Love and Other Things I'm Bad At (29 page)

9/17

Tuesday-Thursday classes not quite as smooth.

First, Oscar followed me out the door before I could close it, and I couldn’t catch him. He kept running around me and following me at the same time. Eventually I had to grab him and drag him back to the house, and he whimpered the whole way like I was a horrible dog owner, so I was wondering when my neighbors would come out and call the ASPCA on me—

Anyway. So, I was late to my first class of the day, Journalism 210. (No flashy name there. Because it’s hard-hitting journalism, y’all.)

In my second class, Environmental Activism, which I was late for because I got lost on campus and found myself outside the Potato Building (which, of course, I had to take a picture of with my phone to send to Mary Jo, the original Potato Clock owner) and which I had to beg to be let into because it was already at capacity (half of the guys in the class looked like they’d be totally willing to torch a ski resort for Earth First!—if they hadn’t already), the professor looked at me as if I had made a wrong turn.

“May I help you?”

“Is this Active Environmentalism?” I asked.

He chuckled, while the rest of the class just laughed loudly. At me. “No, but you are close,” he said. “This isn’t a phys ed class. If you’re interested in that, the gym is due west—” He lowered his glasses and pointed toward the mountains.

I cleared my throat. “I’m Courtney Smith,” I said. “I just—I’m a late addition to the class.”

“Late. I’ll say.” He glanced at the clock. “Find a seat promptly, Ms. Smith.”

I had to slink across the front of the room to the one empty seat, then I had to wait for the two guys who were using it as a footrest to move their feet.

Let’s just say they both needed a fresh pair of dude sandals. Mandals?

After class, could not even reach professor to talk to him. Giant crowd surrounding his desk would not let me in. Felt like I was at a casting call for Environmental Idol and he was Simon.

9/18

I was crossing Mulberry on the way home from class when a dude on a bike went past me so quickly that it left a breeze behind. Then he stopped on the other side of the street and just stood there. Waiting for me.

Great, I thought. Now what?

Then he took off his helmet. It was Grant.

Panic attack began.

“What’s up?” he asked when I got closer. Like we saw each other all the time.

Deep breath, deep breath, shallow breath, hyperventilating. “Not much,” I kind of exhaled.
I’m only struggling to get settled into a new school and living in a place I only found because of you, when rightfully you could and should hate me
. “You?” I asked. All casual-like.

He told me that he was headed home and that because we live on the same block he was waiting for me so we could walk together. I’d been here 4 days already and he hadn’t come by to see how I was yet. If he hadn’t nearly run me over with his bike, would he have made a point of stopping over, or not? I wanted to ask him that, but knew I couldn’t.

“So,” I said, and I thought I had a follow-up line to that, but I found out that I actually didn’t. “Nice . . . street.”

“Yeah. It is. You know, it’s close to campus, but it’s pretty quiet. Unless all my housemates are home.”

“Uh, which house
is
yours?” I asked.

“Um, that one.” He pointed to a brick house. Which was actually right beside the brick house where I was living.

“You said you lived on the same block. That’s not ‘on the same block.’ That’s next door!”

“Sure, but that’s a minor technicality.” He shrugged and looked kind of embarrassed. And then he laughed and looked slightly mortified.

“Grant! How could you not tell me this before now? How did you not come over and help me move in? And what about Oscar?”

“Oscar?”

“He moved in, too, or are you deaf?”

“Seriously?”

See, Grant and Oscar used to be pals. In fact, when Oscar went missing, as he always does, Grant was the one who helped look for him. Grant was the one who usually found him. He’d drop everything for that silly dog.

Now they were neighbors and he hadn’t even noticed? Where had he been? Or had he felt too awkward about us to come over?

“I guess, you know, I’ve been working later, studying late and stuff. I really hadn’t heard him.”

I can’t figure this out. Did he want me to live next door to him? Of all the places in town? Or did he have to think it over? Was he ever going to tell me? If I hadn’t called him back, would he have called
me
?

Was he embarrassed because he wanted me to live next door, because he never got over me? Or was he playing hard to get, kind of?

My head was spinning with questions as we got up to the house. I opened the door and Oscar bolted out of the yard, right into Grant, almost knocking him off his bike. He started making that funny whimpering sound—Oscar, not Grant, I mean—and it suddenly dawned on me. I’d heard those sounds before! It meant that Grant had stopped by before. He’d visited Oscar but not me. And that hurt, like, a lot. And the fact he was even kind of lying about it—wow. Things were very strained.

While Oscar was licking Grant’s face, a bit too lovingly I might add, I ventured, “Just so you know, I’m, uh, still seeing Wittenauer.”

Grant stopped snuggling with Oscar long enough to give me a look that could stop traffic, whatever that means, and said, “Just so
you
know, I still don’t care.”

Ouch. How long had he been saving up that line? Since last March? “Oh?” My voice warbled.

“Because we’re just friends now.”

“Friends. Right.”

Not sure how I am supposed to adjust. But I don’t get that feeling around him that I used to get, like a hundred ants were running up and down my body (not in an annoying way but in a good way), so I guess I am doing OK.

Suddenly my phone started ringing. Not just any ring. The CFC fight song.

Grant stared at me because I wasn’t answering it.

“It’s, um, Wittenauer,” I said.

“Don’t let me stop you.” He stood up, gave Oscar one last rub behind the ears, and wheeled his bike over to his garage.

Weird. We have never lived this close to each other. Now we don’t date anymore and we’re next-door neighbors. The kind that probably need a fence between them.

Forgot about Grant and talked with Wittenauer.

Practically made out on the phone.

Some calls are best taken in the privacy of one’s basement bedroom.

9/19

Got back from brunch with Dara and Shawna (cinnamon-roll toast = yum) and found a dead bird on my bed.

Thanks, DeathKitty. Thanks so much.

This is how my weekend is going, in case anyone is wondering. Which they’re not. Because they’re all having fun watching Wittenauer aka Corny leap around and cheer at soccer game. I heard.

Well, at least I found out how DeathKitty got her name.

She used to have a sister kitten. (I’m not sure if Dara was joking about this. She has a weird sense of humor.) Also, she’s taken out several birds and about a dozen mice. No doubt she’s working her way up to defenseless mutts with epilepsy. Killers don’t discriminate.

Maybe I need to get Oscar a dog sitter, someone to check up on him while I’m gone, because it’s not like I can stay inside the house all the time—I’ll miss college.

On the other hand, I should be realistic. How is a 15-pound cat going to bring down Oscar? By hissing?

Found out how Dara and Shawna became friends—they were roommates in a quad last year. They were supposed to be sharing this house with their mutual friend Tobie, but she moved in with her boyfriend in an apartment two weeks before school started. So that’s how I ended up getting her spot.

Shawna wants to major in Elementary Education. Dara is majoring in English and minoring in “getting out of here in three years.”

“What’s so bad about this place?” asked Shawna at brunch. “You’ve been saying stuff like this for, like, a whole year. Getting annoying.”

“What’s so
bad
? Look at that woman over there. She’s wearing
Wranglers
. I mean, what even is a Wrangler? And what’s with his cowboy boots? And look. Agh.” She sank down in the booth. “That guy has a horseshoe pattern vest.”

“Maybe you should major in fashion?” I suggested.

“It’s the West. People have, like, ranches here,” Shawna said. “Get over it. Get over yourself.”

Dara looked completely shocked that Shawna had stood up to her.

“So,” I said. “Who wants more coffee?”

Years of dealing with my parents’ arguing have given me special skills.

9/20

Met with Smoothie Stop manager yesterday. First thing he said was “Hey, I remember you from Truth or Dairy.”

“You do? Me?” This is weird running into people who knew me from Denver. Was it a good thing or a bad thing? Felt kind of like a celeb.

“Yes, don’t you remember me?” he said.

I stared at him for a second. He looked like he was about 25, wearing a ball cap with the Smoothie Stop logo, and a T-shirt and jeans. He wasn’t good-looking; he wasn’t bad-looking. He was slightly generic, if that makes sense. In other words . . . forgettable. At least, to me.

“I used to work day shifts before you came in the afternoon after school,” he said. “I was in night school. Business administration.” He held out his hand for me to shake. “Guy Nicollet.”

“Right, right!” Now I remembered. What I remembered was that he usually left before I got there and Gerry would get mad at him because it was not the smooth(ie), painless transition he wanted. Sometimes he’d leave half an hour early, and that was eventually why Gerry fired him.

“So, how’s it going, Courtney? What finds you here in the Fort?”

Wasn’t it obvious? “Here for school,” I said, and as I explained what had happened over the past few weeks, I looked at the menu and surveyed the place to see if it was somewhere I’d want to hang out for 15–20 hours a week. After my experience at Bagle Finagle last year, I can’t be too careful about accepting another part-time job. That one had been way too challenging, at least when you factored in personality disorders.

I couldn’t help thinking that lots of things were similar to Truth or Dairy, from the smoothie recipes, sizes, and combos to the frequent sipper cards to the cups and even the store’s logo.

Plus, Smoothie Stop not only offered smoothies but also had a menu section called Sundae Stop—just like Truth or Dairy. (Beth and I used to fight over those dumb cowhide print vs. green hemp aprons.) The freezer case was divided between healthy fruit options and the high-fat gluttony of chocolate-chocolate chip. It was torture for a person who couldn’t decide if she wanted to be a health nut or a high-in-fat pecan nut.

A person like me.

But since when have I ever shied away from torture? (Besides not running with my mom and Sterling.) I dive right into difficulty. Conflict is my middle name. Which is a lot better than Von Dragen.

We talked for a while—I guess technically it was an interview—and he asked if I could start next week. Which I can, so I will. If it doesn’t work out I can always bail, right?

On the one hand, I don’t want to condone the fact that it seems like he stole all his ideas from Gerry, and Gerry should probably be getting a cut of the profits. On the other hand, I need a job unless I want to get by on my so-called allowance from Mom, which is a mere pittance.

Guy said he might need me to work the late-night shifts. They’re open late, like midnight, for the late-night study crowd. (It’s not far from the library.) He said they usually get a rush on energy-boost drinks, and showed me some questionable-looking prepackaged brownies that felt like bricks. “Top sellers with the late-night study crowd. Maximizing our profit percentages,” he said.

I probably ought to be
in
the late-night study crowd, trying to catch up in all my classes, instead of selling them snacks.

9/21

Wittenauer and I spent all day—all day—on the phone or messaging.

He brought me to a meeting.

I brought him to the library.

We shared lunch.

It was a virtual date, but with actually zero contact. Did not enjoy that aspect.

He said the cutest thing, though. He said he was thinking about transferring
here
. As if Corny, Mr. Legacy Student, could transfer in his senior year. But he laid out the whole scenario and made it sound like it could happen. He said he’s always wanted to be a snowboard hound since watching the Olympic half-pipe.

“It’s not like that every day,” I reminded him. “That’s, like, vacation.”

“It could be every day,” he said. Then he mentioned he was not doing very well in his classes so far. That he was thinking it might be time to take a leave of absence.

“What? It’s only September. You have months to pull your grades up.”

“You would think so,” he said, getting all distant for a second.

Wait a second. He was distant the whole time. He was 1,000 miles away.

9/22

Freezing cold today. Snowing in the mountains. Went out for lunch (despite impending financial doom; we are Generation B after all) to this place called the Pythagorean Theorem Café. Bunch of equations on the walls. Shape mobiles. Sandwiches named after, well, mathematicians, I guess? Like I would know. But it was a near-vegan’s heaven. I could get anything I wanted. I could pay $12, which would kill my food budget for the week, but it would be lovely vegan food and fresh-squeezed organic juices.

“They put
sprouts
on everything. I hate sprouts,” Dara said while we were in line. She was wearing her hair in little miniponytails on the back of her head, and cool eyeglasses. She always wears dresses with leggings and boots or ballet slip-ons. I look hopelessly boring beside her.

So she hates sprouts. What does she even like? I haven’t found out yet. I know she doesn’t like:

Mountains

Fresh air

Exercise

Sunshine

Non-bloodred lipstick

Colors

Sandals

Fleece

Lending me her car

Green tea

Ramen noodles

Fruit

Fruit smoothies

Oscar

Sprouts

Me, possibly

“So, why don’t you just, like, order something without the sprouts?” asked Shawna.

“Because when I asked them to hold the sprouts last time, they gave me this look, like, look at the freak, like I’m unnatural,” said Dara.

“That’s because, like, you
are
unnatural,” said Shawna.

“Shut up,” said Dara. “And stop saying ‘like.’”

“Just because you don’t, like,
like
the word
like
, or know how to even like anything, that’s not my fault,” Shawna said.

We ordered and found a table. Place was jammed with students and also some professor-looking types (they had facial hair, which seems to be a requirement). A few minutes later I heard my name.

“Courtney!” the guy working behind the counter screamed at the top of his lungs. Sounded like kurt-kneeeeee. “Sandwich up!”

I hurried over to the counter for my basket of sandwich and corn chips. When I turned around, I almost bumped into Grant, who was walking over from the cash register. Flustered flustered flustered.

“Grant, I hate to say this again, but, um, quit following me.” He stared at me. I pushed him gently. “Joking.”

He laughed. “Who’s following you? I’m meeting my vet sciences study group here.”

“Oh?” I coughed.

“We’ve been meeting here long before you moved to town.”

“Oh. Vet studies. Interesting. You’re still majoring in, um, veterinarianism?”

He stared at my sandwich. “And you’re still failing at vegetarianism? Isn’t that turkey?” Then he smiled. “Just kidding. And it’s called veterinary science. Actually.”

“Well, this is called vegan cheese. Actually.”

We kind of laughed, awkwardly. He stared at my sandwich. “Really? That’s fake cheese and not turkey? OK, here’s one thing I don’t get. Why not just give up cheese?”

We got into this conversation about the merits of vegan cheese. We so had nothing real to talk about.

“GRANT!” the guy behind the counter yelled, nearly splitting my eardrums.

“Yell much?” Grant commented to me under his breath.

“Didn’t need that ear anyway,” I added as we both picked up our baskets of food and headed away from the ear-shattering counter person.

Grant stopped by the table to say hi to Dara and Shawna on the way to his own table, which he was sharing with a few other students, one guy and two girls.

“So, I see you met our next-door neighbor?” asked Shawna.

That was the understatement of the year. “Um, yeah.”

“He’s totally nice, don’t you think?”

You want to see nice? You should kiss him,
was the first thing that popped into my head. What? I nearly slapped my own face. I was about to tell them that Grant and I went way back, when Dara said, “Nice? Maybe, but I think he’s kind of a clueless dolt.”

“Who—Grant?” asked Shawna.

“Yes. He’s doltish. Doltesque.”

Shawna shook her head. “No, he’s not. He’s, like, really sweet.”

“In a dolty-like way.” Dara brought up the time Grant had broken the window moving a couch into the house, but Shawna said that was his housemate Cody, who really, apparently, looks just like him but
is
a bit on the dumb side.

Another Grant look-alike? (A Grant-alike?) I’d have to meet him. I wondered if Grant was good friends with him, and the rest of his housemates, and I wondered who his best friends were now. Did he stay in touch with anyone from Bugling Elk? Did he ever see that group of friends that once used to include Dave, other ex of mine? What about his roommate from last year, the one I ended up talking to sometimes when I called—Matt, right?

And as I was sitting there, mid–sandwich bite, a hundred questions went through my mind. I can’t remember them all now, but if I was to try to reconstruct them, they included things like:

What did Grant do all summer?

Where did he live last year? I couldn’t remember the name of the dorm.

Boxers or briefs? (JK.)

Did he still think it was OK to wear that striped polo shirt that made him look like Where’s Waldo?

Did he go through the Taco Bell drive-through anymore, and if he did, did he ever think of me?

I’m a hopeless romantic. I know.

I felt like I had to say something, or I’d be dishonest not to mention it. “So, back to Grant. I actually knew him from before. From Bugling Elk.”

“Bugling what?” asked Dara, making a face as she pulled a stray bean sprout from her roast beef sandwich. (If anything, she should take out the roast beef.)

“It’s our high school,” Shawna explained to Dara. “Well, I was only there a couple of years. I never knew him then, but I, like, wanted to.”

“Yeah. Well. I kind of, sort of, like . . . dated him.”

They both shrieked. Really loudly. And often.

I ducked down, hoping Grant wouldn’t see or hear—he had to know what we were talking about, but still. My new favorite place to eat in town was rapidly becoming a place I could never set foot in again. At least not on Tuesdays during vet sciences study group.

“Seriously? You and him. Was it, like, serious?”

“No. We were only in high school, you know. Seniors. No big deal.” It only made my senior year the best one yet at high school or anywhere else. Until Wittenauer, of course.

“So what made you break up?” asked Dara.

“Well . . .” College. I went away, and he kissed Beth, and then I kissed Wittenauer . . . and then it was too far away . . . and we sort of got back together but not really because I didn’t trust him . . . so then . . .

“Hello. Earth to Courtney.”

I suddenly realized I hadn’t said anything out loud. “Oh, I don’t know, really. Lots of things. Typical, you know, breakup stuff.”

“Hooking up with other people.” Shawna nodded.

“Existential angst.” Dara nodded.

“Pretty much.” I glanced over at Grant’s table and noticed his study group hunched over their notebooks and laptops. “I, um, went away last year and things just changed.”

“In other words, you hooked up with Witts-his-name,” Dara said.

“Not exact—”

“This is major,” Dara interrupted. “A major development. We’re never going to look at you the same way again.”

“You’re not?” I asked.

They both shook their heads.

I couldn’t tell whether they meant that in a positive or a negative way, but I didn’t have time to ask because Tobie, their former roommate, walked in, and they all started talking about party plans.

I ate my fake cheese and wondered why I was eating it. Maybe Grant had a point. Besides, would a slice of Munster really kill me? Sure, I’m slightly lactose intolerant, but what about Swiss? The holes would not contain any lactose at all.