Now I'll Tell You Everything (Alice) (8 page)

“I’ve got to meet some friends later,” I lied as he followed me up the steps, stumbling a bit, and down the hall to my room. “But maybe we could take a walk? Let me get out of these shoes.”

He slipped one arm around my waist as I put the key in the door, and no sooner were we inside than he pulled me close and gave me a long French kiss, thrusting his tongue in and out of my mouth and moving his pelvis against me with each thrust.

I pushed away from him. “Jared,” I said, still trying to be polite, “cool it. How about some orange juice?”

He gave me a surprised, hurt look. “What’s the matter, baby? You’re
hot
in that dress!” He gave me a pouty, chiding look and reached out for me again more gently, this time kissing me more tenderly, and I decided to chalk up the clumsy pass to alcohol. I wanted to get outside but needed to ditch the dress.

“Why don’t I put on jeans and sneakers and we can walk?” I suggested again. “It’s beautiful out.”

In answer, Jared stretched out on my bed and closed his
eyes. “Ahhh,” he said. “Whatever y’shay. I’ll jush lie here fo’a minute. Tell me when ya ready.”

I took my jeans and sweatshirt into the bathroom and closed the door. It occurred to me that he might well be asleep by the time I got changed, in which case I’d walk over to the library and let him sleep, hoping he wouldn’t throw up on the rug or something. At least he was on my bed, not Abby’s.

I slipped out of my dress and was just bending down to step into my jeans when the door opened and Jared stood there, naked from the waist down, fully erect.

“Oh, baby,” he said, and pulled me toward him, thrusting between my thighs.

“Stop it!” I cried, pushing at him, but he yanked me closer so that I couldn’t wriggle free, then forced me around and started walking me backward toward the bed. His hand wormed its way under the waistband of my panties.

“Jared!” I yelled. “Cut it out! You’re drunk.”

But the bed hit me behind my knees, my legs buckled, and I fell back with Jared on top of me. He was trying to get my underwear off.

“No!” I screamed at the top of my voice. “Don’t!”

He put one hand over my mouth. “Shhhh,” he kept saying. “Hey, baby, I’m good! I’m easy!”

“No!” I cried, and bit his hand.

I scratched at his face and managed to push him up just enough that I could bring a knee to his groin, and he tumbled off the bed in a howl of pain.

I leaped over him and ran out into the hall in my underwear, screaming.

Two senior girls coming down from the third floor stared at me, then rushed over.

I was leaning against the wall, my heart pounding, and one of the girls grabbed my arm.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

I jerked my head toward my room, then shakily followed them inside.

Jared lay on the rug in a fetal position, holding his groin. He swore at me when I appeared.

“Did he . . . ?” one of the girls asked, looking at me.

I could hardly talk, my breathing was coming so fast. “Tried to,” I said, looking about for something to put on. I didn’t want to step over Jared to get to the closet.

I explained what had happened as Jared got to his feet, picked up his trousers, and hobbled into the bathroom.

“Campus police,” the other girl said to me, holding up her cell phone and thumbing the number.

“We’re staying with you while you report it,” her friend said. “You
are
going to report it?”

For one brief moment I thought of the fun afternoon, the way he’d played at the wedding. He was drunk, after all, but . . .

I breathed through my mouth to slow myself down.

“Absolutely,” I said, nice guy or not. Drunk or not.

Jared came out of the bathroom.

“The campus police want to talk to you when they get here,” the girl with the cell phone told him.

“You’ve got to be kidding!” Jared said, and turned toward me. “That’s the thanks I get for a great afternoon?”

“I thought a simple thank-you would be enough,” I said icily.

“Get the hell out of my way!” he said, pushing through the two girls in the doorway and disappeared down the hall.

“It’s okay. You know who he is, right?” one girl asked. I nodded. “Better get dressed,” she said.

They stayed with me when two officers showed up and I told what had happened. The girls confirmed some of the details, and the men took down Jared’s name and where he lived.

“Are you injured? Do you need to see a doctor?” one of the officers asked.

“No, I was lucky,” I said.

“And you were smart,” the second man said. “You did the right thing to report this. Many girls don’t, and it happens to someone else.”

Dave heard about it the next day—the ruckus, but not the details—and we walked over to the bookstore together. Halfway through telling him, when I got to the part where Jared was on top of me, one hand over my mouth, I was startled to hear myself sob.

Dave stopped walking and gathered me in his arms. “I wish I’d been there,” he said, stroking my hair. “He wouldn’t have got very far.”

That night I dreamed of Dave.

*  *  *

I learned that Jared had been put on probation. Partly because I was a little afraid of him retaliating in some way, I began hanging out a lot more with Dave. I made sure that I was always around people on campus, that I always walked with someone at night. I heard that Jared was transferring to George Washington in the fall, but I found I really liked being with Dave.

I guess it was about this time that I started feeling more serious about him. He wasn’t just my friend anymore; he was my protector. And it was a small step from seeing Dave as the muscular guy who would keep me safe to imagining him as my lover.

I began thinking about him at night after I’d gone to bed. Dreamed about him sometimes. Dreamed that we were getting ready to make love . . . all the touching and kissing leading up to it, but—as in all my dreams, good or bad—I woke up at the critical moment.
Darn!

Our kisses became more passionate and his caresses made me crazy. The problem was that there was only one month of school left now, and finals were coming fast. I’d always said that when I had intercourse for the first time, I wanted it to be in a private place, with someone I really liked, with all the time in the world, and plenty of opportunities to see each other again. I wished it were back in January, starting a new semester, because Abby went home sometimes for the weekend and I could have had our room to myself. Myself and Dave. Now I was lucky to
have time enough to go back home and pick up a few summer clothes.

“So, what’s happening with you these days?” Gwen asked, driving us back to the old neighborhood one Sunday in May.

“I wish I knew,” I said. “I just feel unsettled.” Where had I heard that word before? “I honestly think I was more certain of my life when I started college than I am two years into it. Now,
that’s
scary. I was wondering . . . Do you ever think of giving up medicine—switching to something else?”

“Only a couple times a day, and I’ve hardly even started yet,” she said as she exited the beltway.

We had visited both our families, shamelessly doing our laundry at my place, and picking up some of Gwen’s summer skirts at hers. We’d taken time to cut her beloved Granny’s toenails, and—at my place—do the dishes for Sylvia.

“Could I send some cherry pie back with you?” Sylvia had asked.

“Do sharks have teeth?” Gwen had replied, and Dad chuckled as he packed some up for us.

Now heading back to the U, we lowered the windows and drank in an occasional whiff of lilacs.

Gwen looked over at me. “Why? You thinking of switching fields?”

“Sometimes I feel like changing bodies,” I told her. “Dave’s applied to work on a construction job in Pennsylvania this summer. If he gets it, he’ll be gone most of the time. I’ve got applications in to seven different places, and I don’t really want
to work at any of them. I don’t want to go back to temp work, and even Dad doesn’t want me to work at the Melody Inn. Maybe I need a whole new me. Go get a brain transplant or something.”

Okay, to be perfectly honest, I was probably comparing my life to Patrick’s again, and that was a hopeless cause. Also—I couldn’t help myself—a couple of days ago I’d checked out his Peace Corps blog:

I thought I picked up languages pretty fast, but these villagers really laugh at my Malagasy, and I like to make them happy. Their language is so unlike any others I know, but I’ve already learned that they randomly add a “y” at the end of English words to make it Malagasy. “Bank,” for example, is “banky.” The volunteer I’m replacing and I biked the 24 kilometers to the village on a beautiful road that sometimes runs along the beach. Stayed at his house that night and the next, which will soon be my house—two little rooms, one public that everybody feels free to walk into, day or night, and the other room just for me. Wood frame, tin roof, and some kind of grass siding.

People here are more in-your-face and loud. Come right up to me and tell me I’m too tall, like there’s something I’m supposed to do about it. But overall they’re warm and welcoming, and I think I’ve inherited a grandmother. The Peace Corps doesn’t want us to start any big projects right away
because all of them depend on volunteers. I’m just supposed to go around making friends and improving my language skills.

I should have stopped reading then, because the next paragraph read:

The only other volunteer I know from our training group is Jessica—from my year abroad in Barcelona—but she’s in another village, so I’m pretty much on my own.

What’s she like?
I wondered. Do they bike to each other’s villages? What is
he
like now—all these new adventures so far from home?

But it wasn’t just Patrick. Liz was staying in Vermont for the summer because she got a job in a bookstore there, and Pamela had applied for a summer theater program in London. Worst of all, Dave would be working up near Harrisburg.

“And I’ve got another internship this summer, so you’re feeling left out. Is that it?” Gwen asked.

“Exactly,” I said. “Big waaaah.”

*  *  *

We were relating all this to Claire and Abby that evening as the four of us came back from an impromptu volleyball game. As we climbed the steps to our dorm, Abby said, “I’m going to Oregon for the summer to work for my aunt in her catering business. She needs someone to do the baking. Why don’t you come too, Alice?”

“As what? Chief taster?”

“You said you like to bake.”

“I said I like to make my dad pineapple upside-down cake for his birthday, courtesy of Duncan and Dole,” I told her.

“That’s all you’ve ever baked?”

“Chocolate chip cookies. A devil’s food cake once. Blueberry muffins.”

“Do you like it?”

“Of course!”

“Then come! We’ll stay with my aunt. There’s room.”

I stopped walking and stared at her. “Are you serious? Where in Oregon?”

“Eugene. Of course I’m serious! She lets me keep half the profits. We bake twice as much, that’s twice the profits.”

Two weeks later we were flying United to Portland, Portland to Eugene, and then we were sitting in the back of Aunt Jayne’s minivan chattering away while her springer spaniel in the passenger seat rested his paws on the open window and lolled his tongue at the passing cars.

Eugene, Oregon, is a lot like Maryland in that it’s hilly in places and there are loads of trees. What’s different is that in Maryland, most of the houses are brick. Here, they’re frame and you don’t see all the subdivisions where whole blocks of houses are built by the same developer—door to left, door to right, door to left . . . all down the street.

A yellow two-story will overshadow a rambler. Picket fence around one, unmowed grass at another. Abby’s aunt Jayne lived on a dead-end street at the top of a hill, with a steep driveway and a vegetable garden in the front yard.

“Here we are!” she said as she brought the van to a stop at the top of the drive and yanked the emergency brake. “Shangri-la Jayne.” And Spirit, the dog, took that as his cue to leap about the
front seat as though demons possessed him. When Jayne went around and opened the door for him, he promptly leaped out and peed a steady stream around an azalea bush, then faced the car again, tail wagging like a windshield wiper, as Abby and I crawled out and reached for our bags.

There were two old beat-up bikes in the garage, both fitted with large wire baskets front and back. Jayne explained that sometimes—to save gas—she did her marketing or deliveries by bike if the orders were small enough but that the bikes were ours for the summer. And then we were sitting in Jayne’s kitchen, a canary chirping at us from an antique-looking birdcage in the next room. Jayne treated us to peach-mango tea and her walnut bars, and I wiggled my bare toes in pleasure.

*  *  *

“What do you think?” Abby asked as we unpacked later, standing between a single bed with its faded patchwork quilt and a metal army cot. There was a blind on one window but not the other, tie-dyed curtains at both; a seashell lamp on the bedside table; and a dream catcher, some Mardi Gras masks, and a few scattered watercolors on the walls.

“I think it will be a blast!” I told her, because Jayne herself looked like an expatriate from a sixties commune. She had an angular face devoid of makeup, deep-set gray eyes beneath her graying bangs, and a girlish smile, as though life still were capable of surprising her. She wore a kerchief around her head, tied in back beneath her hair, and a baggy cotton jumper over a tee. It was going to be two months with a housemother whose smile
alone gave you the sense that she was up for whatever mischief you might think of next.

We helped unwrap dinner—little parcels of food from a farmer’s market—and after dinner Abby and I rode the bikes all around the university neighborhood on miles and miles of bike trails along both sides of the Willamette River, with a bike bridge to cross over now and then.

“I love it here!” I called to Abby, feeling a remarkably cool breeze after such a warm day. “The weather’s perfect!”