What It Was Like (26 page)

“What's the matter with you?” Roommate A asked me. It was late in the afternoon. “You've been sitting there for hours. You haven't even moved.”

“I've moved,” I answered him. “I've moved a great deal . . . inside.”

I had given her three days of this nonsense; now I was going to call her. At 8:00, our regular time. As if nothing had happened. Going down to the phone booth in the mailroom, I recalled all the responses I'd gotten all the times that I had called the Princes' number: “
She's not home.
 . . .
 
She'll have to call you back.
 . . .
 
She's doing her homework,
 
sorry
!
” Of course, sometimes Rachel answered the phone herself. Maybe I'd get lucky, and it would be Rachel again this time, the way it always should have been.

I sat in the booth and pulled the door closed behind me. I dug a handful of coins from my pocket and put them on the little shelf under the phone. I dropped two dimes and a nickel in the slot – bong-bong-bong – dialed and waited, rehearsing what I was going to say, depending on who answered. Maybe I could charm Eleanor; I could give it one more shot. Who knows? Maybe she could have had a change of heart.

Instead, I heard: “
The number you have reached has been changed or is no longer in service. If you feel you have reached this number in error, please try your call again. Thank you
.”

I tried the number two more times and got the same recording each time before I was convinced.

Whoa!
I thought to myself as I finally hung up.
These people are serious. Changing their phone number to keep her away from me? Isn't that a little drastic?

Not to be outsmarted so easily, I called Information.

“I'm sorry,” said the operator. “That number has been changed to an unpublished number.”

“What do mean ‘unpublished'?” I asked, although I knew the answer.

“The customer has chosen not to have the number published,” said the operator. “Can I help you with anything else?”

“No,” I said. “Thank you,” and I hung up quietly.

All I could do was go back to my room and think quietly about my options.

≁

Over the next few days, I thought of the many ways by which I could get the Princes' new unpublished phone number. One of the kids I graduated with, a guy who sat in front of me in homeroom for six years because our last names were one letter apart, worked for the phone company. I knew I could get the number from him. Or I could pretend to be some kind of door-to-door salesman or polltaker and try to get some information out of one of their neighbors. I also knew some of the stores that the Princes used in the town of Oakhurst, and I'm sure that I could make up something, like I'd found Eleanor Prince's wallet right outside their store, and did they know her phone number so that I could arrange returning it?

Or I could do what I eventually did: go to Nanci Jerome's to flirt with her and smoke her hash in order to find out Rachel's new phone number. (I stopped things before they went too far. But, of course, she was using me too. This is one of the many reasons why I didn't testify at my trial: all this
stuff
should never have had to come out, and my testimony would have just added to the sensationalism of the whole thing. Rachel didn't know about it for the longest time. But, in a way, she's the one who practically
forced
me to do it. Just add it to the long list of actions of mine of which I am not particularly proud.)

When I drove away from Nanci's house, I was so close to Rachel that I had a hard time resisting the urge to just burst into the Princes' house and take her away with me, after apologizing profusely for my transgression with Nanci. But I never did . . . either.

The next day, when Nanci called me after finding out the Princes' new number from her mother, I thanked her and told her she was a true friend. I'm not sure that's exactly what she wanted to hear from me, but I couldn't really worry too much about that.

I debated about waiting until 8:00 to call, but I decided that was too obvious. I had to play this carefully. If the phone rang precisely at 8:00, they would know it was me. If I called earlier, I might catch them off-guard.

I don't know why I felt so confident as I dialed the new, not-yet-memorized number. I just felt that Rachel would be glad to hear from me, to know that I hadn't abandoned her, that I was still, if nothing else, her true friend.

The kitchen was clear. My parents knew that something was going on with me and gave me a lot of space. But I still pulled the long cord into the dining room after I dialed and waited, hanging in suspension as I had done so many times before. One ring, two rings. The line picked up; my heart braced itself.

“Hello?” It was a cautious
Eleanor
. My timing was wrong!

“Hello??” she said again, sounding even more suspicious. “Who
is
this?”

I panicked and hung up. Which was a stupid thing to do: stupidstupidstupid. Now she would
know
that I was on to them and had found out their new number,
and
I hadn't even
said
anything! I should have at least asked to speak to Rachel or something, and said what I wanted to say. Instead, I hung up like a fool. A fool
and
a coward.

I went back up to my room to berate myself for this bad move.

“What was I thinking?” I said out loud to myself. I sat on my bed cross-legged and bounced a tennis ball off my wall so many times that my father had to yell up the stairs, “Can you please cut that out? You're shaking the whole house!”

“Sorry!” I yelled back.

I stopped bouncing the ball off the wall and just lay on my back, tossing it straight up in the air softly, hitting nothing. I couldn't stop thinking about the bad move I had made. And what made it worse was that it was a bad move I had
planned.
Nanci told me that Rachel “clouded my judgment.” Maybe she was right. I had never before gotten such mediocre grades or been on such terrible terms with my teachers or lost touch with my friends from high school; so much of my mental energy was devoted to Rachel and the maintenance of our relationship. I admit that it was tough getting bad grades, grinding through my classes, and barely co-existing with Roommate A and his phony French cigarettes in that tiny room. But there were many, many moments of true happiness with Rachel – both actually being with her and when I was alone,
thinking
about her and us – that made it all worthwhile. Didn't the Beatles just sing, “All You Need Is Love”? I believed that then (and, to some extent, despite everything that happened, still do).

Anyway, I fell asleep in the way-too-late night, after deciding that, what the hell, I was glad the Princes knew that I had their new unpublished number. Now, whenever their phone rang, they would always have to wonder: “Is it
you-know-who
?” And Rachel would always be reminded: “He hasn't forgotten about me. He still loves me.”

I woke up the next afternoon (I guess it was actually the afternoon of the same day), and overnight I had come to another conclusion: I had to see Rachel one more time, in person. It wasn't fair to me, it wasn't really even fair to her, and it certainly wasn't fair to Us – to The Zone – to end things on the phone. I had to see her once more. I wanted to see her tell it to my face: that we were over. Sorry, that we were on a “break” for “I-don't-know-how-long.” Not that I was going to challenge her decision. She had the right to do and to feel however she wanted. But I deserved an explanation
to my face
. I was owed that.

So I did the most logical thing I could think of: I went to see Rachel at Oakhurst High on Monday, to see her in person. I knew that I could ill-afford to ditch all my Monday classes, but likewise I couldn't just let my relationship with Rachel end on a phone call. It was eating me up, this “wrong” ending, and I had to get past it if I wanted to move on with my life.

I didn't want to go to her house – or Manny's condominium, for that matter. That would be even more complicated. And I wanted to see her as soon as possible, to get it over with now, Monday. OK, by ditching all my classes on Monday – or certainly the morning classes – I know that I was making my bad relationships with a few of my teachers worse, but I couldn't just let things with Rachel end like this. If they were going to be finished, they had to be finished correctly.

I don't think that my parents totally believed me when I told them that I had “Monday off” when I showed up super early by surprise to borrow my mother's car. They didn't fight me too much about it. They were pretty considerate of me and what they sensed I was going through at the time. (Maybe if they had been a little less considerate and a little more intolerant, I wouldn't have gotten myself into the trouble I got myself into. I don't blame them for anything I did; as I said, I was obsessed. I would have pushed back hard if they had tried to stop me and any of my carefully planned actions. I am completely responsible for everything I ever did, ever felt, and ever said.)

It was very cold that Monday morning, right before Christmas vacation, but I wanted to get to Oakhurst High early. Maybe if I could see Rachel before her classes; see her early, and get it out of the way. But I was determined to make it “official” – face-to-face. It might have been her decision to break things off, but it would be on
my
terms, in person and final. Maybe I could even get back to Columbia in time for my afternoon classes.

Unfortunately, on my semi-frantic drive to Oakhurst High in the Falcon in the early rush hour traffic, the car heater got stuck on high, so I had to keep the window open as heat poured out of the vents. I cranked open the window and turned the vents away from me, but by the time I was in Oakhurst, my body was covered with sweat while my neck and left arm were icy cold from the rush of outside air.

And I didn't leave early enough either. As I came in sight of the glass-and-steel palace of education, there were so many cars whizzing around – lots of nice GTOs and foreign sports cars – and so many kids crossing the street every which way, in the crosswalks and between cars, that I couldn't really look for Rachel and keep my eyes on the road at the same time. There was a student parking lot with cars streaming in, but a guard in a uniform was standing at the big iron-pointed gate, checking parking permits, and I didn't have one. It was getting closer to the start of school, and if I had any hope of finding Rachel before classes began, I had to get out of the car and find her on foot.

I whipped around the corner and, halfway down the block, I luckily found a parking spot in front of one of the big, old Tudor houses that lined the street. I got out of the car, locked it, and hurried down the sidewalk, joining the crowd of people moving toward the high school.

Approaching Oakhurst High School on foot, I was even more impressed by the newness and sleekness of the building, glistening in the sharp winter sun. My high school was old and brick and used-up; this building was made strictly of New Money. As I ran across the street, dodging cars, I looked at every kid – every
girl
, actually – looking for Rachel. Since it was winter, the girls had big coats on, some with fur collars turned up and heavy scarves, hiding their faces, and some girls wore hats. Rachel used to wear this little navy blue ski cap sometimes, but mostly she let her long, dark hair – of which she was so proud – flow in the wind, even if it meant being cold.

I hurried toward the majestic front entrance, looking this way and that at the rush of kids heading up the steps toward the doors. At the curb, there was a line of cars dropping off kids, including quite a few Cadillacs. Fortunately, I didn't see the Princes'. The last thing I needed was for Eleanor to see me. I stood in the middle of the stream of kids as they went up the front steps, ignoring me in the rush. All these kids seemed to be good-looking and well-dressed, so much neater than the scruffy, pimply guys at Columbia. I looked into all the girls' faces, but I didn't see Rachel. I did see more than a couple of girls who looked like Rachel: pretty, confident girls with the same long, dark hair, parted in the middle. But I didn't see my girl.

Two loud buzzing bells from the building sent everybody into a faster gear. I guess it meant just a few minutes to homeroom, and some kids still had to get to their lockers. I stood against the tide of students rushing past me, wondering what to do. There seemed to be another busy entrance on the side of the school by the parking lot; I could check there. She might be coming in from that side, but I didn't have time to decide. I had to do something quickly; I turned and joined the flood of kids going in.

Once I got inside the heavy glass doors, inside the lobby, it was warm. They had good, strong heat in there. As I walked in, I looked both ways down the hallway and saw nothing but kids: kids walking quickly, kids at their lockers, slamming them closed. Dozens of kids, all ignoring me. I had absolutely no idea which way to go to find Rachel.

Three bells buzzed, and the intensity of activity increased. More lockers were slammed. I had to do something: I saw a group of girls, pretty girls. Girls who might, just
might
know Rachel. As you know by now, I'm a fairly shy person, but I had no choice. I walked right up to them, tall girls with long hair and jewelry and soft, pastel sweaters.

“I'm sorry,” I asked, trying to make eye contact with any one of them, “Do any of you girls know Rachel Prince?”

They all looked at me blankly. Pretty, empty stares that said nothing.

One of the girls, a blonde wearing a long OHS letterman's sweater, leaned forward and said, “Do you go to Columbia?”

Dumbfounded, I said back, “How do you know that?”

The girls just giggled and looked at each other, sharing some silly secret.