Higher Education (25 page)

He quails a little, but presses on. “Get up on the wrong side of the bed? Or are you just on the rag?”

“Interesting question, Frick. Which reminds me. What kind of name is Frick anyway?” I give him an insolent little show of teeth. “It's kind of unusual, wouldn't you agree?”

“None of your business,” he mutters, flushing.

“It's lucky your parents didn't name you Richard, isn't it? Can you imagine people calling you Rick? Or Dick?”

“Listen, Walker—”

“And what if you married a girl named Frack? And she wanted to hyphenate your last names? You could go into the sewing-notions business.”

“Shut up!” His face is as red as his hair.

“Ooo-ee. Aren't we touchy today?”

“You don't know what you're talking about. So why don't you just keep your mouth shut for once?”

“Frick,” I say pensively. “Frick. Now where have I heard that name before? You
are
a fine-arts major, aren't you?”

“I said
Shut up.
”

I look at him across the table. If he lunges for me I'll have to swat him away with my notebook. In the silence I can practically hear the eyeballs bouncing back and forth between Harris and me. At the far end of the table, Erin works peacefully away on her gum. Then Kerry says in an urgent little bleat: “Mr. Tate?”

His head jerks up. “Eh?”

“Isn't it time for our break?”

“Break?” He tries to focus on his watch. “Oh. Sure. Take ten, everybody.”

The room clears out except for Mr. Tate, Harris, and me. I yawn protractedly, without bothering to cover my mouth, and Mr. Tate looks over at me with his soft melancholy eyes.

“You're usually a bit more tolerant, aren't you?”

“There's only so much that flesh and blood can bear.”

“That's true.” Mr. Tate nods, slowly. “I often tell myself that.” He heaves himself up from his chair and makes a desultory attempt to tuck his shirt back into his trousers. “Well, if you'll excuse me. It's time.…” He drifts out into the hallway, leaving me alone with Harris, and I start staring at the window. There is a short silence.

“Look,
Miranda.
” Harris speaks with ostentatious calm. “I didn't want to pick a fight with you, you know. It's just that you're being such a bitch today.”

“Am I?”

“My god, yes. Even more than usual.” Smiling, he leans forward in his chair. “Why
are
you being such a bitch, anyway? Nothing's wrong, I hope?”

I gaze at him across the tabletop. Even his eyelashes are that same bright, sickly red color. “Wrong?”

“You can tell me.”

“Tell you what?”

“What's bothering you.”

I lift my eyebrows. “Why would anything be bothering me? Aside from your stupid questions, that is.”

“Oh, come on, Miranda.” After a few seconds he gives a sharp little laugh. “Oh, I get it. You're being snotty because you've already had
your
stories critiqued. You feel safe now, don't you? You can be all high and mighty about it, right?”

“Frick, try not to be more of a dope than you already are.”

“You think your stories are so great. So that means you can rip on everybody else.”

“Dear, dear Frick.”

“You think you're better than everybody else.” His voice rises screechily. “You're nothing but a snob. A snob, do you hear?”

“Frick, Frick,” I say gently. “Why don't you take your little old trust fund and go jump off a pier?”

“You think you're so great,” he whispers. “Cunt.”

Raising my eyebrows again, I look straight at him. “Frick.” Then, whistling a little, I pluck a Kleenex out of my bag and leisurely proceed to blow my nose. We maintain a torpid silence as the rest of the class straggles back in, taking their seats and eyeing us curiously. Mr. Tate, the last one to return, slides into his chair and looks dreamily around the table. His glasses tilt crookedly across his eyes.

“Well, then.” He sighs and pokes at the papers in front of him. “I guess it's time to move on to the next story.”

There's another anticipatory rustling of papers and shifting of chairs. Erin blows three quick little bubbles,
pop pop pop
. I feel an irrepressible smile curving my lips.

“Okay,” Mr. Tate says. “Who's next?”

Pop pop pop
. My smile widens. Folding my arms across my chest, I glance across the table. “It's Frick's turn,” I say, pleasantly.

Trying to keep myself from sobbing aloud, I'm hunkering on the steps leading down to the huge paved courtyard that separates the towering Catholic church on Bow Street from the equally massive parochial school across the way. School has let out and there are what seem like dozens of Catholic schoolboys playing ball in and around the neatly painted basketball courts below. Some of the boys just lean idly against the fence that parallels Mount Auburn Street, their black caps tilted back on their heads. Is it my imagination, or are they staring at me as I sit here jackknifed on the steps weeping into my knees?

Frick's words loop relentlessly through my mind.
You feel safe now, don't you? You think you're better than everybody else. Cunt. Cunt. Cunt
.

I grip my head more tightly between my hands, wanting to squeeze my brain into utter silence. But now I hear my mother's voice, high-pitched and thinned out over telephone wires.
You'd better get off that high horse of yours, young lady. I don't know what they're teaching you at that fancy school of yours over there, but I can tell you one thing: you're no better than the rest of us. You and those kooky clothes of yours, that makeup, walking around with your nose in the air like you're some kind of princess
. A huge silent sob grips me.

“Whatcha doin'?” says a little voice.

I look up from my knees. “Huh?” Standing below me on the steps is one of the young schoolboys. He gazes up at me, swinging his satchel in a gentle arc.

“I said, whatcha doin'?”

“I'm—I'm—well, I'm—” The late-afternoon sun is turning his light-brown crewcut into gold.
Like a halo. Dear god
. I force myself to remove my hands from my hair and to take a deep breath. “I'm—I'm suntanning.”

“Oh, yeah? Then why's your face all wet?”

“Uh, because it's raining?”

“No, it's not,” he replies, his face serious. “It's sunny out.”

I tilt my head up toward the sky. “Are you sure?”

“Sure I'm sure.”

“You're right, it's not raining. So I'm suntanning, okay?”

“Naw, you're crying. How come?”

“How come?” I stare at him.
Jesus, he looks so frail
, I think wonderingly,
he's all spindly arms and legs
. His face is uncannily handsome, his fine, strong features almost too keenly formed, without any softening baby fat to obscure the angles of pointy little chin, sharp cheekbones, slanting long-lashed eyes. His skin is clear and soft-looking, almost luminescent in the golden afternoon light. I shudder with another noiseless sob.

“Yeah, how come?”

“I—I—somebody's been calling me names.”

“Is
that
all?”

“They were—bad names.”

“So what? People call me names all the time.”

“What? Why on earth would anybody call you names?”

“People are jerks.”

“Oh.” I blink. “Hey.”

“Hey what.”

“What's your name?”

“Timmy.” He's busy scuffing the cement step with the toe of his shoe.

“Are you a Tim or a Timothy?”

“Huh?” He pauses briefly and then resumes his scuffing, this time with the other foot. “Oh. Either. My mom calls me Timmy. Timothy when she's mad at me.”

I watch him scuff, gazing at his serious little downturned face as he systematically scrapes away the polish on his formerly shiny black shoes. “Hey.”

“Hey what.”

“Don't you want to know what my name is?”

He scuffs a few more times, then stops and looks up at me. “Well?” he says impatiently in his clear thin voice. “What's your name?”

“It's—” My breath catches in my throat and I stare back at him. “It's Miranda,” I say at last.

“What? Tarantula?” His face lights up delightedly. “Your name is Tarantula?”

“Well, actually—” I feel myself starting to smile too.

“Neat! I've never met anybody named after a spider before.”

“Well, I—”

“Can you crawl up walls too?” He laughs, a flat, ironic little bark.

“Well, it's not exactly my name,” I hedge.

“What? Why not?” His face darkens suspiciously. “You mean you made it up?”

“No, no. It's—it's a nickname. Like your name is Timothy but your mom calls you Timmy. See?”

“Oh.” He scrutinizes me unblinkingly. “Okay,” he says, noncommittally.

“You can call me Tarantula if you want.”

He is silent.

“I don't let many people do that, you know.”

“Okay.” He starts swinging his schoolbag again.

“Timmy.”

“What.”

“Uh—” I wipe my nose with the back of my hand. “So do you play with your friends after school?”

“Sometimes.”

“Is it fun?”

“Sometimes.”

“It's not always fun?”

“Sometimes it's a drag.”

“Why is it a drag?”

“Because sometimes my friends are jerks.”

“Shouldn't your friends be nice to you?”

“Some of them are.”

“Only some of them are nice?”

“Yep.”

“What about the other ones?”

“They're mean.”

“You have mean friends?”

He shrugs.

“They call you names,” I venture.

“Yep.”

“What do you do when they call you names?”

He shrugs again.

“Doesn't it bother you?”

He looks up at me for a moment, then drops his eyes back down to his schoolbag. “Who cares?” he says, with another humorless laugh.

“Why do you have them for friends if they're mean to you?”

“They're not always mean.”

“But still.”

He lets out an impatient puff of air. “Sometimes they're nice, and sometimes they're mean,” he says as if talking to a complete dullard.

“Your friends should always be nice to you,” I persist. “Don't you think so?”

He lifts his shoulders in another shrug, and then starts scuffing his shoe again. Clutching my knees to my chest, I watch him in silence for a little while.

“Timmy?”

He doesn't look up. “What.”

“Do you live around here?”

“Nope.”

“Are you waiting for the schoolbus?”

“Nope.” He switches to his other shoe. “I'm waiting for my mom.”

“Oh. She picks you up after school?”

“Sometimes.”

“What about the other times?”

“My stepdad picks me up.”

“They take turns then.”

“Yep.”

“You're doing a nice job on your shoes,” I say admiringly.

“Thanks.”

“Is your mom late today?” I look around the schoolyard. “Most everybody else is gone.”

“Sometimes they won't let her out of work early.” He stops scuffing and sits down two steps below me, holding his satchel between his knees.

“What about your stepdad?”

“What about him?”

“Does he come on time?”

“Sometimes.” He looks down at the courtyard, narrowing his eyes against the sun.

“Do you like your stepdad?”

“Sometimes.”

“Do you like your mom?”

“Sometimes.” He shrugs. “Most of the time.”

“That's good.” I gaze at his small, finely molded profile. “Isn't it?”

“I guess so,” he says indifferently.

Having cried most of the way home, I've silently let myself in and have crept into the den, where I climb up into the big leather desk-chair and pick up the telephone receiver. On my third try I get the numbers right and my grandmother answers the phone in her soft crackly voice
.

“
Hello
?”

“
Gram,” I say quaveringly
.

“
What's wrong, Mirabelle
?”

“
I gave him my pencil box.
”

“
You gave who your pencil box, honey
?”

“
Tommy.” A sob shakes me
.

“
And what happened? Tell Gramma.
”

“
He told me he liked it and then he walked home with Laura.
”

“
No,” she breathes. “The dirty rat.
”

“
My new pencil box.
”

“
Not your new orange one? The one with the picture of Twiggy on the front
?”

I sob again. “It had four pencils inside.
”

“
Oh, honey.
”

“
And my favorite eraser.
”

“
The pink horse that you got at the dentist's
?”

“
Yes.” My tears fall onto the desktop
.

“
And the rat didn't even walk home with you
?”

“
No,” I say forlornly
.

“
After you gave him your brand-new pencil box.” She sounds angry
.

“
Gram, why did he
—”
I break off as the door to the den opens and I see my mother standing in the doorway, her body a dark figure-eight outline against the sunlight in the hall
.

“
Mirabelle? Miranda?” my grandmother is saying. “Are you there, honey
?”

My mother comes into the room, a cigarette in one hand. “Who are you talking to?” Her eyebrows are squeezed together into a single thin line
.