The Man of My Dreams (6 page)

“Let me give you my number,” Jenny said. They had reached the path leading to the cafeteria. When Jenny passed a scrap of paper to Hannah, she said, “So I’ll see you in class, assuming I don’t stab myself in the heart doing the reading before then.”

Walking back to her dorm, Hannah thought,
A friend.
It was miraculous. This was how she’d once imagined she’d meet people in college, just this effortlessly, but it had never happened. She’d seen it happen to other students, but it hadn’t happened to her. The first problem was that, randomly, she’d been assigned to a single. The second problem was Hannah herself. She had had friends before this—not a lot, but some—and she’d believed college would be a vast improvement over high school. But upon her arrival at Tufts, she hadn’t joined clubs. She hadn’t initiated conversations. Early on, when her hall would go en masse to watch student improv troupes or a cappella groups, Hannah didn’t go because she didn’t want to, because she thought improv and a cappella were kind of stupid. (Later, that seemed like poor reasoning.) On Saturday afternoons, she’d take the T over to Fig’s dorm at BU and hang out while Fig got dressed for frat parties, and then Hannah would return to Tufts around eight
P.M.
and her own dorm would be silent except for certain throbbing rooms, and these Hannah would hurry past. All her decisions alone were trivial, but they accumulated and she felt herself sliding backward. By October, when the kids who lived around her were going out, she couldn’t go not because she didn’t want to but because she just couldn’t. Because what would she say to them? Really, she didn’t have anything to say to anyone. Five months passed, the longest months of Hannah’s life, and then she met Jenny.

As far as Hannah can see, there is nothing remarkable about Jenny except for her reaction to Hannah. Jenny does not seem to realize that she is Hannah’s only friend. The last time they were studying, Jenny said, “A bunch of us are going to Springfield on Friday. My friend Michelle went to high school with a guy who goes to this engineering school there, where it’s like ninety percent men.” Jenny raised her eyebrows twice, and Hannah laughed, because she knew she was supposed to. “You should come,” Jenny said. “It might be a bust, but at least it’ll be a change of scenery. And I’m so sick of the guys here.” Jenny had previously outlined to Hannah the saga of her relationship with a guy who lives two doors down, with whom Jenny has sex when they both end up drunk at the same party, even though she thinks he’s a jerk and not that cute. The breezy way Jenny told this story implied that she assumed Hannah had found herself in similar entanglements, and Hannah did not correct her. In actuality, Hannah has never been involved with a boy, not at all. She has never even kissed anyone. That guy with the eagle tattoo—that’s as close as she got. Her inexperience at the age of eighteen makes her feel by turns freakish and amazing, as if she should be placed under glass and observed by scientists. Also, in times of danger—turbulent plane flights home, say—it makes her feel immune. She thinks that it must be impossible, against the laws of nature, to make it through high school and then die before kissing another person.

In the car, as they pull onto the street leading away from campus, a song by a female rapper comes on the radio, and Angie, who is sitting between Michelle and Hannah, lunges into the front seat and turns up the volume. The gist of the song is that if a man won’t perform oral sex on her, the rapper wants nothing to do with him. This is not the radio station Hannah listens to, but she’s heard the song spilling from other students’ rooms. Apparently, Angie and Michelle have memorized all the lyrics, and they belt them out, nodding their heads from side to side and laughing.

The backseat is tight, and Hannah’s thigh is pressed against Angie’s. She pulls the seat belt down from over her shoulder and gropes for the buckle between her and Angie. She can’t find it. She gropes some more, then gives up, imagining some gruesome scene of smashed metal, shattered glass, and blood. This situation seems ripe for just such an accident—young women gearing up for a good time, a long dark drive in winter. In this case, the immunity that comes with being unkissed might not even protect Hannah. Among them, these four other girls must have had so much sex that it would cancel out her own inexperience.

Jenny lights a cigarette and passes it to Kim, then lights another for herself. Jenny’s window is open a few inches at the top, and when she ashes out of it, Hannah observes Jenny’s smooth, glossy nails; they are painted dark red, the color of wine. Jenny turns around and says something that is inaudible over the music.

“What?” Hannah says.

“The smoke,” Jenny says more loudly. “Is it bothering you?”

Hannah shakes her head.

Jenny turns back around. The loud music is actually a relief, precluding real conversation.

It takes almost two hours to get to Springfield. As they turn off the highway, Hannah’s eyelids keep falling. Her mouth is dry; she suspects that if she spoke, her voice would be raspy.

Michelle’s friend lives in an apartment complex at the top of a hill. Michelle has been here before but says she can’t remember which entrance is his, so they drive around looking at the addresses. “It’s in the middle somewhere,” Michelle says. “I’m sure of that. Oh, here, turn here.”

“Thanks for the warning,” Kim says in a joking tone as she pulls into the driveway and parks behind an SUV.

As Hannah follows the girls to the door, Jenny and Angie are each carrying two six-packs they retrieved from the trunk. They enter a hallway of brown carpet and white stucco walls, a bank of mailboxes on the left. “I feel the testosterone,” Kim says, and everyone laughs.

When they climb the stairs, there is the brushing sound of winter coats. At the landing, Angie turns around and says, “Is my lipstick okay?”

Hannah does not realize right away that Angie is talking to her, even though she’s directly behind Angie. Then Hannah says, “Yeah, it’s fine.”

Michelle knocks on the door. Hannah can hear music. “Is my lipstick okay?” Angie says to Jenny, and Jenny says, “It’s perfect.” The door opens, revealing a stocky, dark-haired, red-faced guy with stubble, holding a beer can in one hand. “Michelle, ma belle,” he says, and he envelops Michelle in a hug. “You made it.” He gestures with the beer can. “So who’s the bevy of beauties?”

“Okay.” Michelle points with her finger. “Angie, Jenny, Kim, Hannah. Guys, this is Jeff.”

Jeff nods several times. “Welcome, welcome,” he says. “Anything I can do to make you girls feel comfortable this evening, you just say the word.”

“You can start by giving us something to drink,” Michelle says. She is already walking past him into the apartment.

“Right this way.” Jeff extends one arm, palm open, and they file past him. Hannah notices Kim and Jeff look at each other. Hannah cannot even see Kim’s face, but she thinks suddenly that Jeff and Kim will hook up tonight. Probably they will have sex. She realizes with a jolting clarity that this is what the entire night is about: hooking up. At some level, she already suspected as much, but now it is palpable.

Ten or twelve guys are in the living room, and two girls. One girl is a pretty blonde wearing tight jeans and black leather boots. The other is wearing a hooded sweatshirt and a baseball cap. In the swirl of introductions, Hannah comes to understand that the pretty girl is a girlfriend visiting from out of town, and the other girl is a student at the college. Hannah does not absorb the names of either girl or any of the guys. The stereo and the TV are both on—the TV is set to a basketball game—and the room is mostly dark. People are standing in clusters or sitting on the floor or on one of the two couches, smoking. One guy talks on a cordless phone, walking between the living room and the back of the apartment. Hannah enters the brightly lit kitchen. Angie passes her a beer, then Hannah returns to the living room and stands beside the couch. Her eyes are drawn to the television, and she pretends to watch.

“Don’t tell me you’re a Sonics fan.”

She looks over. A guy is on the couch, his feet propped on the coffee table in front of him.

“No,” she says.

It appears this was too brief an answer; if she wants him to keep talking to her, she has to say something more.

“What’s the score?” she asks.

“Seventy-five to fifty-eight. The Knicks have it in the bag.”

“Oh, good,” Hannah says. Then she’s afraid he’ll unmask her, so she hastily adds, “Not that I really follow basketball.”

This confession seems to please the guy. In a playful voice, he says, “Girls just don’t understand the spiritness of sports.”

“The spiritness?”

“It’s what brings people together. Church is like—who goes to church anymore? But check this out: There are ten seconds left on the clock. The Bulls are down by one. Pippen inbounds the ball to Jordan, and Jordan brings it up the court. He watches the clock tick down. The crowd is going wild. With two seconds left, Jordan pulls up for the jumper and wins the game. And the fans go crazy—total strangers hugging each other. Tell me that’s not spirit.”

While he talked, Hannah was thinking
, Enlighten me some more, Einstein.
But during the last part about total strangers hugging each other—how could that not make her imagine being hugged by him? Did he say it on purpose? He is wearing a plaid flannel shirt, and she thinks of his arms around her.

“Overall, I see sports as a positive force,” Hannah says.

“What else is there?” the guy says. “Name one other thing that brings people together like that.”

“No, I know,” Hannah says. “I’m agreeing with you.”

“And when I hear parents say that garbage about how athletes are bad role models, I’m just like,
You’re the ones raising your kids. Or you should be.
You know? Fuckin’, like, Dennis Rodman is not putting little Johnny to bed every night. If athletes snort coke or beat their wives, that has nothing to do with their performance.”

“I wouldn’t say snorting coke and beating your wife are the same thing,” Hannah says.

“No shit.” The guy grins. “Beating your wife is a lot cheaper.”

So,
Hannah thinks,
domestic violence as springboard for flirtation.
But she half smiles; she doesn’t want to be a wet blanket.

“By the way,” the guy says, “I’m Todd.”

“Hannah.”

He motions beside him. “Care to sit?”

Hannah hesitates, then says, “Okay.”

On the couch, she immediately likes him better than she did standing up. She likes his presence next to her, the side of his arm touching the side of hers. Maybe he will be the first person she ever kisses. She will think back on him as
Todd, wearing a plaid shirt, that night in Springfield.

“So what do you study over there at Tufts?” Todd asks.

“I haven’t declared a major yet. I like my art history class, though.”

“That’s where you look at paintings and use big words to describe how they make you feel—is that about right?”

“Exactly. And we wear black turtlenecks and black berets.”

He laughs. “I don’t even remember the last time I was in a museum. I bet it was grade school.”

“Well, I’m not definitely majoring in art history. I have a while to decide.”

He looks at her. “You know I’m joking about the big words, don’t you? I was just giving you a hard time.”

Hannah glances at him, then glances away. “I wasn’t offended,” she says.

Neither of them speaks.

“So what about you?” she says. “You guys all study engineering, right?”

He leans back. “I’m a gearhead,” he says. “Mechanical engineer.”

“Wow.” But he doesn’t elaborate, and she can’t think of anything else to ask besides, what
is
mechanical engineering? She finishes her beer in a long swallow and holds up the empty bottle. “I think I’ll get another. Do you want anything?”

“Nope, I’m cool.”

In the kitchen, Jenny and Angie are talking to two guys. Jenny squeezes Hannah’s shoulder. “Having fun?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“That didn’t sound very enthusiastic.”

“Hell, yeah!” Hannah exclaims, and this is when she knows she’s drunk. It has taken one beer.

Jenny laughs. “Who’s that guy you’re talking to?”

“Todd. But I don’t know.”

“You don’t know what?” Jenny elbows Hannah. “He’s totally cute.” Jenny lowers her voice. “Now, what do you think of—” She rolls her eyes to the left.

“With the glasses?” Hannah whispers.

“No, the other one. His name is Dave.”

“Thumbs-up,” Hannah says. “You should go for him.” She is not sure which is more unlikely: the fact that they are having this conversation three feet away from the guy in question, or the fact that she is part of the conversation in the first place. It turns out she does know which words and inflections to use. She should draw on the ability more often; perhaps she has only fabricated the difficulty of making friends.

But when she returns to the living room, Hannah sees that Michelle is sitting next to Todd. It’s okay, though. There is room on his other side. She steps over their legs and murmurs, “Hey,” as she sits down.

Neither of them responds. “My dad bought a BMW M5,” Michelle is saying. “It was his fiftieth-birthday present to himself.”

“Are you guys talking about when men have a midlife crisis?” Hannah asks.

Michelle looks at Hannah and says, “We’re talking about cars.” She turns back to Todd. She says, “I’m always like, ‘Dad, if you want me to run
any
errands, all you have to do is say the word.’ ”

“The current Beemers compared to the older models—” Todd begins, and Hannah turns away. On the other couch, which is shoved against this couch with no space between the armrests, the girl who’s an engineering student is doing shots with three guys. On television, the basketball game appears to have ended. Two commentators hold microphones and say things Hannah cannot hear. Her energy is plummeting. She tips her bottle and gulps down the beer. She could go back into the kitchen and stand with Jenny, but she doesn’t want to be clingy.

“Hey.” Todd kicks her lightly in the calf. “You hanging in there?”