Anatomy of a Boyfriend (17 page)

Date: Friday, August 23, 11:56 p.m.

Hey Dom,

There‘s a huge party going on down at the NYU Student Center right now, and here I am, sitting in my room like the wuss I am. You‘d think after moving so much as a kid, I‘d be a pro at meeting new people. But I‘m just so tired of it. Maybe I‘m also just nervous about this semester.

I‘ve been looking over the syllabi for my classes next week, and, Dom, I‘ve never been assigned so much reading in my life. Who knows how I‘ll be able to do track next semester?

I also really miss Jessica. She‘s been with me forever, and now that she‘s older and can barely move around, I‘m gone when she needs me the most.

Hmmm…just writing you has made me feel better about everything.

I think I‘ll go out to that

party after all. W

Subject: I love you!!

Date: Saturday, August 24, 2:04 a.m.

Oh sweetie!! I just called your cell and got vm, so I‘m assuming you‘re still out partying.

It‘s totally normal to feel out of place and nervous about classes. In a few weeks you‘ll be completely adjusted. I‘m also sorry you‘re missing Jessica and that her arthritis is getting worse, but I‘m sure your parents are taking good care of her. You know, ―missing‖ seems to be the theme of this week. By my count, 6 of the 22 girls on my hall have long-distance boyfriends too.

It‘s nice to know I‘m not alone, but one of the girls, Julia, is in an ―open‖ relationship. I mean, that‘s the most ridiculous thing I‘ve ever heard! She claims she loves and misses her

―boyfriend,‖ yet she‘s already screwed one of the guys on the third floor! Just the thought of even looking at another guy makes me want to hurl. I‘m not kidding.

What else? Oh, I don‘t remember if I told you that our room‘s on the tenth floor, which is the top, so we have one of the best views on campus! I can‘t wait to show you in person, but until then, attached is a JPEG.

Love you always, kisses, and more kisses, Dom P.S. Btw, Amy‘s loving Amherst, and it looks like she may be dating someone for real! I know, hell just froze over. I just hope he makes her as happy as you make me.

Subject: We miss our little girl!

Date: Saturday, August 24, 8:04 a.m.

Dear Dommie,

Thank you for your sweet e-mail. We got in late last night, and we continue to be impressed by how well the station wagon is holding up. It‘s hard to believe it‘s been seventeen years since we bought it. It‘s also hard to believe it‘s been seventeen years since you came into our lives. It was our pleasure to help you move in, and it is our joy to watch you embark on this next chapter of your life. I don‘t know if you noticed, but your father got misty-eyed during the president‘s convocation speech yesterday morning. We‘re both so proud of you.

It‘s going to be sad to start a new year at Shorr on Monday without my Dommie there, and our weekly excursions to Grandma will feel incomplete without your presence. Try to send her a postcard if you can. I know she‘s always looking for things to display on her fridge. I don‘t think she‘s added anything new since your beautiful prom pictures.

We miss you and are looking forward to Thanksgiving.

Love, your empty nester mother

27

I
t‘s seven weeks into school when the roof caves in. Literally. I‘m in a deep sleep, but my eyes fly open at five forty-five a.m. to water splattering against my forehead and the sound of thunder directly overhead. The bottom half of my blanket is drenched, and before I can process what‘s happening I hear Caitlin yell, ―What the fuck?‖ We both leap out of bed and are horrified to find ourselves splashing around in an inch of rainwater.

―Oh shit!‖ we scream in unison as I grab my flashlight, which Dad bought for me to keep by my bed in case of blackouts. I switch it on and point it to the ceiling, revealing a massive brown water mark. The top layer of paint is creased and hanging in jagged pieces, and water‘s dripping down through a million tiny cracks. Our dorm room is raining.

―Fuck! Fuck!‖ I keep screaming as I plod to my closet and take out trash bags to drape over our computers and her viola case. As Caitlin starts picking up our shoes and moving them to higher ground, it occurs to me to get our RA, so I slosh into the hall and knock on Meagan‘s door. She must see the panic on my face because she runs into our room before I can even explain.

―Holy shit!‖ she shouts.

The three of us just stand there for a few seconds, our mouths agape at the surreal scene, before Meagan springs into action and phones the Res-Life director. After assuring us an emergency crew is on its way, she unlocks the janitor‘s closet and drags in six empty trash cans, which we position under the heaviest leaks. The workmen are here just twenty minutes later, but it takes them the next four hours to plug up the ceiling and vacuum out the water. In the meantime, Meagan lends Caitlin and me her futon, but I‘m too on edge to sleep. I just lie there cold and wet, thinking how sunnier weather was one of the pros I put in the Tulane column and not in the NYU

column.

We‘re finally allowed back in the room later that morning, and it‘s a disaster area. The carpet‘s a marsh, the smell is noxious, Caitlin‘s stack of sheet music is indecipherable, my Herophilus poster is ripped and crinkled, and my biology textbook, which I had left on the floor open to the chapter I was studying last night, is so saturated the pages are completely glued together.

Luckily, our clothes are dryly tucked away in dresser drawers and the recessed closets. Most of all, I‘m just grateful my prom photos are protected in frames.

Our alarm clocks aren‘t running, since the workmen had to shut off our electricity, so I don‘t realize I‘m late for biology until I find my water-resistant Seiko under the bed, where it floated away overnight. Meagan advises us to skip classes today and offers to treat us to breakfast on Res-Life‘s dime, but I‘m too nervous about getting behind in my notes.

When I finally make it there forty minutes late, the professor looks down at his seating chart and points at me.

―Ms. Baylor, you know I count tardiness as an absence. And you‘re allowed only one absence before I mark down your grade.‖

―I know, I‘m so sorry, there was a floo—‖

―I don‘t need to hear excuses. Robin has your midterm,‖ he says, motioning to our TA in the front row.

My face feels as red as my hair. Nothing like this ever happened to me back at Shorr. I walk hurriedly toward Robin, my head bowed in mortification. When I reach his desk, he looks at me blankly and drops the paper in my hands. At the top in a big red circle is my grade. Seventy-two.

My jaw drops. This is the first C of my life. I thought Shorr was supposed to prepare me for college-level work. Oh my God! My scholarship. I need to keep a 2.7 GPA for my scholarship.

―Is there a problem, Ms. Baylor?‖ the professor asks flatly.

Startled out of my trance, I whip around and realize everyone is staring at me. I scurry to my seat and fight back tears the rest of the class, trying not to think how the scholarship was Tulane‘s biggest pro. Later in lab, I accidentally contaminate my tissue cultures and have to redo the entire experiment. Thank God it‘s Friday.

When I finally get back to my room that evening, Caitlin‘s packing a duffel bag.

―Are you going to Chapin‘s?‖ I ask weakly.

―So are you. Meagan said the workmen will need all weekend to fix the roof and plaster and paint this sardine can. We gotta be outta here by tonight and can‘t come back till Monday. So get your stuff together.‖

I rub my temples with my hand, too weary even to speak all the four-letter words I‘m thinking.

―Okay. Thanks, Caitlin.‖ I muster up enough energy to wrench my suitcase out of the cramped cinder-block closet, and I think how awesome it would be if I were packing for my boyfriend‘s place rather than my roommate‘s boyfriend‘s place. I perk up. Of course! I have plenty of money for plane fare from working for Amy‘s mom this summer, and this weekend‘s Columbus Day.

Wes and I had decided to try to stick it out until we saw each other over Thanksgiving, but why suffer? Could this curse be a blessing in disguise?

I pull my laptop from its protective trash bag, and I have just enough battery strength left to send out an SOS.

Subject: Shipwrecked!

Date: Friday, October 11, 6:30 p.m.

Ahoy Captain Wes,

This is my message in a bottle. My room has capsized (flooded with rainwater), and Caitlin and I are abandoning ship. They‘re forecasting storms all weekend, and I have nowhere to dock. Can you offer me a dry, comfy harbor? New York has a great (air)port!

Your first mate, Dom

Sure, it‘s a little cheesy, but I know Wes will think it‘s cute. After I pressSEND , I leap up and start thinking about what I should pack for a weekend in the Big Apple. That‘s when the fire alarm sounds.

28

“O
h God,‖ I wail over the siren as I press my hands to my ears. ―What next?‖

―As if anything could burn in this bog,‖ Caitlin shouts as she grabs her umbrella.

I sling my knapsack over my shoulder, and we file down all ten flights of stairs with a hundred other disgruntled freshmen. When we get to the lobby, Caitlin tells me she‘s going to dash across campus to Chapin‘s, and after his Sigma Nu meeting they‘ll drive his pickup truck back here to get me and our luggage.

In the meantime, I scout out a dry patch of pavement under the awning of the dorm‘s back entrance. I sit down cross-legged, take out my books, and try to study while the firemen take their time checking all the rooms.

A few minutes later I hear, ―Hey, little lady. Aren‘t fire drills annoying?‖

Wincing at the hokey pick-up line, I mumble, ―Hey‖ without bothering to see who the guy is.

I‘ve been hit on a couple times since school started, and I learned that if I don‘t react, boys quickly lose interest and go away.

―Studying hard?‖

I don‘t respond.

―You have a white streak on your hair. You look like a redheaded Cruella De Vil.‖

―Excuse me?‖ I shoot back, finally looking up at him.

He‘s about five foot nine, stocky, and not especially cute. He has curly, mousy brown hair that matches his eyes, and he‘s wearing the archetypal male student wardrobe of plaid boxer shorts, a Tulane sweatshirt, a baseball cap, and Birkenstock sandals. He clearly hasn‘t shaved in a couple of days.

―Your hair.‖ He gestures. ―There‘s a white stripe on top.‖

He reaches out to touch my head but I instinctively slap his hand before he makes contact.

―Ouch, woman!‖ He recoils.

―Sorry, but you invaded my comfort zone.‖ Hitting him may have been a little much, but I‘ve had a nightmarish day, after all.

―Damn, you
are
Cruella De Vil.‖ He massages his knuckles. ―I was just going to remove it for you.‖

I pat my hair with my hand and peel off what looks like a chalky white strip of paper. ―Oh. Um, there‘s a leak in my room and the paint‘s coming down. Some of it must have just fallen on me.

No biggie.‖ I look down at my textbook again.

―That was your room? Man, that sucks. Don‘t worry, though. Res-Life‘s quick about fixing this kind of stuff. I‘m the RA on the sixth floor, so I know these things.‖

I want to say that banishing Caitlin and me from our room all weekend long isn‘t ―quick,‖ but it‘s not worth my energy.

After a silence he says, ―So, are you going to introduce yourself? Or should I continue calling you Cruella?‖

―Listen.‖ I glare at him. ―I don‘t mean to be bitchy, but I have tons of work and I‘d appreciate it if you let me study.‖

―You‘ll hurt your eyes. There isn‘t much light back here.‖

―I‘ll be fine.‖ I focus on the page and pretend to read.

He seizes my textbook from my lap.

―Hey, give that back!‖ I stand up and shift my gaze from the book to his hopeful face. He smiles, obviously unaware he‘s being a creep.

―I first saw you during orientation, and since then I‘ve been working up the courage to speak to you. I finally have it, so give me a break, all right?‖

I look away in response, taken aback by his candor. Then he continues, ―So I‘ll start. Hi, I‘m Calvin Brandon.‖

I sigh before murmuring, ―Hey. I‘m Dominique.‖

―That‘s more like it. So, let‘s see, what are you studying? Ah. Chemistry. Let me guess.

Premed?‖

―Maybe.‖

He hands my book back to me. ―I started as premed myself, but it was way out of my league.

Now I‘m a double in econ and poly sci, with a minor in French.‖

I want to say I couldn‘t care less about those subjects, especially the French.

―So, where are you from?‖ he persists.

I sigh again before answering.

―Florida?‖ His eyes widen. ―That‘s nice and warm. I‘m from Chicago.‖

―So?‖

―I see we took our happy pill today, Cruella. Are you at least excited for the freshman semiformal tomorrow?‖

―One, I already told you my name is Dominique. And two, I don‘t think I‘ll be going.‖

―You gotta! We have a great DJ who plays all the eighties classics. And this year The Gumbo Shop‘s catering. Personally, I can‘t wait. Why wouldn‘t you go?‖