Higher Education (15 page)

“Of course it's cheese side down,” Anthony says gloomily. “Murphy's Law, that's what it is.”

Another scream from the Lampoon floods the street, followed by nerve-jarring sounds of chinaware being smashed and long whoops of laughter.

“Some party.” Skip tosses his crusts and the rest of his slice onto the sidewalk.

“No, no,” I say. “Murphy's Law was proven with peanut butter.”

“Right, get technical.” Anthony looks hurt.

“Peanut-butter pizza?” Billy's busily picking his teeth.

“Hey, big shot.” Skip sticks a pointy elbow into Billy's side. “Why don't you be a gentleman and offer her a slice?”

He gulps. “Sure, okay.”

“No, thanks.” I can't stand still. “Cheese gives me zits.”

“Me too.” Billy points at his chin.

“Oh, gross me out.”

“I don't see any zits.” Skip shambles closer. “Where are they? Can I see?” He slides a hand down my arm.

“Get your mitts off me,” I tell him, smiling. “Or I'll kick your teeth in.”

He backs away. “Your skin looks great. Really.”

I stand there for a moment looking at them, simultaneously wondering why I had once found Skip so amusing and whether Billy's father the ambassador really used to hide him in the closet during state receptions. “Well.” I poke a strand of hair behind my ear. “It's been fun, gang.”

“You're going?” Billy's picking his teeth again, this time with a toothpick.

“I'm afraid so.” I turn away.

“Coming to the Spee?”

“Coming to the Advo?”

“I've got a lot of work to do,” I call back, and start jogging up the street toward Adams House. As I reach the door it swings outward and I step aside to hold it open. The pear-shaped junior passes by, ignoring me. He carries three or four fat textbooks under his arm.

“Hi,” I say. “How are you?”

He walks on without so much as a glance in my direction. Staring after him, I notice he wears tan chukka boots with thin navy-blue socks that are bagging a little over his ankles.

It's quiet in C-45. I switch on the living-room light and take off my running shoes. “Jessica?” I say, and then again, louder, “Jessie?”

There is no response. I knock on her door and then, cautiously, open it and peer into her bedroom. It looks the same as it always does—books on her dresser and clothing in her bookcase, with her desk impressively bare and neat—and so it's impossible for me to tell if she's been here recently or not.

Closing the door behind me, I return to the living room, where I pick up magazines and newspapers from the floor and arrange them in a tidy stack in the fireplace. For a second I'm even tempted to straighten the Matisse print hanging askew above the mantel.

Instead I sink into the sofa, pull the telephone close, and dial a number. On the fourth ring a voice I don't know answers.

“Hello?”

“Hi, is Michael there?”

“No, he's not. Can I take a message?”

“No, that's okay. Thanks.”

“Sure.”

I hang up. After a few seconds I dial another number.

“Hello?”

“Hi, is Henry there?”

“Henry?” There is a pause. “Oh. Henry. He's not here anymore.”

“What?”

“He got a fellowship in New York. NYU, I think. So he finished up here a semester early and took off. In January, I guess it was.”

“Oh.”

“You want his new number? It's around here somewhere.”

“No, that's okay. Thanks.”

“Sure. Have a nice evening.”

“Thanks.” I hang up. From the nearby Lampoon comes a particularly resonant scream, thin and piercing. Jaw clenched, I reach for the phone again.

“Harvard Security,” says a deep male voice. “Sergeant Manusco speaking.”

“Yes, can you please send a squad car over to the Lampoon? I think they're slaughtering pigs again.”

“Hello, Miranda. How are you tonight, dear?”

“Oh, I can't complain. And yourself?”

“A little bit of a cold, but otherwise I'm just fine. Thanks for asking.”

“Sergeant, can't you please go over there and arrest them all?”

“I'm afraid I can't do that, Miranda.”

“Why not?”

“We've gone over this before,” he says, patiently.

“I know, but they're worse than usual tonight. Can't you at least get them put on academic probation?”

“It's not my jurisdiction, dear.”

“Okay,” I say in a small voice. “I'm sorry to have bothered you.”

“Now Miranda—”

“You have a good evening. Sergeant. And take care of that cold.”

“Miranda—”

“Try vitamin C.”

“Miranda, will you—”

“And give my best to Mrs. Manusco.” I slam the phone down.

Another scream, faint but prolonged, issues from the Lampoon. I get up, pull down the windowshades, and go back to the phone. I dial another number.

On the fifth ring somebody answers, laughing and breathless: “Hello?” In the background I hear “Roxanne” playing on the stereo, and what sounds like chairs being toppled over.

“Hi, is Jessica there?”

“Who?” the girl says, giggling.

“Jessica Hartsfield. She's a friend of Sutter's.”

“Oh. Gee, I dunno.”

“Well, is Sutter there?”

“Who?”

“Sutter,” I say grimly. “He lives there.”

“Oh.” The volume on the stereo goes up, somebody yells “
Banzai!
” and the phone is dropped. A girl says, “Stop it, please stop,” and then I hear more laughter. “Hello?” a male voice says politely, and I hang up.

I'm in the middle of cleaning out my closet when the phone rings. I hold up the green silk tie I've found underneath a stack of English 165 papers from sophomore year, and by the time I've torn the tie into two long narrow strips, the phone has fallen silent. I flip my clock-radio on to an oldies station.

In the very back of the closet, buried underneath tangled pairs of well-worn sneakers and my only pair of high-heeled shoes, I find a thermal undershirt, a Pierre Cardin dark-blue sock, a broken electric pencil-sharpener, two dead cockroaches, and, at the very bottom of the heap, a handful of dried-up leaves, their once-brilliant colors dimmed to dull brown and red. I stuff it all into a large plastic garbage bag I stole last semester when Kurt stepped out to investigate an overflowing toilet in E-entry. I include the strips of green silk as well as the cockroaches, which I gingerly transport using the Pierre Cardin sock as a glove.

I'm pawing through my few hangers of clothing when the phone rings again. This time I rush into the living room. “Hello?” I sweep the hair out of my face with a grimy hand.

“Hello,” a cheerful, confident voice replies. “Is this—um, Miss Marian Walker, class of '82?”

“Miranda. My name is Miranda.”

“Miranda,” the voice repeats with unfazed good humor. “Good. Miranda, this is Ed Calhoun the Third. Winthrop House '82.”

“So?”

“Miranda, I know you're busy—”

“Well, as a matter of fact—”

“—in your day-to-day life. But then, aren't we all?” Ed gives a low vibrating chuckle. “It's the constant round of lectures, seminars, hours at the library.” There are sounds of papers rattling. “Now, I understand that you're an English major, um, Miranda. Lucky you the Adams House library has such a fine literature selection.”

“I never go there.”

“I just wonder, Miranda, in our daily rounds, from classroom to library, from dining hall to language lab, from dorm room to gymnasium, whether we ever stop to think—”

“I often wonder that myself.”

“—whether we ever stop to think how fortunate we are to have all these magnificent resources available to us.”

“You're selling magazines, aren't you.”

“It's easy to take these wonderful opportunities for granted—”

“Do you have
Interview
?”

“Let me tell you why I'm calling.”

“Oh god. You're not selling bibles, are you?”

“It's my pleasure and privilege to represent the Class of '82 Alumni Campaign.”

“I
knew
you wanted money.”

“Let me just explain this to you, Marian.”

“Miranda.”

“What we're doing is trying to establish a momentum here, Miranda. A financial imperative to
keep
these wonderful resources available to future generations of Harvard students. Perhaps even your own sons and daughters.”

“D. H. Lawrence. Very good.”

“Beg pardon?”

“I haven't even graduated yet. Couldn't you at least wait until July?”

“What better time to join together with your fellow classmates, Miranda, as we together we—um.” In the sudden silence I distinctly hear the sound of a paper being turned over. “What we're doing is trying to establish a momentum here, Miranda. A financial imperative to—”

“You've said that part already.”

“What?” Another low throbbing chuckle. “Well, I'm glad to know that you're paying attention.”

“What did you say? I wasn't listening.”

“I said, What better time to join together with your fellow classmates, Miranda, as we together we share these last few exciting weeks before we spread our wings and start making our mark on the big old world out there. Miranda, your contribution assures your place in a growing network—um, community, a growing community of dynamic, far-seeing Harvard graduates—”

“It goes into the computer if I don't give you anything, doesn't it?”

“Well, naturally we maintain records of our contributions.”

“I thought so.”

“You'll be interested to know, Miranda, that from Adams House alone we've already collected over four thousand dollars in pledges.”

“If I don't contribute, does it mean I won't get
Harvard Magazine
for the rest of my life?”

“Pardon?”

“I read somewhere that all Harvard graduates get a lifetime subscription.”

“Well, gee.” Ed clears his throat. “I'm not really quite sure about that.”

“I should have known there was a catch.”

“Well, anyway, Miranda, just to start wrapping things up—”

“About time,” I interrupt. “Listen, don't you think it's a little strange to be sitting in your room on a Saturday night making weird phone calls to people you don't even know?”

“Pardon me?”

“I mean, why aren't you out partying, like every other normal person? Isn't there a movie you wanted to see? Couldn't you find any parties to go to? Why do you have to bother
me?
Don't you have any
friends
, for god's sake?”

In the sudden hush I hear my radio playing the Beatles' version of “Roll Over, Beethoven.”

“I see your point,” Ed says mildly. “So why were you there to answer my call?”

“A lucky coincidence.” I claw a hand through my hair. “Listen, put me down for a pledge of five thousand dollars.”

“What?”

“Payable in fifty-dollar monthly installments, so long as I keep getting
Harvard Magazine.
”

“You're joking, aren't you?”

“Why would I be joking? Did you get that all down on your little computer printout there?”

“I—um—”

“Good. Ed, I've got to run. I'm on my way to the Spee Club's pajama party. You've heard of the Spee Club, haven't you?”

“Can you hold on a sec?” He's rattling papers again.

“Well, Ed, it's been nice talking with you.”

“Um, just a minute—”

“Why don't you drop by Adams House sometime? We do let Winthrop people in from time to time.”

“I, um— What?”

“Bye now. Have a good evening.” I hang up and glare at the Matisse print.

The phone rings again, shrilling noisily in my hand. “Shut up,” I snarl, jumping up and retreating to my room, where I kick aside the big garbage bag and stand in front of my bureau. The phone keeps on ringing. “I'll kill you,” I scream, and then the phone is quiet. Savagely I rummage through my bureau drawers, finally emerging with a faded flannel nightgown patterned with tiny purple flowers.

“Gag me, Laura Ashley.” I pitch the nightgown on top of the garbage bag.

The radio launches into the Beach Boys doing “Good Vibrations” and I glance at the clock. It's almost midnight. I shove my bureau drawers shut. Skipping the post-run shower, rapidly I disrobe and change into jeans and Jackson's t-shirt. I find a comb underneath some books and tease my hair to make it look even frowsier, and dash some black mascara onto my eyelashes and add a little to my eyebrows. My reflection in my Estée Lauder mirror looks wan and unfamiliar. I show my teeth in a ferocious smile, drop the mirror onto the garbage bag, and reach for my jacket, feeling sufficiently uninspired to leave off my customary dab of Paco Rabonne.

“Love your
pajamas
, Miranda.”

“Sleep in your jeans, Miranda?”

“Huh?” I've been peering around the ice sculpture to watch Robbie and Adolfo feeding each other canapés from the buffet. The two of them are wrapped in filmy champagne-colored peignoirs, and when I peeked under the table a little while ago I could see their feet in high-heeled mules with fluffy little pompoms on the toes. Now I drag my gaze away and twist around to face Beatrice and Alicia. The scent of their leather nightshirts is a bit overpowering.

“It's a
pajama
party, Miranda.”

“Don't they wear pajamas in California?”

“Or do you sleep in the nude?”

“We do.”

“Goody for you.” I wheel around to stand next to Walt, who's reaching for a grotesquely large stuffed mushroom. “Is that your third or your fourth?” I ask, watching out of the corner of my eye as Robbie bends forward over the table, his peignoir falling open to reveal a smooth muscular chest.