Higher Education (32 page)

“You don't think the typewriter motif is too loud?”

“Oh, no. Very handsome. Say, that's a new ring you're wearing, isn't it?”

“Yes, it is.”

“It's nice.”

“Thanks.”

“What is it?”

I switch the bag back to my other arm. “It's a spider quartz.”

“Spider quartz?”

“You've heard of spider quartz before, haven't you?”

“Of course I have. It's a semiprecious stone, isn't it?”

“Oh, no. It's quite precious.”

“Well, it's certainly unusual-looking.”

“Thanks.”

“Can I look at it again?”

“Maybe later.”

There is a short silence.

“Miranda?”

“Yes, Gerard?”

“Listen. About Saturday night.”

I pause in front of Schoenhof's bookstore. “What about it?”

“Well, it's just that—” Gerard leans against the window, running a hand through his unruly reddish-brown hair. “I just wanted to apologize.”

“Apologize?”

“Yeah, I was sort of fucked up that night. I'd been off coke for two weeks, you know, and then I thought, well, I'll just get a little bit for the party, and not drink anything. But I went kind of overboard, I guess. I don't think I behaved very well toward you.”

I stare at him, holding my Coop bag in the crook of my arm. “At least we finally got to dance together.”

“Yeah, it was fun. You'd be a pretty good dancer if you'd just relax a little. But the other stuff—well, I just wanted to let you know that I'm sorry.”

“Gerard.” I blink at him. “Love means—” I stop, and laugh. “It's okay. No hard feelings.”

“Good.” He looks relieved. “And Edgar felt pretty badly about it too.”

“Edgar?”

“The shark.” Gerard grins at me.

“I see.” I start walking again.

“Hey, Miranda,” he says, catching up with me at the corner. “What are you doing after graduation?”

“I don't know. First Boston offered me a job.”

“First Boston? Yuck.”

I look at him curiously. “I also got accepted into Columbia.”

“Great,” he exclaims. “We'll be neighbors. You can come over and borrow a cup of yogurt.”

“We'll go through your aunt's closets and try on hats.”

“You can sneak me into the gym.”

“You can get me free copies of
Cosmo.
”

“We'll go to the top of the Empire State Building and drop gum on people.”

As we're approaching the entrance to Adams House I spot the mysterious Larson coming up Plympton Street, his thick squarish glasses glinting like beacons in the sunlight. I clutch Gerard's arm with my free hand.

“Gerard, who's that?”

He follows my gaze. “Oh, you mean the pear-shaped kid?”

“Yes. Who is he?”

Larson turns and disappears down the steps.

“You mean you don't know who he is?”

“No, why should I?”

“Miranda, he's practically the most famous kid at Harvard, next to the Kennedys and Jodie Foster.”

“Jodie Foster goes to Yale.”

“Oh.”

“Tell me who he is already.”

Gerard leans close and whispers something in my ear. “What?” I say indignantly. “He lied to me. He told me he wasn't from the South.”

“Haven't you ever noticed how he smells of chicken fat?”

“Oh my god. No wonder he's so—”

“How would
you
like to go through life as the grandson of—”

“I'm picturing him with a goatee.”

“The spitting image.”

“Oh my god.”

As we're walking down the stone stairs into the entryway, Gerard abruptly halts. “Oh, shit.”

“What?”

“I've got to run over to Dunster Street.”

“What's on Dunster Street?”

“The cleaners. I forgot to pick up Jackson's shirts.”

“Really?” My smile is an odd mixture of amusement and melancholy. “Why can't he pick up his own shirts?”

“He's a lazy bastard.”

“You think so?”

“Yeah.” Gerard turns away and then turns back again. “He said you broke one of my glasses.”

“He's full of shit.”

“Yeah, I thought he was lying. He kept staring at the fireplace with a stupid look on his face.”

I call information in New York, scrawl the number in my notebook, and dial. After three rings, there's a click and a recorded voice begins, clipped and impatient. I wait for the beep, holding the receiver tightly against my ear.

“Henry, it's Miranda. I know you must be incredibly busy with school and all, but I was wondering if you were—if maybe—well, the thing is, I need a date for the Radcliffe Senior Soirée. Call me, okay?”

I hang up and then dial another number.

“Michael?”

“Gal?”

“I have a serious question for you.”

“Yeah?”

“Want to go to a movie with me tonight?”

“That's a pretty serious question, all right.”

“I promise I won't try to put my arm around you during the scary parts.”

“You payin'?”

“Are you kidding? Dutch, baby, dutch.”

“I shoulda known.”

“I'll buy the popcorn.”

“One condition.”

My fingers tighten on the receiver. “What?”

“I get to pick the movie.”

“Oh, all right. Listen, are you going to the tea this afternoon?”

“They havin' brownies?”

“Is Master Ackerman losing his hair?”

“Maybe I'll mosey on by.”

“I'll see you there, then.”

“Thanks for callin'.”

“Sure.
Au revoir.
”

“
A bientôt.
” He pronounces it
ah-bean-tote
.

We hang up, and I look out the window for a little while. Then I stand up, do some waist twists, and go into my room and start digging my running clothes out from the tangled jumble on the floor.

Standing in the doorway of the history-and-lit lounge, I'm a little surprised to see Jessica over by the buffet eating cream cheese on Melba toast. But then again, I tell myself as I'm weaving my way through the crowd, tastes change.

“Hi, Jessie.”

Her head swings around. “Hi.”

“You get it in okay?”

She pauses, a piece of Melba toast at her mouth. “Get what in?”

“Your thesis.”

“I finished my feces,” someone says loudly, giggling. “I turned in my feces.”

“Sure I did. Why do you ask?”

“Just checking.” I hold out the Coop shopping bag. “Here.”

Jessica looks at the bag, then at me. “What is it?”

“Thesis presents. A tradition from the old country.”

“Everybody! Let's sing!” Over by the bar someone starts crooning: “I'm dreaming of a white feces, just like—”

“I wish Professor Jenks would shut up already.” Jessica takes the bag and puts it on the floor. “He just can't carry a tune.” She pulls out a package. “Great wrapping paper.”

“Really? You like it?”

“Everybody. Sing!”

“Sure. I love the little accordions.”

“They're typewriters.”

“All together now!”

“Oh.” She starts unwrapping. “Have a cheese ball.”

“No thanks.”

“Socks.” She holds them up. “With little accordions on them. Neat.”

“They're typewriters.”

“Oh. Well, thanks.”

“Do you like them?”

“I love them. They'll look great with my argyles.” She's unwrapping another package. “Combs.”

“Cheez-its!” somebody cries. “Mouses! Meeces!”

“No!” screams a voice by the bar. “Where?”

“Jessica, is this a theme party?”

“Huh?” She's busy with another package. “What's this? A box of Ivory Snow?”

“Family size,” I say proudly.

“I usually get Tide.”

“I know. But I like Ivory Snow better.”

“Oh, really?”

“I thought I might borrow some.”

“Ah.”

“Jessie, you've got a little piece of olive in the comer of your mouth.”

“Oh. Thanks.” She dislodges it with the knuckle of her forefinger. “You sure you don't want a cheese ball?”

“No thanks.”

“Some champagne? You should see what they're using for glasses.”

“Maybe later.”

“Okay.”

“Jessie?”

“Yeah?”

“Who's that over there with the lampshade on her head?”

Jessica looks up from the Coop bag. “Oh, that's just my thesis adviser.”

“It looks good on her.”

“Yeah?” She squints. “It clashes with her dress.”

“Yes, but she's tall, so she can carry it off.”

“I guess so.” Jessica tears the paper off a bottle of nail polish remover. “You've met her already, haven't you?”

“No, but I guess it's kind of hard to meet people when you've got a lampshade on your head.”

“Yeah. Oh, Jesus, Herbal Essence.” She unscrews the cap and sniffs. “It smells like air freshener.”

“Oh.” I feel my face fall. “I thought you liked Herbal Essence.”

“I do. I said it smells like hair freshener.”

“You mean that?”

“I mean everything I say.”

“I can take it back if you want. I still have the receipt.”

“No, I love it, really. Listen.”

“Yeah?” I'm eyeing the cheese balls.

“Speaking of mean.”

“Mmm?”

“Are you listening to me?”

“Sure.” I pull my hand away from the table. “Speaking of mean.”

“I may have been a little touchy lately.”

“You?”

“A bit short-tempered.”

“You think so?”

“Those dandruffy cats were driving me crazy.”

“I can imagine.”

“I can hardly wait to go home and shampoo my legs.”

“Well, it's nice of you to say so. But you can use soap if you want.”

“Did you buy any?”

“No.”

“Then I'll use shampoo.”

“Oh.”

“Anyway, I just wanted to say—”

“Jessica.”

“What?”

“Love means—”

“I'm vomiting.”

“Which reminds me. Since when do you like cream cheese on Melba toast?”

“If you'd been living on granola bars and Spaghetti Os for a week, don't you think it'd look pretty good to you too?”

“I see your point.”

“Have a cheese ball.”

“No thanks.”

“Anyway, it's an acquired taste.”

“Ah.”

She holds out a piece of Melba toast. “Bite?”

“I'll pass.”

“Okay.”

“Well, anyway, I just stopped by to—”

“Miranda?” she says, chewing.

“Yeah?”

“I've got it figured out.”

“You've got what figured out?”

“It came to me in a blinding flash of light.”

“What did?”

She swallows. “The meaning of life.”

“Really?”

“What do you mean, really?”

“It's just an expression.”

“Oh. Well, don't you want to know what it is?”

“The meaning of life?”

“Yes,” she says impatiently.

“I'm not sure.”

“Oh, come on. Humor me, okay? It's my party, after all.”

“Oh, all right. What's the meaning of life?”

“Guess.”

I roll my eyes. “Ninety-three.”

“Close.”

“Really?”

“Yes. It's like this.” She wipes a little dab of cream cheese off her chin. “If you have a pimple, be grateful it's only one.”

“I'm not sure I follow you.”

“Wait, there's more.”

“Oh, good.”

“And if you have two pimples, be grateful it's only two.”

“Can I try?”

“If you feel up to it.”

“Okay. If you have three pimples, be grateful it's only three.”

She nods excitedly. “And if you have four—”

“And so on—”

“And so forth—”

“Until it's time to go to the dermatologist.”

“Eureka,” she exclaims, hugging me.

“You make it sound so easy.” I sniff covertly at her hair.

“Well, it is. Stop smelling my hair.”

“Sorry.”

“Miranda?” Her voice is muffled by my sweatshirt.

“Yeah?”

“Speaking of smelling.”

“Yes?”

“You smell awful.”

“I beg your pardon.” I lean away. “I believe you mean to say that my running clothes smell awful.”

She lets go of me. “Anyway, the whole point is to be grateful for having only one pimple, see? Or two, or three—”

“Whatever. I get your drift.”

“And I'm not even drunk.”

“Imagine that.”

“Just a little champagne. I had mine in a Dixie cup.”

“That's my girl.”

“Are you sure you don't want a cheese ball? They're going fast.”

“That's the way it is with cheese balls.”

She's chewing again. “Well, thanks again for the presents. I can't wait to wear one of those socks with the little accordions on it.”

I laugh. “They'll look great with your Elvis Presley bobby socks, don't you think?”

“Yeah.” She grins at me through a mouthful of Melba toast.

By the time I reach the Weld Boathouse, the tightness in my muscles has finally dissolved into an easy lope. Breathing hard and rhythmically, I spin around and start on the way back, swinging my arms in a loose-wristed cadence. As I dodge a pair of bicyclists barreling along taking up most of the path, I find myself pondering Jessica's new theory. Maybe there is something to it after all. I try to remember when was the last time I had a pimple.