Better Than Running at Night (8 page)

We, the bikers of America, are looking ahead, lady. We're just trying to hit you.

I may have said I was sorry, but hitting Her Minkness didn't bother me in the least. What upset me more than crashing into mink lady was that I'd been so distracted I didn't see her in time. Just because
I was doing exactly what I had told myself I
wouldn't
do: let Nate get to me.

I continued riding down Artist's Row and turned left on College Street, heading toward the quad on top of the hill. The pedals fought back against my calves as I pumped. By the time I reached the grass, I had slowed down so much I thought I might start rolling backwards.

Hardly anyone was out on the swampy quad as I rode through the brick archway. The administrative buildings were abandoned. The puddled ground looked like it could swallow you up if you walked in it. I stuck to the paths because they were at least slightly shoveled and I could avoid getting splashed by the slushy muck below.

My girlfriend.

I couldn't get the phrase or her face out of my head. I was sure he wouldn't use the same title to describe me. Or even allow me to use the word to describe myself.

I glided down the paths, standing on the pedals, making sharp turns on the corners, using the brakes as little as possible. And then it began to rain. At first the clouds sprinkled me a warning as if to apologize for the inevitable. But before I had time to cross the quad, it was pouring. It might have been mild for winter, but that water could not have been colder without being frozen. So I made my way back home, letting the rain drench my clothes, slather my hair, rush down my face, camouflage the tears I could no longer prevent. Splattering through wide puddles on the quad didn't matter anymore.

Coasting down College Street, I wondered what kind of explanation Nate could have. I didn't think we were "going steady," but I couldn't believe he had a girlfriend. I guess that made me his mistress. Well, not anymore, I thought.

Good luck, Nate Finerman, in getting
me
to sleep over ever again.

I must have something in common with her, I thought, sitting up in bed that night. If I didn't, he wouldn't like us both.

My sketchbook sat in my lap.

I drew a portrait of Clarissa. Of what I could remember, at least. Then a picture of myself. And under those I drew one of me with her hairstyle.

No, as far as I could tell, we shared no traits.

On Sunday the sculpture department was having an exhibit of fountains that had been built last semester. I figured if I arrived early, I'd be less likely to run into Nate and Clarissa.

The building was pretty empty when I got there. My feet echoed in the halls as I made my way to the exhibit room. I passed huge buckets of used clay. They were separated by color and wetness: the brittle dry red and gray clay stood in two buckets side by side, and the sloppy wet red and gray clay stood in two other buckets. The wet ones were labeled "Slip Buckets." I stuck my fingers in. It was cold and sludgy; the kind of stuff you liked to jump into as a kid.

I rinsed my hand in the hallway sink.

Aside from a monitor at the desk, the pieces in the exhibit, and a cheese-and-crackers table, the room was empty. I was glad to be able to look at the work in a quiet atmosphere, without tons of people milling about. The opening didn't officially start for another half hour.

Spaced evenly around the room were all sorts of fountains, but not the type that you see in parks. One fountain was a bunch of pipes and showerheads welded together. Another was simply a hose that snaked around the walls and ended at the doorway, pointing at your face as you entered. In one corner was a papier-mache fire hydrant by Nate. None of the fountains actually had water coming out of them.

Except for one.

In the corner diagonally across from Nate's piece was a guy standing in a shallow metal tub—the kind in which women in Degas paintings bathe. The tub sat on top of a short white pedestal. The guy's body was entirely covered in black and white body paint, like a native warrior. He stood so still, I could hardly see him breathing. How is a painted naked guy a fountain? I wondered.

My question was soon answered when he started taking a leak.

His "piece" was entitled
Fountain of Life.

I looked up at him, and found that he was staring directly at me, accusingly, as if I was the one taking a naked piss in public. Our eyes remained locked until the stream trickled off.

People started flocking in.

I wondered how many times he could get himself to pee throughout the show.

I left before I could find out.

I spent the afternoon in the library, curled up on a couch with
Ivan the Terrible.

I thought back to the night Nate told me about his dad. Every time I remembered that story I thought, Nate and I are right for each other. If I could rewind time, I'd go back to that night and tell him why.

Then maybe his girlfriend wouldn't have come for a visit.

Maybe losing my virginity wouldn't have felt like such a mistake.

Icy snow skittered over the skylights. If you listened carefully, you could hear the flakes hitting the glass, like fingernails tapping a table.

My icicle feet were keeping me awake. I tried wrapping my sheets around them extra tight and pulling them into my pajama bottoms, but nothing helped. Socks would be the next step. But getting out of bed would mean making my entire body cold. That day I'd gone up the hill to Main Street and bought a CD of Itzhak Perlman playing Tchaikovsky's Violin Concerto in D. It was on now, coming to a close. I was giving myself until the end to get socks.

The orchestra hit its last chord, declaring my fate.

There was a knocking on the window. It didn't frighten me because I had almost expected it. I got the door for him, but didn't speak, and he climbed in beside me after removing everything except boxers.

"Whoa! Cold feet!" was all he said. He held them between his legs, slowly replenishing their warmth.

I lay as still as an ice statue.

"What're you thinking about?" he asked.

"I have a question for you," I said. "But I don't know how to say it."

Nate stroked my face. Like he was trying to memorize it. His eyes were fixed searchingly on mine. I shut my eyes, to try to
keep him from drawing me in. We had some talking to do. But he rubbed his lips against mine. Back and forth and back again. Numbing my senses until I practically forgot I ever had anything to say to him, or that I even had a voice for that matter.

Before long we were rolling around in my sheets. I knew it was wrong. My head knew it was wrong. But I had already let him go this far. His skin felt so soft against mine that I didn't regret letting him undress me. He licked my neck and lips and kissed each of my eyelids. Stroking my hair, he lay his head down, resting his chin against my shoulder.

His breath was hot on my ear.

I'd been so mad at him I'd forgotten how good it was just to be touching him and to be touched.

Plus, he had brought protection, so there wasn't any logical reason to object. I mean, I was pretty into it, too. But when he pushed inside me, I couldn't wait for it to be over. The gentle touches, the kisses, they evaporated, and in their place was Nate pushing up and down. He was suddenly so heavy, I thought his weight might send me through the mattress. He moaned louder and louder and I hoped it would be over soon. Let him finish, I thought. Then we'll talk.

His nostrils were faintly whistling as we lay side by side.

Ask him something. Anything, I thought.

"Are you going to marry Clarissa?" is what came out. I have no idea where that came from. It must've been hiding in some dark crevice of my brain.

"I'm not getting married. I'm going to be a free spirit."

"Don't you want to have kids?"

"And spend the money I earn on them?"

"Mr. Generosity."

He turned on his side to face me. "I mean, it's going to be hard enough to make a living as an artist. I don't need a wife and kids to be money vacuums."

"But won't you feel like you're missing out on something?"

"Look," he said, "there's this thirty-seven-year-old guy I worked with last summer who owns nine motorcycles. He's not married, never had kids. But he loves those bikes, and he takes them to shows every chance he gets and rides them all over. He's probably the happiest man alive."

"I don't know about
that,
" I said. "Maybe he's content."

"All you need is something to be passionate about. Like art."

"Or motorcycles," I added.

He kept inching closer to me, as if that would help to convince me of his argument. "Right, or motorcycles."

The stars on my ceiling were slowly dulling.

This was not the night to tell him why we were right for each other; it would have to wait.

I rolled over and tried to grab on to whatever sleep I could. I drifted in and out of consciousness, always hoping that this time I wouldn't open my eyes again before eight
A.M
. But when dusty dawn snuck its dull tired light through my blinds, I knew there wasn't much time left for me to get lucky with the Sandman.

I tried to get up with the impatient alarm, but Nate clung to me. Clamped me tight between his thighs.

"I have to go to class," I told him.

"Who cares about class?" He rolled me onto my back. Ran his palm up and down my body.

I wished I could give in to him. It almost seemed like I'd be stronger if I did. Rebel against academia. But I left and asked him to lock the door behind him. He didn't have to be at work until ten.

That day, Foundation was meeting at the nature lab to explore Ed's fish fantasy.

The nature lab was a well-lit room filled with live and dead fern and fauna for NECAD students to observe and draw. Some items could be borrowed from the lab, but most had to remain in the room at all times. Especially the hyperactive birds.

Ed wanted us to take a break from the technical accuracy of our previous assignments and explore patterns of movement. We were to choose a tank to observe, and with the drawing instrument of our choice, convey direction, line, and light. The first sketches shouldn't resemble anything recognizable. But in the final drawing we would incorporate some of our perspective training into these unstructured exercises.

"Begin not by showing me what the fish looks like, but how the fish
feels!
" Ed instructed. "Teach me what it is to
be
a fish!"

As if we knew.

"Unfortunately," he continued, "this facility is for public use, so we can't disrupt other visitors by playing music. But I am hoping that our friend Sam has brought his fish to listen to on headphones. And maybe if he is generous, he will share it with the rest of us!" He nodded expectantly at an eye-rolling Sam.

I had a feeling Sam wouldn't be that generous.

When Ed finished his speech, he stuck his face in front of a group of jumbo goldfish, the kind they keep in Chinese restaurants. He bulged his eyes and alternately sucked his cheeks in and puffed them out. I wouldn't have been surprised to see gills sprouting by his sideburns.

Ralph sucked in his laughter. Sam shot a look at me. My eyes held his gaze a few seconds before he blushed and directed his face downward.

I dragged a chair over to the largest tank of small, iridescent fish.

Now all I had to do was mentally become one of them.

Birds squawked. The tanks blew bubbles.

Ralph continued to survey the area, long after Sam and I settled on our spots. He moved methodically, peering carefully into each tank, as if the fish had perhaps changed into some other aquatic creatures since his last check. Maybe this time they would be salamanders. Or turtles. Bending his waist slightly, leaning close to the glass, his eyes tracked the fish like pendulums.

When he got back to the opposite side of my tank for the fifth round, I almost told him to make up his mind and sit down already. Every little detail raised huge questions and uncertainty for Ralph. There are bigger issues to be unsure about, I thought. Save it for something real.

At that moment, Ralph took a seat directly across from me. Of all the places he could've chosen, he had to sit precisely in my line of sight. There was no avoiding him.

All I had wanted that day was to be alone with my thoughts and the fish, to subtly sketch out my feelings. The old Ellie would've gone overboard, would've drawn bloated fish floating to the top of the tank. But the new Ellie was in control now, and she would show restraint; she had to find a way of masking her emotions, while still finding release.

The new way was much more difficult.

As I drew, I discovered that Ralph's position would actually work in my favor; his distorted features and darting irises would serve as a wonderful backdrop to those shimmering swimmers.