Hurricane Days (11 page)

When I’d first arrived at the university, I had studied the crowds of Greek clubs, football players, girls who wanted nothing more than to date football players—and I only found those I could identify with in the film or drama departments, those who had strong points of view, who were misfits in some way, as I saw myself. Whether it was Carol’s Annie Hall hat or Andrew’s animal-in-heat laugh, no one in my film classes would have fit in with any of the other groups. And even though I dressed conservatively, I knew in my heart I couldn’t be a sorority girl. Oh, I could look the part, but I couldn’t feel it inside. My mind was always moving me in other directions and usually not toward the same places where everyone else seemed to be going.

Carol and I walked around the campus in the thick, sticky air. “I gotta be honest,” Carol said. “When I first saw you, I thought you were some rich fuckin’ snob. No offense.”

“None taken. I don’t think.” I laughed nervously.

“Then I thought you might be a slut. You kinda look like my cousin, and she’s been ridden more times than my Harley.”

“It’s funny how we use stereotypes to keep others at a distance.” Ironically, I realized I’d done exactly that with Adrienne. After all, she was far less threatening if I imagined her as an empty-headed party girl.

“Whoa.” Carol stopped and stared at me. “You’re serious?”

“Uh-huh.” She was staring at me like I didn’t have any clothes on. “What?”

“Never mind.”

We resumed walking.

“I live on a farm back home,” I said. “And my dad’s always sayin’ not every pig is a slob.” That was his way of saying not to stereotype, I guess.

Carol looked weirdly at me again. Maybe she was regretting this conversation.

“Didn’t it bother you? What he said?” I had to know.

“Nah, he’s an asshole.” We stopped again under a sprawling oak with hanging Spanish moss. Carol set one foot on a bench and lit up a cigarette with nervous hands. “I’ve taken him before. Failed his class three times so far.”

“Are you serious?”

“No, his tests really suck.”

“Great,” I quipped sarcastically.

“Every semester, he tries to make an example out of something I say. The little fuck.”

“Why do you take it?” I asked.

“’Cause he’s a damn good teacher, the prick. Probably the best I’ve ever had.”

I marveled at how she could admit that he was a good teacher in spite of her frustration. It was clear on the first day that Film Appreciation was going to be an intense course. At first, the auditorium was filled with students who thought it would be a breezy elective that would enable them to sit back and watch movies the whole time. What they didn’t realize was that the movies were going to be analyzed, some frame by frame, and that long essays would be required to explain the themes and vital elements of each one.

They also assumed we’d be viewing popular Hollywood movies. While some were included, there were many more films from around the globe—French, Eastern European—all with subtitles and more complex, unfamiliar ways of telling a story. For some, just the word “subtitle” made them break out in a sweat. By the second class, I had no trouble finding a seat in the much less packed auditorium.

I shook my head, as we trudged across the grass. “Why do you think so many girls don’t care about sexism in film?”

“Today’s girls are idiots,” Carol exclaimed. “Their bra-burning mothers had the right idea. But they did too many drugs, so their kids are fuckin’ zombies.”

“Interesting theory.”

“It’s not a theory. It’s the truth. Everyone in the sixties messed up their genetic codes. The next generation’s brains were compromised. I read it in a magazine.” Carol had a way of stating everything as if it were the gospel.

“Oh.”

We continued walking together under a clump of threatening clouds.

Chapter Seventeen

That evening, I went to the on-campus grill to meet Adrienne for dinner. Our argument last night about the sexism in heavy metal videos must’ve really made her mad for her to leave me a note with a meeting place on it. Would she be carrying a gun to shoot me? Of course not. That was paranoia. After all, a restaurant was a public place.

I walked into The Meat Grinder and scanned the blazing red walls, which were covered with artsy black and white photographs of bare body parts. It seemed a little racy, but I reminded myself that I was now a college student and a long way from Bible school. I soon found Adrienne standing in a long line at the counter, straining to read a chalk-scribbled menu.

“Hi,” I said.

“Hey.”

“I’m surprised you wanted to meet me.” I stuffed my hands in my pockets.

“Why?”

“I don’t know.” I shrugged, but of course I knew why. Adrienne made me feel like an activist who would tie myself to trees or something. It bothered me. Why should I feel the need to curb my opinions when I was around her?

“Can we get hamburgers?” Adrienne asked.

“Yeah, it’s the first one on the board. Can you see it?”

“No.” She strained so hard to see the menu that she almost fell on the person in front of her.

“Put on your glasses,” I said.

“I don’t want to.”

I smiled to myself as I realized that she was embarrassed to be seen wearing her reading glasses. I liked knowing a secret about her. It made me feel good…special…confused.

“What?”

“Nothing.” I smiled. This wasn’t exactly the conversation I’d imagined when I came here tonight.

“Is there a chicken sandwich?” Adrienne asked.

“No, that would be the duck à l’orange.”

She shot me a dirty look. “Bite me.”

When it was her turn, she said, “I’ll have a chicken patty sandwich.”

The counter guy looked at me. “The Cobb salad,” I said. I’d heard stories about the “Freshman Ten,” and I swore I wasn’t going to come out of here with an extra butt.

“We’ll bring ’em to you,” the guy shouted over the noise.

As we moved through the tightly packed tables, I said, “How do they know where we’re sitting?”

“They do this all the time. They have a system.” I could tell she had no idea what she was talking about.

We took a seat beside a photo of a woman’s bare torso. Adrienne looked at it a long moment. “It’s pretty.”

“Yeah,” I replied. “What happened to the rest of her?” I often made jokes when I was uncomfortable.

“I understand what you’re saying…about the videos.” In a rare moment, Adrienne seemed absolutely serious.

“Really?”

“Well, yeah. I just never looked at ’em like that. I mean, I don’t take that stuff as seriously as you do.”

I was too serious because I thought about what the image meant? Having an opinion meant that I didn’t have a sense of humor? That I was uptight? Adrienne made me feel this way more than anyone I’d ever met.

“Well,” I responded, “you never see men dressing that way. And they sure as heck wouldn’t be put in a cage.”

“Oh, I’ll bet some have done that,” she said. “Some guys like freaky stuff.”

“That’s not what I—”

“I know.” She grinned. “I guess I’m not…as political as you.”

No one had ever called me that before. It would be my dad’s dream come true. “Political?” I repeated.

“Don’t get me wrong,” she said. “I get pissed off at a lot of things, like how guys still have the power. I mean, how many female rock bands do you see?” She took her chicken sandwich from the waiter.

I tried to hide my surprise. She had a brain to go with that face.
Darn.

“You should do something about it,” I urged. “Start your own band.”

She laughed. “Yeah, right. I can’t play anything. You know, I always wanted to play guitar, but my mom said girls should learn piano. I hate piano. She made me take lessons for two years! Could be worse, I guess. At least I can read music.”

“I was forced to take piano too!” We laughed. “I couldn’t get beyond a very basic song called ‘Tuba Tune.’ It was awful. I said, if I can’t play like Chopin, I might as well hang it up right there.” As I got my Cobb salad, I could tell she was still watching me. She was always watching.

I proceeded to drown my lettuce in the ranch dressing they’d placed in a container on the side. Honestly, the salad was merely an excuse to have the dressing. So much for avoiding the “Freshman Ten…”

When the laughter subsided, I said, “I have a confession. I don’t completely dislike every heavy metal song I’ve heard. Actually, I like a few of them. It’s strange.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Well, yes, it is. For me, I mean.”

“You mean because you’re so uptight?” She winked at me.

“Shut up.”

“Or because you’re too good for the music of us common folk?”

“Bite me.” I surprised myself. I guess she was rubbing off on me, a scary thought.

“You wish.” After a pause, she asked, “Which one’s your favorite?”

I thought a moment. “That song about being alone again?”

“Oh, ‘Alone Again.’” Adrienne nodded.

“That’s the title?”

“Yeah.”

“Of course it is,” I laughed.

Soon we were both laughing. When I dared to meet her shiny brown eyes, they were crinkled up above her full cheeks as she laughed. She had the most joyful grin I’d ever seen. And in the dim light, her eyes seemed to dance as she looked at me. My face flushed with heat, and I tried to cool myself down by sipping my soda. I wasn’t sure how I would survive the year.

Chapter Eighteen

The Atlanta crowd loved Robin Sanders, roaring with applause at every point she made.

“Who says the rich don’t understand the poor! I know all about poverty!” She stood, dripping with Cartier jewelry. “My Aunt Clara slept on a dirt floor!” Everyone cheered, as if they were happy about Aunt Clara’s dirt floor. In truth, her Aunt Clara had run off with a hippie group during the seventies. She had lived in a camp out in the woods and often slept on dirt. But that detail wasn’t important now.

As the crowd reached a fever pitch, Robin was hoarse with promises: “I will never raise taxes! Ever!” If she could have thrown in a free car for everyone like Oprah, she would have.

“I’m here today,” she continued, “not just as a candidate, but as a concerned citizen. Whoever takes office next has to return this country to traditional values and stop unnatural unions from becoming law.” She looked down for the first time during her speech. Though the crowd cheered in response, these words felt a little thicker in her throat tonight.

After the speech Robin shook hands and signed autographs. She was exhausted from smiling, from handshakes, from trying to appear the picture of grace no matter what her detractors were saying. Peter was right by her side, guarding her, listening in his earpiece to every new development. He took her arm. “Lara says your poll numbers are back up.” He was beaming. She offered him a smile, knowing that all was right in his world.

Though Robin felt somewhat fatigued, her fans had kept her energized throughout the night. She signed glossy photographs of herself all the way down the front row of the audience. She was especially gratified to see young girls looking to her, as if they could run the country someday too. When Robin reached the end of the row, though, she was handed a different photograph, a blown-up color photo of her younger self with Adrienne Austen in college. She looked up, startled.

There she was. An older, more radiant version of the girl she remembered, Adrienne Austen the woman was, as ever, stunning. Her eyes were intense, fixed on hers. And her amused smile brought everything back in an instant. “Make it out to Adrienne,” she said, raising the photograph.

Robin sometimes wondered what she’d say if she ever crossed paths with Adrienne again, but whatever she’d thought about was quickly forgotten once she met those familiar almond eyes.

The governor momentarily lost her composure, as cameras snapped, capturing the moment. She knew Peter could tell from the look on her face that this woman had meant something to her. He immediately whisked her away to the limousine and glanced over his shoulder. Two other members of the governor’s entourage were escorting Adrienne to her car. She was going to get what she wanted—a visit to the governor’s mansion.

Robin watched through her limousine window as cameras flashed at Adrienne. She was dressed to the nines tonight, like one of those glammed-up sirens in film noir movies—just before they put the final bullet in their former lover’s body.

Quickly catching on to who she was, reporters began shouting questions at her. “Did you have an affair with the governor? Are you trying to win her back?”

Robin watched as Adrienne ignored them and glided to another limo waiting with escorts on all sides. Like Robin, she had a way of moving as if nothing could touch her.

As Robin’s car began to move, Peter said, “I never worried about the outcome of this election…until now.”

Robin was obviously shaken. She decided to make use of the full bar in the backseat. “Where was security? How could she just pop up at my rally?” She was livid, her voice scratchy.

“Save your voice,” Peter replied, pouring himself a vodka tonic. Then he checked his phone. “She’s been staying at the Hilton downtown.” He was breathing funny, running his hand through his now sweaty mop of hair, growing more agitated.

“She’s following us?”

“Yes. You really need to put this thing to rest. Either now, or she screws it up for you in Tampa.” Of course he was referring to the final debate. He was really scared. “I saw you with her,” he said quietly. “If a guy like me can see it…”

“There’s nothing to see,” she insisted, staring out the window.

Chapter Nineteen

“You got plans tonight?” Adrienne asked, tapping off the ashes of her cigarette.

I coughed. “I told you, smoking will kill you. Or me.”

She rolled her eyes.

“Tonight? I’m not sure,” I said. “Why?”

“You wanna party?” she asked.

“Party?”

She now rolled her eyes so far back they seemed to disappear into her head. “C’mon, you know,
party
. Some guys I know were gonna get six-packs and just hang out and listen to music.”