Been There, Done That (12 page)

He walked over to the garbage can and crouched down to retrieve his cup. He dropped it in the bin. “If this is true—about my looks, I mean—how come you don’t get all weird around me?”

“You don’t think I’m being weird?” I asked.

“Actually, you’re off the charts. But you’re certainly not clamming up.”

I smiled with a drunk’s honesty. “Let’s just say I’m mature beyond my years.”

fifteen

At least I didn’t throw up.

It had been years since I’d been truly drunk. But after dancing with Jeremy, Katherine didn’t snub me, as expected. Instead, she cornered me with a fresh cup of spiked punch and pelted me with questions. Did Jeremy have a girlfriend? Was he interested in anyone? Would he consider dating anyone on the hall? Did I have designs on him?

I reported my honest ignorance of his romantic situation. Then I said I had no interest in dating him myself because I wouldn’t be comfortable going out with someone so good-looking. She bought it, too, which just goes to show that people will believe anything if it’s what they want to hear.

“So you like him?” I asked, guzzling the deadly punch.

She shrugged. “He’s cute. But I’m not really looking to get involved right now.” Her eyes flickered around the room until she spotted Jeremy. She drank her punch, peering steadily over her cup.

My face was just starting to grow numb when Mike-n-Jake came over, looking antsy. “This party is lame,” Mike said.

“Totally lame,” echoed Jake.

“You girls goin’ to the party?” Mike asked.

“Well, yeah,” Katherine said with the slightest hint of an eye roll, as if only a loser would miss Troy’s beer bash.

“Where is it?” I asked.

“Dunno,” Mike said, shoving his hands into the front pockets of his faded and slightly frayed 501’s. His worn blue T-shirt read BOB’S SURF SHOP. Jake’s faded T-shirt was gray. It read COED NAKED LACROSSE. I know that’s supposed to be funny, that it was supposed to be funny back when I was in college for real, but I’ve never figured out why. Jake’s jeans were identical to Mike’s save for a touch more fraying, his hands in the same front pockets, muscular shoulders curving forward. Mike was slightly taller, maybe six four to Jake’s six two, and his hair was brown, while Jake’s was blond. Without the hair color difference, I might never have been able to tell them apart.

“Maybe we should just go outside and hang. Then we can, like, see where everyone’s going,” Mike said.

“Or we can just ask,” I said. I spotted Troy on the edge of the dance floor and strode boldly over. Booze makes me brave. “Hi,” I said, smiling at his soul patch, which had a zit at its bottom corner.

He squinted at my face. Then he looked me up and down, far too slowly. Finally deciding I had leaped whatever minimum attractiveness barrier he had set up for all women, he smiled and pushed a strand of greasy hair from his face. “What can I do you for, baby?”

I steadied myself against an involuntary shudder and forced a smile. “My friends and I”—I looked over to Katherine and the boys, who had edged their way closer—“We wanted to go to your party. I mean, if that’s okay.”

He peered at the other three, paused and then nodded. “Right on. All are welcome at the House of Troy.” He told me the address, made a peace sign, then disappeared into the crowd.

“That guy’s a skank,” Katherine said.

“Totally,” I said. “Ready to go?”

 
 
In the cafeteria the next morning, Jeremy ambled over with a tray crowded with toaster pancakes, toaster waffles and a package of Pop-Tarts. I was sipping milky coffee, wondering if upping my stomach’s acidity was worth the energy boost. My hair was unwashed, my face gray. I was eating alone; had anyone been looking for an overaged imposter, my solitary status would have given me away.

“You should have drunk a lot of water before bed,” he said. “It keeps you from getting a hangover.”

“I did. It didn’t.” I smeared cream cheese over a freezer bagel. “So you knew I’d been drinking.”

He opened a packet of syrup and dumped it on his waffle. He smirked. “I had a hunch. I was kind of hoping you’d offer me some.”

“I’d have thought you were above such illegal activity.”

“Nothing illegal about it. I’m twenty-one.”

“But you’d be encouraging illegal behavior in your—what are we, anyway?—your charges?”

He grimaced. “You make me sound like a nanny. I’m just there to help out in the dorm—answer questions, make sure things don’t get out of hand. Once we’re out of the dorm, I’m just another student.”

Any other girl on the floor would kill to be having breakfast alone with Jeremy. Truly, I just wanted to be left in peace, but it was clear he wasn’t leaving till he’d finished loading the carbs. As long as I was stuck, I figured I’d do some digging. “You missed quite a party last night.”

“At Troy’s? You went to that?”

I shrugged. “I didn’t have anything better to do. Besides, isn’t that what college is supposed to be about? Wild parties?”

“For some people it’s about getting an education,” he said primly.

“I was joking,” I said, suddenly caring more about Jeremy’s opinion than I did about investigating.

He looked at me carefully, little flecks of gold sparkling in his eyes. “I know you were,” he said. “Well, at least I hoped you were. How was it, anyway? The party?”

I shrugged. “Okay. Loud.” Actually, it had been awful. I’d had a vicious case of the spins, and the music was so loud that even today my hearing was slightly muffled. There were too many hot, sweaty, drunken, hormonal bodies crammed into a living room devoid of furniture, everyone jumping up and down to the pounding rhythm. Here and there, boys and girls clutched each other, exploring each other’s mouths with their tongues. I felt like shaking them all and yelling, “For God’s sake, use protection!”

As for research, it was useless. It was just another house party, indistinguishable from thousands of others in college towns across America. The girls on the dance floor weren’t charging for sex. They were giving it away for free.

“I guess you’re glad to have your classmates back,” I said to Jeremy. It was the Saturday before classes began; upperclassmen were flooding the campus.

He speared an enormous, dripping chunk of waffle into his mouth and shrugged.

“So, what are the older students like? More wild partiers?”

He reached for one of his three glasses of milk. “There’s all different types.” The dining hall only offered one size of glass—small—so everyone helped themselves to at least two glasses of whatever they were drinking.

I tried again. “What are the different crowds like?”

He thought for a minute. “The jocks hang out together, give keg parties. A pretty easygoing group. The theater crowd is pretty much what you’d expect—black clothes, clove cigarettes. They tend to keep to themselves. There are a bunch of preppies here, kids with money who were supposed to go to Harvard like their fathers and grandfathers but couldn’t get in. Not real studious,” he said, laughing. I immediately had images of white convertibles and polo ponies. Plenty of room for debauchery but probably not the desperation needed to turn to prostitution. Unless it was done for thrills? Or if someone was trying to keep up with the Joneses—or the Cabots and the Lodges, as the case may be?

“Most people are pretty normal,” he said. “They just hang out with their friends, do whatever interests them. What kind of stuff are you interested in?”

The table rattled next to Jeremy as someone set down a plastic tray: black coffee, water and Special K. I looked up just as Amber pulled out a chair and plunked down her skinny butt. “Thank God,” she said. “Everyone in the hall left for breakfast at, like, sunrise. I thought I’d be sitting here alone.” With her thumb and index finger, she made an L and held it up to her forehead. Without translation, I knew this signified “loser.” One week as a freshman and I was already hip. I even knew enough not to use the word hip—unless, of course, I was talking about the part of my anatomy that would most greatly benefit from liposuction.

“Jeremy was just telling me about all the different crowds,” I told Amber, hoping for more input.

“So what kind of stuff do you like to do?” Jeremy asked me again. Damn. I was hoping we’d skip over that part.

I tried to remember what I’d told Tiffany and drew a blank. Instead, I grasped back to my adolescence. “I like to sing. I was in a couple of groups in high school.” For once, I wasn’t lying.

“You mean, like in a band?”

“No, nothing that cool. Just choir. And some a cappella.”

Amber guffawed. “Now that’s a nice group of girls.”

“Who?”

“The . . . I can’t think of their name. The girls’ singing group. What are they called? Jeremy, you’d know.”

“Can’t help you out,” he said. “Be right back; I’m going to get some more milk.” Good God: this would be his fourth glass. The boy’s bones must be like iron.

“Tell me about this group of girls,” I said to Amber, not really expecting much but hoping I could pass it on to Tim as research.

Amber rolled her eyes to the acoustic ceiling and shuddered dramatically. “I don’t think they’re in it for the singing, if you know what I mean. It just gives them an excuse to hang out together and get sent on trips around New England. They’re known for being a little, like, adventurous.”

“You mean—with guys?”

Amber smirked. “Bunch of whores.”

I tried not to look too interested, although my heart was pounding. “Do you mean that literally?”

Amber’s mouth twitched. She tore open her single-serving cereal box, poured half into her bowl and set the rest aside (probably for dinner). She spilled a little water in the bowl to dampen the cereal and stirred. “Nothing would surprise me,” she finally said.

When Jeremy came back (the milk was chocolate this time), I tried to pry some information out of him. “Amber said the girls in that singing group are wild.”

“That’s a group you should stay away from,” Jeremy said quietly. “That’s all you need to know.”

 
 
I didn’t get to eat dinner alone, either. As lonely as I’d often felt eating in front of my television set, I longed for solitude. There was no place to be alone here. In my room, I had to make small talk with Tiffany. (“It must be really hard to live this far away from your dog.” “I don’t think Clay Aiken will ever do a concert in Mercer, but maybe he’ll come to Boston some time.” “No, those jeans don’t make you look fat.”) I had to make small talk every time I walked down the hall. (“Just going to the bookstore, hope the lines aren’t too long.” “Thanks, I like your scrunchy, too.”) I even had to make small talk in the bathroom. (“I got my towels at Marshall’s. I wanted to get fluffier ones, but my mother was too cheap to spring for them.”)

At least tonight’s food promised to be better than the swill they served in the cafeteria. Dr. Archer and his wife, Evelyn, had invited me to dinner. I didn’t want to go. (Would he once again bug me about my marriage prospects?) I didn’t think I should go. (What if someone saw me?) Still, I couldn’t really say no. After all, I’d worked my way into the college by deceiving him and taking advantage of his good nature. In a few months, I would betray his trust and cast his school in a shameful light. In the meantime, didn’t I at least owe him the pleasure of my company?

I tried to sneak out of the dorm unseen but ran into Amber at the front door. “Everyone’s going to dinner at six. Don’t you want to come with?”

“Ugh.” I rolled my eyes. “I got so hungry this afternoon that I ate one of those gigantic cinnamon rolls from the convenience store. You know, the ones that are all hot and gooey.”

Her hand flew to her mouth.

“I think it was, like, seven hundred calories. So, anyway, I figure I better skip dinner.”

“Yeah, you’d better,” she said somberly.

As for the dean’s residence, I’d envisioned an old ivy-strewn house made of stone or brick and scented with pipe smoke. After walking a half mile from campus, though, I finally came upon a structure that I believe is called a raised ranch and which, in my opinion, represents the darkest hour in twentieth-century American architecture.

Evelyn Archer opened the door, accompanied by two enormous dogs. She grabbed the collar of a black one (it looked like a cross between a Labrador retriever and a tractor) and pulled back as she opened the door for me. As soon as I was in, she released the dog, which immediately reared up on its hind legs and threw its weight on my chest. I took a step back to keep from falling over and said, “Hey, big doggie!” in a manner meant to indicate a love of dogs.

“This is Bitty,” Evelyn said. Bitty’s tongue lolled out of the side of her mouth in a way that some people might consider cute. Saliva dripped from her mouth, just missing my arm. Instead, it landed on my shoe. “And this girl here”—she rubbed the head of a dull-eyed German shephard—“this is Cream Puff.”