30 Guys in 30 Days (8 page)

Okay, full-disclosure time.

But as I tell you this I want you to please KEEP IN MIND that I was definitely not going to rush, regardless. I had already made my mind up about that before …

Before …

Okay, I’m just going to have to come right out and tell you.

It was the Cosmos. That or the cool “smoky eye” makeup that Charlie had helped me with. And my weird conversation with Gabe, where he was acting like a spaz. And that flirtation with Dave. For some reason I had gotten it in my head that I was a reasonably attractive girl who would, in fact, someday discover the secret of communicating with the opposite sex. Clearly I was deluded, punch-drunk on my assault-and-misdemeanor of the previous afternoon. But there I was, chattering away with Meredith (who is
way
too interested in the
Chronicle
for her own good, if you ask me), when I started feeling pretty good about myself. I mean, the sweater was really comfortable, and my hair was up and out of my face. My long-wearing lip gloss was wearing on and on … I didn’t necessarily want to rush, but here I was, making friends, having conversations right and left. Sure, I was no Charlie Norton, supported as she was by throngs of admirers, but I absolutely felt like I belonged. And it
was just that very false sense of security that completely did me in.

Because two hours into the party and three hours into rush cocktails, the boys arrived.

The party was in full swing. Suddenly the doors were open to the remainder of the campus and, specifically, members of the opposite sex. Meanwhile, I was buzzed, I was cute, and I was in a damn good mood.

Watching the boys pile into the house, I vowed to myself that I would seize on the opportunity to re-enact the Dave scenario (minus internal bruising) with the first hottie I saw. You know, walk over strike up a conversation, maybe make a joke or two … and, sure enough, ten seconds later and not a moment too soon, he materialized. Tall. Blond. Hotness a cool 9.8 on the kiss-a-bility scale.

Bingo. Target #6.

I thought about bumping into him accidentally/on purpose, since the bumping thing had worked so well with Dave. Or spilling coffee on him, as I had with Jesse. But those incidents had been unplanned; and as
premeditated efforts, both of those techniques struck me as desperate and awkward, the moves of a rank amateur. And I was past that stage, wasn’t I?

Wasn’t I?

I decided I was. In which case, the idea of asking him for the time, or which way to the bathroom, seemed equally immature and unappealing. No, I was going to have to go for the gold. And, judging from the fact that he was fast turning to make his way to the kitchen, I was going to have to do it quickly.

I sidled on up to him as surreptitiously as I could, given that he was six feet three to my cool five feet four. “Hey,” I said, beaming at him for all I was worth. I tried to toss my hair like Charlie, before remembering that my hair was up in a ponytail. “Hey,” I repeated, slightly running out of steam. I took a deep breath and forged ahead. “I’m Claudia.”

Cutie of the evening smiled at me. “Hi, Claudia,” he said. “I’m Zach.”

I wracked my brain for something clever to say, but my brain, dulled by one
too many Cosmopolitans, did not want to help me out. “Aren’t you in my comp sci 5 class?” I asked, knowing he wasn’t. Okay, not my finest work, but a solid effort, nonetheless.

He bought it, though. He shook his head, grinning. “Actually, Claudia, I’m an engineer. So I placed out of those requirements.”

So, no remedial math for you. Check.

“But, uh, hey—I could tutor you, if you want. If you’re, you know, having a hard time.”

Well, hello there, Mr. Tutor-man.

I was feeling pretty proud of myself for a minute there. All I really needed was a cute cashmere tank and a little Cosmo-induced come-hither chutzpah and suddenly I was a flirt machine. Wasn’t an offer to tutor practically as good as a date?

I decided it was. “Yeah, I would totally love that. Hartridge
hates
me,” I purred.
Purred!
I was purring! It was the fuzzy knit wool against my skin, I was sure.

“Nah, he’s just grouchy,” Zach insisted. “Besides, if we can get your grades up, it really doesn’t matter what he thinks of you, right?”

“Sure, whatever,” I cooed, lowering my eyelids in what I hoped were bedroom eyes.

“So what else are you taking this semester, Claudia?” Zach asked, leaning in close to me and lowering his voice.

“Mass media and the popular culture,” I said.

“Cool. Watching television for credit.”

“Exactly,” I said.

“I can help you with that homework too,” he offered. “My television is just down the street.”

Oh.

“CLAUDIA!”

I spun to see Charlie standing up from her chaise lounge, hands rooted firmly on hips in a superhero’s pose. A supremely pissed-off superhero.

I flashed another blinding smile at my new hottie and hurried over to Charlie. Once I was within three feet of her, she grabbed at my wrist and pulled me aside, fuming. “Are you
insane?”
she stage-whispered.

“No,” I said hotly, “Are
you?”

“Claudia, that is Zach Masters. He’s president of the Inter-Greek Council!” she said, still with the fake-lowered voice.

“Um, okay, then. Still not seeing the reason for the hissy fit.”

Charlie smirked at me. I realized it was the first time since I’d met her that she had smirked. I was actually sort of relieved to find that she was willing and able to smirk, come to think of it. “No,” she said. “But he goes out with Anu Shah, the president of the Panhellenic Sisterhood!”

“Oh!” I said, matching her stage whisper with one of my own. Then, as it sank in,
“Oh.”

“Right,” she said, the anger in her voice giving way to weariness. “And she is standing over there”—she pointed subtly to the dining room—“and she
completely
saw you macking on her boyfriend.”

I sighed. “Oh, Charlie, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry to me,” she said. “He’s not my boyfriend. And, anyway, he’s the one to blame here. It makes me really mad. But you should know. I mean, you can’t go out with him.”

“Of course not!” I said, horrified.

“And, um, based on the look she’s giving you, I’m not so sure about your chances at Tri-Delt.”

I laughed. “Charlie, I don’t think I’m going to rush,” I said, glad to have it out in the open.

“What? No, you can’t bail out! Not because some skanky chick’s boyfriend busted a move on you! It’s not your fault! And if she really does try to keep you out of Tri-Delta, we’ll totally report her. I made a lot of connections here tonight,” she assured me.

“I don’t doubt that,” I agreed. “But this isn’t my scene, and besides, you don’t need me for this, right?”

She nodded slowly. “I guess not,” she said reluctantly.

I vowed to Charlie that we would have plenty of other opportunities to do things together as roommates, and that I was rooting for her all the way. I also tried to stick around for a little while and not feel too uncomfortable just because good old Anu was giving me the fish-eye. But it didn’t work.

Elle, I’m lost here. I mean, either I’m barfing on boys in bars, or choking out lame questions that no one responds to (except, of course, to feel sorry for me), or, when I finally
do manage to meet and sustain conversation with someone reasonably attractive and intelligent he’s either the best friend of my spontaneously socially awkward editor or he’s the boyfriend of the woman with the power to make my roommate’s life miserable.

Anyway, I gathered my jacket and bowed out of the party as gracefully as possible, avoiding Anu and Zach at all costs. They must do this little dancey thing pretty often, because when I left I noticed them making out in the corner.

So, you know, more power to them. Ain’t love grand?

I wouldn’t know.

—xx

9/10, 6:13 p.m.

from: [email protected]

to: [email protected], [email protected]

re: me, circa noon today

Waiting outside of Dunkin Donuts (What is it with Dunkin’ Donuts, anyway? It’s, like, some sort of zoning law that there needs to be one every three blocks or so. Is it a Boston thing? Why? Why?) for the student shuttle to take me from the center of town back to campus. Semicute prepster waiting on line for said shuttle as well. Khaki carpenter cords, rumpled plaid flannel shirt, all-terrain sneakers.

So not my type.

But that should make it easier, right? I mean, if there’s nothing, really, at stake. Objectively speaking, he’s attractive, in a crunchy, trust-fund kind of way. Says I to myself,
Self, I think I’ll just mosey on over and say hi. Target #7, I presume….

Is that weird? (Other than the moseying, that is. The moseying is
definitely
weird.)

But just walking up and saying hi, I mean. Do people do that? People other than strange, hormonally challenged college students stranded in Boston with no sex appeal and no recourse to speak of, that is?

I was losing focus, and fast. So, going up and just saying “Hey” was clearly out of the question. But what else was there?

Can’t ask him for help with my bag,
I thought.
It’s, like, some Q-tips and a bottle of hairspray—nothing I can’t lift. Can’t ask for a light, because—what if he gives me one? I don’t smoke; that’s definitely weird…. “What time is it?” Yeah, except I’m wearing an oversize G-Shock in electric blue—highly inconspicuous. Not.

All right, I got it. Walk. Walk, dammit!

“So, is this where we wait for the shuttle?”
Smile at him. With teeth.

Fewer teeth, Claud.

He’s looking at me. He looks surprised. He’s nodding.

Ah, yes. He’s pointing …

… to the huge yellow sign directly overhead, marked,
WOODMAN UNIVERSITY SHUTTLE PICKUP.

I see.

“Thanks!”

Yeesh.

Thank you very much, ladies and gentlemen. I’ll be here all week.

—xx

By Sunday morning I decided I had to study, lest my many trips to the bookstores of Cambridge—not to mention so many rides on the safety shuttle—be wasted. My handy-dandy reading schedule suggested that today would be an ideal time to address chapters one through three of a particularly dense and nonillustrated text on the spread of AIDS in North America. I took one look at the book and tossed my pop culture anthology into my messenger bag instead. I threw on some track pants and a long-sleeve T-shirt, my favorite
broken-in sneakers, and a denim jacket and made my way across the residential quad and down the hill to the library.

In the two weeks since I’d arrived at Woodman, summer had truly begun to give way to fall, and the air outside was crisp and cool. The sun sparkled off of the surface of the buildings on Picard Street, and the color of the grass seemed bright and rich. Despite Friday night’s flirting debacle, despite the fact that Professor Hartridge hadn’t really appreciated my little coffee incident, and despite the fact that I was
definitely
on the verge of running out of clean underwear and had
no idea
where the laundry room was, things were looking up.

The library was quiet, which of course, wasn’t unusual, it being a library and all. I bypassed the computer lab with its dangerously tempting high-speed Internet access, and traveled straight through the Great Hall, a tremendous room with stained-glass windows known for being a hotbed of social activity. I finally settled on a cozy cubicle in the far corner of the reading room. I tossed my bag down, pulled my iPod and my books out and, within moments, was deeply
immersed in the issue of Complicity and Viewership: The Active and the Passive Audience Examined.

I read for about an hour or so. All was well in the world of studying when, out of nowhere, Eminem went from whispering in my ear to screaming straight into my brain. Highly soothing. Not. “What the—,” I began, confused and more than a little bit annoyed. I grabbed my iPod and quickly turned down the volume.

That’s when I heard it. Chuckling. More specifically,
Gabe-
style chuckling coming from just behind me.

I whirled around and glared at him. “Very funny.”

He was laughing so hard, he was practically crying. “I’m sorry, Claudia, I couldn’t resist. You just looked so focused.”

“That’s the whole point,” I fumed. “The focus.” But it was really only fake-fuming, at this point. Gabe was wearing a long-sleeve T-shirt with the Atari logo emblazoned across the chest. How could I stay mad at that?

“What were you listening to?” he asked, swiping my iPod from me before I had the
chance to protest. He scrolled through my playlists. “Eminem—not bad.”

“Please. Just because I don’t wear faux-vintage-eighties apparel doesn’t make me any less hip than you,” I said, wondering furtively where I could get a T-shirt like Gabe’s.

Was this banter? Were we having banter?

“Touché,” Gabe said, pulling up a chair next to mine and settling in. “And, anyway, I got this shirt in a thrift shop in the suburbs, so I should probably mind my own business.” He eyed my Pumas. “Cool kicks.”

“As it happens, I got these sneakers in the city,” I said, smirking at him.

“New York City?”

“Yeah, I’m from Northern Jersey,” I explained. “My friends and I would go shopping downtown on weekends.”

“Cool,” he said, saying the word slowly so it came out almost like an exhalation:
cooool….
“We don’t really have anything like that back in Highland Park.”

“Where’s that?” I asked.

“Illinois. No great shakes. Just your run-of-the-mill suburban town. Like something out of a John Hughes film.”

“You are
not
knocking John Hughes films,” I admonished him.

He held up his right hand in the peace sign. “Save Ferris,” he deadpanned. But before I could swoon, he turned his attention back to my iPod, a thick chunk of hair falling over one eye. I longed to reach out and brush it back for him, but decided that would be overkill. After all, this was really our very first maybe-banter. I didn’t want to push it. “You’ve got some cool stuff on here,” he proclaimed.