Love and Other Things I'm Bad At (2 page)

8/20

Mom just left, caravanning in Caravan behind Grandpa and Grandma and giant trailer, which Grandma and Grandpa and Mom all slept in last night, in the dorm parking lot. Completely embarrassing when they marched upstairs this morning with towels around their necks, ready for showers. I love her and them. I do. But I was dying for a second of time by myself. All day yesterday, Mom wouldn’t stop talking. Probably sensed that I was miserable and was trying to fill the empty, sad aura around my head. Instead she just annoyed me. My aura became irate at one point.

“Look at the trees, Courtney!” Mom kept saying as we drove around. “Have you ever seen anything so beautiful?”

That’s Mom. Psyched about the trees, living for foliage, while I’m completely miserable over leaving home.

“These trees are okay, but the aspen back home are more beautiful,” I said. “The mountains are beautiful. Living in the same state as my boyfriend is beautiful.
Was
beautiful.”

“I know you miss Grant. How about we get some nice, crisp, tart apples and some nice Wisconsin cheddar,” she suggested.

How would that fix anything? She
knows
I don’t eat cheese. And why did everything have to be so beautiful and
nice
in her world? I was dying inside.

“Mom,
no
,” I said. I was talking about the “nice” cheddar, but she thought I was rebuffing her in general and got upset. Then I had to make it up to her by being extra nice the rest of the day. If I were a cheddar, I’d be an extra sharp.

Listen to me! I’m going insane. I have got to drop out of this college immediately. I haven’t been in the state for even 48 hours and I’m already using cheese terms to describe myself.

Roommate Alert: Did I mention that Mary Jo got up at 5? On a Sunday? She put headphones on and was listening to music and smiling and reading her bio textbook. Classes haven’t even started yet. I haven’t even located the
bookstore
yet.

I’ve got to talk to Grant.

Just tried calling him. Grant is not home. How can he not be home? I need him.

This is going to suck, isn’t it?

LATER . . .

Just discovered that Mary Jo’s mini-fridge is not stocked with soda, as I hoped. The thing is packed full of meat and cheese. It’s like a deli case. Filled with meats I don’t recognize, like this reddish ham-looking thing with white pieces of something (fat? flesh? bones?) in it. Mary Jo’s lucky. If my grandfather had seen this, he would have totally feasted and cleaned the place out.

So I got a glass of water from the drinking fountain. But you know what? Even the water here tastes like milk. It’s like some science fiction universe. A World Made Entirely of Milk. The question is not “Got milk?” but rather, “Got anything
but
milk?” I honestly don’t think I can make it here.

Tried to be optimistic. Decided to decorate my side of the room. I put up my animal rights poster. It looks sort of strange next to the picture of Mary Jo from 4-H showing her champion cow Sophie, which is next to the photo of her gold-medal goat Chipper, but, oh well.

Then I hung up my favorite pictures of Grant, and me and Grant. And me and Beth and Jane. And Grant. Pretty soon I had this major collage going, so I finished it.

Then R.A., Krystyne (yes, that’s how she spells it), walked by and saw me holding the glue gun. “Uff da!” she yelled.

“Um . . . what?” I said. “Is that a compliment?”

“No, it’s Norwegian for ‘Whoa, Courtney!’” She started laughing. She was really cracking herself up.

Meanwhile, I was staring at her annoying, red “Cornwall Falls into Your Heart” sweatshirt.

“What did you do? You’re not supposed to use that stuff. It’s a fire hazard.” She said glue wasn’t on the list of “approved mounting materials” (what?!). So I had to take down all the photos. She said I had to get a bulletin board, and that they sold some really nice ones at the bookstore.

I was so mad. All the work I’d done. I was just trying to make this place look like mine. And the pictures were already stuck to the wall; they didn’t come off easily. I got so frustrated, I just yanked at one. I ripped in half one of the pictures of me and Grant with our arms around each other.

NOT AN OMEN NOT AN OMEN NOT AN OMEN

I grabbed the Scotch tape and put about 6 layers on. You can’t even tell it’s me and Grant anymore.

NOT AN OMEN NOT AN OMEN NOT AN OMEN

Need to email Grant now and ask him to send more pictures of us.

LATER STILL . . .

Obviously I will be writing in here constantly, as I am too lonely here and have nothing else to do.

Went into town this afternoon in search of natural foods store, or at the very least some foods more natural than pimento loaf. Mary Jo went to a meeting for the Biology–Chemistry–Pre-med Club. “The program here is incredibly respected,” Mary Jo told me before she left.

“So is the political science department,” I said. All of a sudden, we were like competing for being smart, discussing GPAs and SAT scores. She got a 780(!!!) on the math part. I immediately changed the subject and told her about my cool work-study job. Which I’ve got to find more out about tomorrow.

On the way to town, I stopped this guy to ask where the closest grocery store was. “Take a left at the stop sign,” he said. “Then turn right at Hertzmann’s Implement.”

What? What is an implement? Sounds scary, like something out of a Stephen King novel. Like this whole
experience
so far.
Misery
.

Anyway, when I got to town, I thought I must have fallen asleep and dreamt I was Heidi. These people walked by me on Main Street wearing lederhosen, and the women had their blond hair in cute little wired braids, like Pippi Longstocking.

“
Willkommen!
” one of the men said with this hearty wave.

That’s when I realized it wasn’t a dream. Oh my God, I thought. What next? I have got to get out of this place.

I found out they were having this festival to celebrate the end of summer, and also to welcome us to campus. They called it the Fall Alpen Fest.

More like Late-Summer Dork Fest. There are no Alps around here, in case no one’s noticed. There are a few hills and these things called “mounds” that I read about in Mom’s AAA book, but you couldn’t ski down one unless you were being towed by a helicopter. Besides, they’re sacred, ancient Native American sites, and you shouldn’t even be on them, so quit it.

Anyway. Swiss Miss, I’m not. I guess there are lederhosen in my Von Dragen ancestral line, but I’d rather not know about it.

The only people who looked like they were having fun were the ones in the beer tent, but I wasn’t allowed inside since I’m not 21. No all-ages tent anywhere. Completely thoughtless Swiss-German welcome to town.

There was a polka band playing on this little wooden stage that looked more like a gazebo whose walls had blown off. Accordions were flashing in the sunlight. People started to dance.
Oom pah pah
HELP.

I decided I’d sit down and write Grant a letter describing the whole scene. I’d make him laugh, and also realize how lucky he was to still be close to home. I found a spot on the grass that hadn’t had mustard spilled on it yet and sat down.

But before I could think of anything brilliant to write to Grant, I noticed this girl sitting a few feet away, writing in a blank book. She was holding a pencil that looked like a whittled tree branch, and her brown hair was tied into about a hundred tiny braids.

She caught me looking at her and she smiled. “Hey, Courtney.”

I stared at her. Was I still wearing one of those heinous nametags they’d tried to hand out? No. So how did she know my name? I asked. I’d never seen her before.

“I studied the book,” she said. “The freshman book they posted on the website this summer? And I have this photographic memory, so when I saw you I knew. Courtney Smith, Denver, Colorado, Bugling Elk High School.”

“Wow,” I said, impressed. She was like Raymond in
Rain Man
. If I dropped my value-pack of cinnamon Trident she’d probably instantly be able to tell how many pieces were on the ground. “So, um, what’s your name?”

“It’s time,” she said.

“Time?” I said. “For what?” I looked at the stage, wondering if a new polka was about to start up.

“My name. It’s time,” she said. “T-h-y-m-e. Like the spice? Parsley, sage, rosemary, and me.”

“Are those your sisters?” I asked.

“No,” she said, laughing. “I was just trying to explain what I meant.”

“Oops.
Sorry
,” I said. “Thyme’s a really cool name.” I didn’t know anyone with a name like that back home. Well, maybe—there were a Meadow and a Rain in my class. Not to mention a Hope and a Faith. But this is different. This is herbal.

“Yeah, I picked it out myself.” Thyme scratched at something on her arm. That’s when I realized she didn’t shave her underarms. Or her legs.

I really respect that in a woman, but I just can’t do it myself. It wouldn’t work with my red hair. Also, Mom would have a fit. On top of not shaving, Thyme has about 5 tattoos: 3 on her legs, 1 on her arm, even 1 on her neck. Various goddesses and symbols. Wonder why she doesn’t shave, because if she did her tattoos would show up better. But won’t mention that until we’re closer friends.

I looked around the town square, thinking: if I felt out of place here, how did Thyme feel? Anyway, turns out that Thyme lives 2 doors down, just across the hall. And she and her roommate have already gotten into 3 fights in 2 days.

“Can you believe this cow town? And isn’t the dorm a complete nightmare? I can’t
wait
until I can move off campus,” Thyme said. “Those awful, unhealthy fluorescent lights in the bathroom, plus the hall carpet’s made out of like asbestos or dioxin or something—I can’t even smell it without sneezing. I mean, it’s amazing we’re not dead yet.”

“Oh, yeah,” I said, “I know.” I hadn’t noticed that yet, but I told myself it’s because I’ve been too upset. “Well, um . . . I like your scarf,” I said.

“Thanks! All my clothes are made of natural fibers. Even my shoes.”

“Cool.” I nodded. Cotton shoes aren’t exactly my style, I’m shamefully more of a leather girl, but I did admire her for being so dedicated.

“So anyway, my roommate is like from the Stone Age. She was putting up these shelves for her Treasure Troll collection. Trolls! So I told her I wanted to fung-sway our room, and she was like . . . ‘Thyme, what are you talking about?’”

What
was
Thyme talking about? I still don’t know.

But she’s nice. She’s from Chicago, went to an alternative high school, seems interesting. At least I have a lot more in common with her than I do with Mary Jo.

We went off to find the grocery store together. They have some organic vegetables that cost about $3 each and vegetarian baked beans and that’s about it. Thyme said since we have to be on the school cafeteria meal plan anyway, and we already paid for that, what we should do is just eat there and scavenge for things that seem remotely healthy.

I told her how I helped get more vegetarian items on the Bugling Elk menu rotation when I was student council VP. She said something about how easy it was to get things done when you “went establishment.” Thought it was rude of her to slam me like that, but forgave her when she invited me up to her room to snack on soy-yogurt-covered raisins and nuts. She’s probably just stressed out about being here, like I am.

8/21

Grant is the best person ever. Best best best best. True to his name. Superior.

He called, and at first it wasn’t that much fun. He told me how he likes his roommate, Matt, and how he’s sending me pictures of his dorm room and how he got a job at a pet store this afternoon, only it’s one of those giant corporate chains—not what he wanted. He went on and on. He sounded so good, so happy . . . I almost really hated him for a minute. How dare he?

Told him I couldn’t do this, that I missed him too much and was coming home immediately. That I hated everything here and felt completely out of place.

“Hello? Is this Courtney Von Dragen Smith?” he said, tapping the phone. “Operator? I thought I was talking to Courtney V.D. Smith.”

“Will you quit saying that?” I started laughing even though I was still crying. Nobody was allowed to use my middle initials except Grant. “Why are you saying that?”

“Because this isn’t you. This really doesn’t sound like you.”

“The crying part? Or the whining, complaining part?”

“The giving up part. You don’t give up that easily. On like, anything.”

“I don’t?” I asked. Shoot. Because this throwing-in-the-college-towel thing was something I felt I could be a real natural at.

“No.” Then he launched into this long laundry list of things I’ve pursued that supposedly showed my perseverance. “And it’s one of the things that I really love about you.” Grant paused. “Does that help?”

Does it
help
? Grant is like this incredibly hot first-aid kit. When I got back to my room I wrote him a very gushy long letter, which I must take to post office and mail immediately. Perhaps for overnight delivery.

Sweetest thing he has ever done, unless you count the I.D. tag he made for me at Pet Me for Valentine’s Day with his phone number on it.

Or the day he called and said he was going to give me a ride to school, but he took me hiking instead.

Or the way he signed my yearbook and wrote “I Love You, Courtney.” None of the other boyfriends did that. I took an informal poll. It confirmed what I already knew: Grant is the best boyfriend ever. Superior.

He said it was a zoo the day I left, with everyone showing up to say good-bye to me. “And not the good kind of zoo, either,” he said. “The kind where they don’t let the animals out.”

Not sure what he meant by that. All I remember is pulling out of the driveway in the Caravan. I thought I was going to crumble into a hundred pieces, like those stale egg-less, flour-less muffins they sell at Earthen Fare way beyond their “best if sold by” dates. If they’re ever at their best, which I seriously doubt.

I looked at Grant. He looked at me. Mom hit reverse. We nearly knocked over a couple of trash cans because she burst out crying while she was driving.

“Mom, you’re not leaving,” I said, sobbing. “You get to come back!”

“But—you’ll—be—gone,” she said, tears almost blinding her from the 4-way stop at the end of our block.

It all seemed so tragic, like I was shipping off to war.

Still and all. A really, really dumb idea to come this far. But it can’t be that dumb, because Jane’s in Wisconsin, too. And I sort of only agreed to come here because she was leaving home, too, and it seemed like the cool thing to do. Must call her now and compare cheese stories.