Principles of Love (11 page)

“Sorry,” I say and tuck the still-Halloween black strand of hair behind my ear. I bite my lower lip at a dry patch and wince when I do it too hard. My face, hands, and lips are already chapped from the dip in temperature this past week.

“From the top,” Harriet says and counts again. We’re supposed to be doing a cover of Cyndi Lauper’s “True Colors” (you know, the pretty ditty about everyone being beautiful like a rainbow? I seem to remember catching the video on late night VH1 Classics and she’s gazing into a puddle or something. It’s kind of cool), but with a massively hard edge, loud guitar. As the lead singer I’m meant to be raspy and wild, but it’s not going well.

Harriet offered me an audition when she heard me singing “Old Man” while waiting for Mr. Chaucer. Quiet Jake was listening, too, I could tell, but didn’t tell me any opinions or trivia about Neil Young. Harriet started TLC (Tastes Like Chicken) as a freshman, but changed the format last spring having decided that “the post-Lilith Fair Amos/McLaughlin thing was over and exclusionary.” So she got Chris to join — and he’s not a bad guitarist I have to say.

I, on the other hand, am sucking hard core. Carrying the tune — fine. Remembering lyrics — absolutely. Being harder edged and rocking out — not so much. I’m just more folk rock than TLC wants, and no matter how much I contort myself, it’s clear to all of us that I’m not a good fit. Chris, Harriet and Jennifer La Shnonignalfreusen (or whatever her name is) are nice about it, complementing me on my voice, but we leave it at that.

I walk back from the music building and — not surprisingly — take the route back home that leads me past Whitcomb. I count the windows up and over until I can figure out which one belongs to Robinson, give myself a thirty-second grace period of lusty longing and move on. If only the rest of my emotions were that easy.

As I’m walking away, the front door of Whitcomb squeaks open and I take a glance over my shoulder. Channing, pea coat-clad and lankily appealing as an Irish setter (and I do like dogs), bounds out to greet me and offers to walk me home.

“Good thing I didn’t drive,” I say and let him. He’s pleasant enough company and attentive, guiding me around a fallen branch and asking me about my classes — which ones I like (English, Art, Ethics, History, Intro to Chemistry, Senior Elective) and which ones I don’t (Math, math, math).

“You like your elective with Robinson?” Channing asks, seemingly agenda-free.

“I do,” I say. “It’s fun — I mean, pretty much we get to watch movies and talk about them and compare them to the book — what’s not to like?”

“I’m not a fan of the
Emma
/
Clueless
connection,” Channing says, in reference to last week’s lecture. “I’m more of a
Heart of Darkness
into
Apocalypse Now
.”

“Wasn’t that only loosely based on the book, though?”

Channing looks impressed. I may not be hard-rock chic, but I know my movie scoop. “True. But I’m just saying that I like those kinds of movies better. Actually Robinson was the one who first made me sit down and watch
Apocalypse
— he’s way into it.”

We debate the merits of
The Maltese Falcon
in print versus on screen and then I’m on the top step of the porch and Channing’s on the bottom. Before I can even think (let alone overthink) about the romantic undertones of his chivalrous walk home, Channing and I are kissing. With his arms around my back he pulls me in and I can’t help but respond in kind. This lasts for a minute or two and ends with the porch light flicking on (thanks, Dad!) and me rushing inside.

Dad gives me a short but pointed lecture on public displays of affection and how I’m really a representative of Hadley Hall by way of his principalhood and I need to monitor my behavior, etc. Fine. Then, just as I think my good dad has been replaced by the prep school bodysnatcher, he stops me halfway up the spiral stairs and interjects, “Do you like him, though? I know Channing a little through the student government — he seems upstanding.”

It occurs to me that this is Dad’s way of trying to deal with his daughter getting man-handled (okay, lightly pawed at), making the boy attached to the lips seem great. He’s never really had to come face to face with my face to face, so to speak. And it must be strange.

“I’m okay, Dad,” I say.

He nods and for one second I think he might cry. Which would make me feel horrible. Please, don’t, I think. He doesn’t. “Just…” I assume he’s going to say
be careful
or something, but he adds, “Just be sure to be yourself. You’re…” He doesn’t complete the thought but butts in on himself, “Channing would be a lucky guy to be with you.”

“I don’t know what I think yet,” I say. “Too soon to tell. We’ve just begun filming.” Dad is well aware of my camera-mind tendencies.

“Well,” Dad says, “Let me know when you make some progress — you know, when you’re past the first shot.”

“Establishing shot,” I say. “And, in case you’re wondering, I am not part of Tastes Like Chicken. I’m too Fiona and not enough Benatar.”

“Whatever that means, I hope you’re okay with it.”

“Getting there,” I say and take the last steps two at a time.

The slight puffy-lipped post-kiss feeling fades after a few minutes in my room. I sit on my bed and look out the window at the dark campus. Whitcomb lights are on. I try to redo my kiss with Channing, dissecting his moves and touches — both up there on the sliding scale of physicality, but something’s off. I’m not Friend-Girl with him, that’s a plus — but I’m not sure I want the other side of that. It’s all too nice — me n’ Channing and Robinson n’ Lila and drive-ins and burgers (okay, not that I’ve ever been to a drive in, but still) — I feel like a fraud. I like kissing — okay, I LOVE kissing — if it’s a good kiss, and attached to a good person, but even though Channing qualifies as all of that, I feel like I did with the tryout tonight: not really me.

How many words can I think of for sluggish and distracted (lethargic and preoccupied to name two)? I wish I felt connected to math — I mean, I have before — I like doing algebraic equations and geometry — but this year, Ms. Thompson is the bane of my academic existence. The wart on my hand. The stain on my dress. A callous on an otherwise smooth and pedicured foot. And I mention pedicures because after school today I’m blowing off studying for another math “quizette” (Thompson’s lame attempt at making tests sounds cute I guess), and going with Aunt Mable for a belated birthday treat; spa pedicures. So while my body is in math class, my butt is (uncomfortably, I might add) perched on one of the ancient wooden chairs, and my face is forward toward the blackboard, my mind is swirling with Double Decker Red, Ballet Slippers Pink, and all of the finery OPI has to offer my toenails.

When I tune in, however, I’m greeted with, “And if Love Bukowski’s test is anything to go by, you all need to spend more time than you have been going over this stuff.” I so dislike when teacher’s use words like “stuff” or “whatever” and try to sound young and hip when really their facial hair and cruel eyes and burned out view on life defies any youthful spirit. Okay — that’s harsh — not every faculty person is like that — not Mr. Chaucer or Ms. Yee in Art and Imagery or Lana Gabovitch (who insists on going by her first name) in Drama and Movement (think dancing with scarves and ocean music in the background). But Ms. Thompson just can’t get away with it — she’s too bitter. She walks around, handing last week’s tests out face-up as if to prove how embarrassed we should be at seeing our letter grades (as opposed to the check-plus system she used in early fall — a grace period of sorts).

And I should find some sort of solace in noting that Katie next to me got a C and Matilda in front got a C+, but Claude Charbonneau (the Parisian import) got a B and that pisses me off since he’s a solid no-effort guy. My own bright red D+ blares out like a sex shop sign (not that I’ve really seen too many of these, but it’s just as blush-producing and horrid). Not only have I never had a D-grade before, I find the “plus” part of it a double insult — like, your tests sucks, but I’ll throw a little cross near the letter so you can feel like it “sucks plus.” Um, thanks.

Now, I’m self-aware enough to know that even though I might temporarily exonerate myself by doing so, I can’t blame Thompson entirely for this screw up. The basic problems are; she’s a bad teacher (the kind who when you say you don’t get something just goes over the same equation again and again instead of finding a different way to make sense or explain it) and I am not focusing AT ALL. It’s like the sector of my brain where math functions has been attacked by Mad Cow Disease (too many Bartley’s Burgers) and now I’m doomed.

Note to self: MUST DO BETTER IN MATH. Not just so I don’t wind up back at the crappy community college at which my dad rotated through various faculty positions. More so that I get into TCOMC (TCOMC = the college of my choice as abbreviated by the college counseling office which has already begun the pitch for grades, SATS, and extracurricular activities). I refuse to be one of those girls who is all about English and can’t string together numeric structures and takes classes in college like “Math for Poets.”

Exams are looming in the distance so I call Mable in between classes from the wooden phone booth and reschedule our pedicures for Thanksgiving Break when I’ll need the distractions. At home, I clean my room, pile and discard, stack and organize my books and notes into neat(ish) sections by subject so I can steadily work my way through each one for exams.

Nights, after a solid five hours or more of cramming, I allow myself the indulgence of emailing DrakeFan, sometimes looking forward to our back and forth too much. He’s (and I’m fairly sure he’s a he — but I could be wrong) wittier than anyone else (at least on paper — or screen) and I’ll admit here that I print out our correspondence and keep the pages tucked into my journal (where I’ve still yet to finish a song). By now, I have of course spent a bit of time pondering the identity of DrakeFan, but with a student body of eight hundred, it’s hard to narrow down. Because who’s to say it’s someone I’m familiar with? Could be Zack the geeky but funny freshman or Darth (not his real name, at least I don’t think so) the junior who is too into that Star Wars movies. Or someone I’ve never even thought of — could be a faculty member — though that’s a fairly disturbing thought. Or an eighth-grader from the middle school.

I usually put on one of the 1970s disks and type away, free-associating and telling stories (the time at camp when I lost my shorts while running a race in front of my first real crush) or going over incidents at school (without using names I might write that I like someone who has a girlfriend) and DrakeFan gives great advice or makes me smile or tells something from his own life — painful (his grandmother’s heart attack right in front of him) or awe-inspiring (the trek he did with his dad in Nepal). And the more this goes on, the more tempted I am to hunt and peck to find out with whom my nightly screen time is spent — but I’ve stopped short of asking. Mainly because I don’t want to stop the communication. And also because I could be disappointed. Maybe part of me thinks it’s Robinson Hall. Or even Channing and I’ll be totally surprised to find out that we really do connect.

I’ve had my morning caffeine fix and gone running with the hopes of bumping into Robinson at the high jump mat — and a couple of times this has come to fruition. But my guilt is also growing — the sense that I’m betraying Lila even though NOTHING has happened (outside of my lascivious imagination) with him. Just cardio workouts on both fronts.

Dad is flitting around the house (as much as a 6’ 1” man flits) making sure the guest room is ready for the St. Paul’s School English exchange student. The school alternates sending a male or female — and this year it’s a “bloke.” I know this because Chris the MLUT is always on top (heh) of the foreign scene. So when the bright clear moon has lured me into staring out my window, I’ve considered the possibility that English Bloke might be the man of my dreams. A dark, brooding foreigner who will teach me the international language of love. Of Love.

“You ready?” Cordelia asks for the fifth time. She’s watching me by trying not to snoop as I finish my email to DrakeFan. She’s one of the only faces on campus during Thanksgiving break and we’ve been spending probably too much time together driving around in my car and slowly eating our way through all the various convenient food items we’ve never tried (the pink Hostess cupcakes —gross, spicy Slim Jim — Cordelia’s fave, turkey jerkey — yummy, actually, though you need a Big Gulp with them and I wind up bloated from salt and water retention the next day. Ah, the price of indulging in good-tasting crap).

Today she’s coming with me to WAJS to watch me record my next spot…or should I say spotless. After maxi-pads and mattresses, there’s only one way to go — toilet bowl cleaner (even more cringe-worthy is the name Shiny Hiney Bowl — which is apparently some traditional New England cleanser created by someone named Hiney — there’s a lot to be said for what’s in a name).

“Scum build up?” I lean into the mike and deemphasize my ‘b’ on build-up, but then I catch Cordelia’s eye and giggle. One more take and she’ll have to leave the room. She sits twisting her curls and smearing lip gloss on her mouth trying to make me crack up. I finally manage to get out the stupid jingle — a long ad that blathers away on the benefits to a sparkling toilet and culminates with me singing 1950s housewife on TV style “If you want a Shiney Hiney Bowl — reach for Shiney Hiney!” I had to sing the words Shiney Hiney so many times that now I’ve got them echoing in my head.

“I’m so glad you’re emerging from your cocoon,” Cordelia says when I’m dropping her back at the faculty house.

“I still have so much to do,” I fiddle with the radio knobs.

“All work and no play — you know the drill. You need to get out more — stop using the computer as your social outlet and come downtown with me. I’m meeting some DSGs on Newbury Street for lunch and a movie.”

The Day Student Girls have yet to embrace me — not that I’ve tried too hard, since they scurry back to their suburban homes and reappear courtesy of the bus or their mom’s SUV the next morning. Cordelia knows them all from grade school, when everyone was a day student, and easily slides in and out of all the cliques.