbie lived in a ranch and made her own curtains,
I think. But really, I’m touched.

“They are great,” I say slowly. “Thank you,” I add again, inanely. “I’m sorry, I didn’t . . .”

Holly’s mom grabs my shoulder. “Don’t you worry, my dear. We had fun doing it! Two are just as easy to make as one. What’s important is that you girls stick together. It’s going to be a lot of work this year, and I know there will be some richies who won’t be nice like you are. You’re going to need each other.”

Holly’s dad comes over to us and takes out his wallet. He pulls out two ten-dollar bills. Gives one to Holly and one to me.

I am mortified. Try not to take it. Shake my head and wave it away.

“Now, Bettina, this is nothing,” he says. “Just a little money so you can get a poster for the wall by your desk, and maybe some snacks at the Cardiss Grill.” He takes my hand and puts the money into it. No way I can give it back.

I have a thousand dollars in AmEx traveler’s checks stuck in the
Marie Claire
in my duffel. I know Holly will find out about the chocolate money eventually, and then she and her parents will hate me for taking their money. But I can’t think of a way to explain this to them. Say no. I decide to just take the ten dollars and give it back at a later point. Maybe when her parents leave, I’ll just tell Holly I can’t accept it. It’s way too much. Or I could use it to buy her something, the present I didn’t think to arrive with.

I set the money down on the empty wooden desk that is to be mine and say, “Thank you very much.” They all look at me strangely, and I realize I’ve made another faux pas. I’m supposed to put it in my pocket or safely tuck it in a wallet. Normal people don’t leave money lying around.

I pick up the ten quickly and stuff it in my duffel. I will not unpack the things I’ve brought until Holly’s parents have left.
Bonjour tristesse,
an ashtray in the shape of Sacré-Coeur, a carton of Marlboro Reds. The green bomber jacket I bought myself from a shop near the Sorbonne, the kind all the French students wear. I’m sure the strange foreign things I’ve brought will make them want to take back the hooked rug.

An hour later, when Mr. and Mrs. Combs are ready to leave, Holly and I walk down with them to their car. The green Jeep Cherokee has some dents in it. There are crumbs on the floor mats. In the back seat, there’s the September issue of
Glamour
that Holly must have read during the long car trip. Holly’s dad gives her a big hug and goes to work unlocking the door. Holly’s mom fishes in her bag, rooting through keys, breath mints, loose change, and lipstick to pull out a small pack of Kleenex. She puts her hand on the back of Holly’s neck and pulls her close. They touch foreheads. An alternative form of kissing, I suppose, a mark of togetherness. Holly’s part of her mom. First a tender plan, then a girl birthed and cared for.

Holly starts laughing and crying. She grabs her mom around the waist and puts her face on her shoulder. Holly’s mom’s chin quivers and she dabs at her eyes with a small piece of folded Kleenex. At first I feel the tiniest bit of contempt. I’ve never cried when saying goodbye to Babs. Not even when I was five and went to France for the summer for the first time. I thought I was just brave, more mature than other kids. Now I know it was because there was nobody to cry back.

I’d wanted to avoid this scene. Stay in the house and smoke a cigarette, but Holly’s parents insisted I come. They want a picture of the two of us in front of Bright House. Roomies on our first day of Cardiss. They will develop the film when they get home and put the picture on their fridge. Or Holly’s mom might even have it printed on a mug and take it to work with her, to whatever stupid job she spends her day doing. Holly and her mom break their embrace, both still crying and laughing. Holly grabs my hand, and we strike a pose against the door of Bright House.

Holly is wearing jeans and a maroon Cardiss sweatshirt with a hood. Her feet are still bare. It is almost five, but the sky is still light as day. I have yet to shower after my flight. Am still wearing the gray agnès b. T-shirt and black linen pants with black Converse low-tops that I pulled on over twenty-four hours ago. As Holly’s mom works to focus the camera, I realize I do want to be in this picture after all. I have never kept a friend for more than a year, but this beginning suddenly seems promising. Perhaps because it’s stripped of Babs, I have just a little bit of faith in it.

Holly puts her arm around my shoulder. Her parents seem a bit too friendly, but I remind myself that the Combs- es would’ve acted this way with whoever turned out to be Holly’s roommate. They’re just trying to provide Holly with some sort of insurance that her year will go well. Again, I feel very, very tired. I didn’t sleep on the flight. Have now been awake for what seems like two days. I smile for the picture, but it is all I can do to return their hugs goodbye. Some small part of me wishes that if I went back up to my room I’d find Babs there, making up my bed with sheets she bought from Marshall Field’s. Adorning my desk with a real leather blotter and pencil cup. Babs loves an opportunity to shop, and I can’t believe that she has passed this one up.

H
OLLY AND I GO
back up to our room and see that the door next to ours is open. We walk over to investigate, hover in the doorway. Two girls sit on the floor in the middle of the room, talking.

“I think I should just break up with him. It’s the beginning of the year and better to act before all the top guys get taken.”

“But he
is
a top guy. And you’ve only been dating five months. Plus it would piss off your parents.”

“I don’t care. I’m not going to date someone just because I’ve known him forever. That would be, like, pathetic. And I don’t do charity cases.”

“Cape is hardly a charity case. He’s one of the best-looking guys at school and he really likes you.”

They notice us, halt their conversation.

“Come in!” one of the girls says. We do, and I’m not sure whether we should sit or stand. Sitting seems to indicate an intimacy Holly and I don’t yet share with these girls, and standing just seems awkward, like we are at a cocktail party and have not been offered drinks. Better to err on the side of a flyby than to act like we know them, like we really belong. We stand.

The girl who invited us in has long blond hair, which is wet. She wears a white terry-cloth robe with the initials
KIM
monogrammed in light peach. She is very tan, a tan that suggests not lying in the sand but letting the sun chase you because you have lots of great things to do. Waterskiing. Sailing. Whacking a tennis ball with a taut racquet.

She has a pedicure. Not the do-it-yourself kind either. Her toes are immaculately painted a baby blue, the color of hydrangeas. The skin around her heels is smooth. She’s slathering her legs with a white cream. Her application is so generous that I can smell it where I am standing. Honey? Lavender? Unlike Holly, she isn’t just getting cleaned up for dinner. She is Getting Ready. I’m not sure what motivates her. A standard she generally maintains? The male population of Cardiss?

I wonder if there are many girls like her at Cardiss. If so, I don’t have a chance. I thought we were supposed to focus on getting good grades, not on winning a campus beauty pageant. I might be fluent in French and I can read a three-hundred-page book in a day, but I don’t own a blow dryer and my makeup is old and caked in my cosmetics bag.

The other girl in the room seems more like an accessory to KIM than a person in her own right. She is whittled down to bones, sharp and angular, just like the models in
Vogue.
In this New Hampshire setting, however, she doesn’t look fashionable. She looks ill.

Their room is decorated in such a way that it seems they’ve lived there for years. I wonder how they have achieved this on the first day. There’s a Persian rug and upscale magazines strewn about the floor:
Vogue, W,
Vanity Fair, Tatler.
A huge advert for Pommery champagne takes up half the wall over one of the beds, and there are books stacked in rattan baskets that are placed around the room. You could just reach in and pull one out if you were in the mood for a good read. I spot
Middlemarch,
Madame Bovary
(in English, I note),
Lolita,
and
Great Expectations.