All You Need Is Love (9 page)

“Dad — okay.” I take a huge breath like I’m about to plunge under water to find something I dropped — oh, yeah, my summer plans! “I messed up — clearly I was supposed to stay in the dorms. And I did. For a long time and then it was just gross. I mean people were barfing outside my door and wandering in at all hours of the night — the noise was intolerable.”

“I would have complained for you,” Dad says. “Gotten you another room there.”

“It wouldn’t have accomplished anything! It’s just how it is there, in all the rooms. So Fizzy and Keena…”

“Your friends,” Dad says.

“Right my friends…”

“Who still lived in the dorms despite the squalid conditions? And Keena is Poppy Massa-Tonclair’s daughter, a faculty brat who still managed to cope?”

Chris jogs by and gives a friendly wave and what’s up and I shoo him away with a frantic flailing of hands. He shrugs and keeps going.

“Arabella had a flat, Dad. It’s this incredible place — and her parents, who were my in loco parentis, in case you’ve forgotten, said it was okay.”

“The Pieces — Angus and Monti — are hardly conventional people — they do not set the bar on parenting as far as I’m concerned. And they never cleared it with me. They never signed papers. There are rules to which you must adhere.”

I stand up and look at my dad. My hands are on my hip, my hair blowing into my face, making me scratch my cheeks. “You don’t get it! It was just different there, Dad — and believe me I got into no worse trouble at her flat than I would’ve at the dorms.”

Dad sighs. “I know. I’ve thought about this a lot, Love. That’s why it’s taken me so long to confront you.”

“So you’ve been plotting my demise this whole time?”

“I’ve been doing no such thing — you were in charge of yourself in London. You have only yourself to blame.” Dad stands up and we stand next to each other, looking at the blue squishy mat like it’s a mess we have to clean up. “I’m upset you didn’t tell me over the phone from there. One lie breeds another — you didn’t tell me your living situation, you went behind my back which puts Angus and Monti in a situation of great liability…”

“I’m sorry,” I say. And I am. I don’t want this to be some legal battle or long-standing issue, but I’d do it again. I loved that flat and I loved living on my own, away from all the noise and rules.

“But what I’m mainly concerned about is that despite our seemingly close relationship — the one you just described as being ‘as close as can be’ — you felt okay about belittling all that trust. I understand poor living conditions — I did spend a semester in India.”

“You did?” This is news to me. “When?”

“Never mind — the point is — no matter how bad you wanted to get out of those dorms, you weren’t supposed to. But you completely went against the rules.”

“I wish you could just have seen me there — seen my life there.”

“Obviously, I wish that, too. You’ve grown tremendously, Love, and that’s a powerful, wonderful thing. But with growth comes responsibility. And I’m not sure you understand that aspect…”

He starts walking back towards our house and I follow. The tension lifts a little as we leave the track behind, but I sense there’s more. I’m tired of waiting for the worst so I ask, “So what’s the deal with this, then? Am I grounded?”

Dad scratches his head. His hair has started to thin at the top and it dawns on me that one day he’ll be old and bald and I’ll be his age. It makes me want to hold his hand and savor every minute with him, but then I’m thrust back into the situation I’m in now and think— who holds the hand of the person who’s about to inflict punishment?

“Not grounded — that’s not fitting.” He mumbles some classical music, one of his “I’m thinking” habits. We reach the front porch of the house. “I’m not sure what the ramifications of this will be. Because you weren’t a Hadley student at the time, this doesn’t go through their committees. It’s just a family issue — and one I need to think about more.”

“So what am I supposed to do in the mean time?” I ask.

“Do as Bob Dylan said — keep on keeping on,” Dad says and smiles, trying to show me it’s time to drop it and lighten up. Easy for him to say.

“Fine.” I let him go inside and I sit in one of the wicker chairs on the porch. Maybe he’ll make me write an essay about how I acted. Or maybe he’ll take away my campus privileges and make me stay in my room — fine with me. He wouldn’t cancel the Avon Walk, I haven’t mentioned any parties (although he surely is aware of the traditional Crescent Beach bash after graduation) so he can’t cancel those plans…but then suddenly it occurs to me that he has every power to veto my Vineyard plans and change my summer altogether.

“It’s good to see you,” I say to Jacob. He sits across from me in an oversized brown leather chair, looking casual and cool, and somehow not at all overheated despite the fact that it’s ninety degrees outside.

“You, too,” he says.

This could be the opening lines of a date — except that we’re not on one and we are, in fact, waiting for our separate (but equal, of course) appointments with the college counseling office. As with so many infallible electronic programs, it turns out the SIBOF is fallible and has proven it this week by the counseling office’s memo:

Dear _____ (insert names of one third of the junior class)

We regret to inform you that the SIBOF scores issued to you last term might have been incorrectly weighted. Please return to the CCO by the end of the day to receive your reissued scores.

Jacob and I seem to have come at the last possible second — the office has had a line out the door snaking all the way past Maus Hall (AKA Eek!) and heading to the Arts Dome all day. Now though, the office is fairly quiet, save for the buzz of the infallible/fallible computers and the phones that won’t stop ringing (parents are most perturbed by this news — what if Biffy/Jenkins/Lucy doesn’t really have a shot at Harvard/Yale/NYU? Gasp!).

“So, where are you going, anyway?” Jacob asks. “Some music school?”

“Maybe,” I say. “Actually, you know what? I don’t have a clue.” I laugh at myself in disbelief. Everyone here is so focused, so poised and positively determined to get to the ONE top choice school that I am relegated to freak status for not matching their determination. “I mean don’t get me wrong. I want to go to a great school, one that makes sense for me…”

“So you don’t care about the cache of the Ivies or anything?”

“I never said that — all I know is that it’s more important to me to find a place that I really want to go than it is to get into a school just because it’s ranked number one in the country.”

“I take it your SIBOF was incorrect?”

I nod. “Yours?”

Jacob says, “No — I never got my list of reach schools and safeties…I was in Switzerland.”

I roll my eyes at him — I can’t help it. Cue the monotone voice: “I know where you were.” I mean, I wrote to you there, for God’s sake.

“Oh, yeah, I guess so…”

To cover a potentially miserable what the hell happened scene, I continue with the college conversation. “Any thoughts on your destination after Hadley?”

Jacob shrugs. Thoughts on the school of shrugs related to people asking if you’ve thought about college include the single-shoulder shrug:
I’m not about to launch into this now — I know exactly where I want to go and I’m so desperate to get in that I won’t chance jinxing it by saying it out loud and if I don’t get in I will transfer in after freshman year at some state school and then pretend like freshman year never happened.
The double kind of shrug and tight smile combo, which is typical Hadley Hall — it’s overtly casual, like
Oh, hey, college — what a good idea, I might just check out that scene — my dad was fifth generation Harvard, maybe I’ll take a look there — gotta make sure it’s the right fit for me, you know?
Then there’s the ever-popular coy meets self-effacing double-shrug and eyebrows raised which translates to
Of course I’ve thought about college and more than likely I’ve already written my essays and have a grand life plan but I’ll shrug anyway to look spontaneous and hopeful.

“What kind of shrug was that?” I ask Jacob, assuming he knows the types.

“The not really sure if I’m headed to college right away, I’m not particularly focused on that as my life’s ambition.” He bites at his lip and flips his hair out of his eyes. “I’m full of shit of course.”

“How so?”

“How so…um, because on the one hand I don’t want to be like everyone else and like my dad who wants me to go to Stanford so badly that he won’t mention the name. Like not bringing it up as a potential place will make me more inclined to choose it. But on the other hand, it matters to me — sure. I work hard to get good grades and I want my college to reflect that.”

“That sounds like a line you memorized for a college interview,” I say and think about poking him in the ribs but then decide it’s too familiar, even though I’ve been so familiar as to put my hand on his ass when he kissed me. But I digress.

“It is — well spotted. When I was abroad I just kind of dropped out of the whole race. I have every intention of going to a great university but I’m not going to let that quest define me for the next year plus.”

I so know what he means. Being in London put so much into perspective — and yet, being back here, it’s hard to keep that outlook. “I think I just need to look around more — go visit some places and get a sense of what it’d be like to
be
there.”

“Yeah, I agree — I’m headed for a big time road trip this summer.” He reflects for a minute. “The route I’ve planned is not particularly gas-efficient but it affords a certain nationwide view.”

“I have to tour, too,” I say, “But I’m also working on the Vineyard.” At least, I hope I’m still doing that — but who knows — maybe Dad will have planned for me to sheer goats at Louisa’s as penance.

“Cool,” he says but doesn’t ask me to elaborate. Therefore I don’t have to choose between edited versions of my story — the one where it’s just me and Arabella, two hot girls alone in a cottage feel free to visit, etc. Then there’s my titled gorgeous English boyfriend — oh haven’t I mentioned him? — is coming to visit. Or I could really up the ante (note to self: learn poker so using this expression is validated by actual knowledge of ante-in) with the well, I have to see what happens with all those beautiful Vineyard boys…or just the real answer which is that I’m running the café, writing songs I won’t perform, and hanging out with my best friend, contemplating all of the above.

“How much longer will we have to wait?” I ask and drum my finger son my thighs.

“Am I boring you that badly?” Jacob looks away from me and switches positions so he’s leaning over the little table between us.

“On a scale of one to ten…?”

“Don’t answer that,” Jacob says and thumbs through one of the ancient catalogues on the round oak table. All the recent college literature gets “borrowed” by interested Hadley students so what remains at this time of year is stuff from the old files. “Here — this is you, lunching with your buddies at the cafeteria.” Jacob points to a horribly outdated photo of some girl with greasy, flat red hair (granted it’s a somewhat similar hue to mine, though I cannot claim the sheer oil content that she can).

“Oh, right! Gertrude and Beth, I met them at a peace rally,” I say. “Gertie’s really talented — she made her outfit entirely from discarded tube socks. And Beth — well, she’s been around the block once or twice but she can sure bake a mean blueberry cobbler.” I flip through his catalogue then grab one for myself and randomly open it. “I didn’t know you were theatrical!” I point to a guy in a unitard, his face contorted (possibly from the pain of the unitard).

“I was found by a scout — plays are my life now,” he says then points to a curly haired student giving a tour, “That and doing nature walks on campus. I found my calling.”

We’re quiet for a second, tucking the laughter in, until I find another picture — this time it’s clearly from the fifties — the female has her hair in a pony tail, her crisp white blouse is tucked into her high-waisted skirt. Next to her is a guy so clean and ironed you could cut vegetables on his back. The picture is photographed from behind. “Hey, look, it’s us…” I start but then cut myself off. It’s not a funny photo — it’s sweet. It’s that beginning stage of love captured so clearly, so sweetly that it transcends time.

“Change the fabric and it could be now,” Jacob says and touches the picture right where the sun is sinking.

“I guess some images are timeless,” I say and close the book.

We sit there, in half silence (it can’t qualify as total silence because Mrs. Dandy-Patinko, with uncharacteristic vehemence, yells into the phone that she is not personally responsible for the statistical error and that she is sure all the students will get in somewhere, even if it’s not their first choice of school. This is the academic equivalent of telling a parent to shut up…).

Then Jacob turns to me. “Want to hang out some time?”

It’s not suggestive, not over-friendly, not flirty — just nice. “Yes, I would,” I say and then it’s my turn to go in and find out what my future holds.

Six hours, four trips to the bathroom, two lattes, and a movie-sized box of Raisinets later, I am less on my way to figuring out what to do for PMT’s final project than I’d hoped to be. Aside from my ISPP, which is half-Hadley, half-LADAM credit, I received word from Poppy Massa-Tonclair that all of her students were meant to submit “significant works of literary merit”. When I emailed back asking for examples she cited such ideas as the first half of a novel, a longer-length novella, a complete book of poetry, an anthology of essay related to the quest for self, An Oral History of Family: Ten Hours of Verbal Documentary, and so on. Oh, right, I have that here in my back pocket.

Of course, Jacob wrote a novella last semester for extra credit — and I thought about asking for the privilege of reading it but I figure that if he wanted me to, he’d offer. Plus, even though it’s fiction, I’m semi-hesitant to find traces of truth in there.

The ideas I’ve been working on for my own project might not pass muster (when I was little I thought that phrase was might not pass mustard. Yes, Love, condiments are forever appearing in common language)…nothing has really jumped out at me. Could I submit a book of songs? Sure — but then I’d have to finish all of them and some are better than others (read: some suck and some are decent). Plus, it doesn’t feel like enough. The project is meant to convey an aspect of us we have “yet to bring to the table” — so until I find out what — or whom — I’ve yet to dine with, I’m doomed to obsess.