As Ms. Crenshaw chatters at him, Nick’s focus is on the crowd again and his hands are in his pockets. He is jazz music, I decide, cool and smooth and sexual. Ms. Crenshaw is the theme to a sitcom with a laugh track, choppy and desperate and falsely cheerful. I don’t understand why she keeps throwing herself at his wall of polite disinterest, and then I recall his book in my hands and my eyes tracing those words that I cannot say I’d otherwise choose to read. I realize now that I didn’t pick the Ellis book, he picked it for me in a roundabout way. I was leaving his apartment after speaking with Dr. Warten, and I trolled Nick’s shelves because I wanted an excuse to stay a little longer. He pointed out to me what he’d been reading in the last six months, indicating various spines with his long, lovely forefinger. He stopped at the Ellis book. He said it had come out in March and he’d devoured it even though he’d had schoolwork to do for his master’s program. I was motivated by his enthusiasm, by the look in his eye as he took it out of the lineup and fanned its pages. I wanted to feel like that when I read it so I could feel him inside of me. So I could have a part of him even if he was unaware of the piece that was borrowed.
Nick’s books are my car windows.
But at least I am not going to be cut off as the temperature drops.
I’m no longer looking at the girls and boys melding around the dance floor, groups now splintering up into pairs that move together to the music. I’m staring at Nick and Ms. Crenshaw. I want to tell her to stop, just like I did on that picnic table. But then I want to borrow another book from him, and another, and another, carving out a special space that is unique to him and me in comparison to all the other girls. In this pathetic folly, I completely understand where Ms. Crenshaw is coming from, and I’m sad for the both of us. We’re window-shopping with no cash in our pockets, no hope of even trying on that which is so far outside of our price range.
When Nick takes his leave of Ms. Crenshaw, his departure reminds me of someone peeling a name tag off a lapel. There’s great resistance, and what comes off is thrown away and forgotten.
I, too, am nearing my limits with the dance, both in terms of invested time and sensory overload. I have learned the hard way that there’s only so much loud music I can take, only so many flashes on a movie screen or strong smells in a kitchen before my brain begins to think independently. I’m surprised I made it this long. I think I was waiting to see Nick and talk to him. Now that I have done both, my reason for being here has been served.
“Hi.”
When the greeting is spoken to my left, I pay no attention. It is then repeated: “Hi.”
I look over. There’s a boy standing next to me. He’s tall and he’s wearing the navy blue blazer with the St. Michael’s crest on the breast pocket. He’s paired this with a white shirt—they’re evidently allowed to choose between white and pale blue—and khaki pants that have been pressed. His tie is a black/blue with interceding, angled white stripes that sport a repeat of that crest. His shoes are polished loafers and there’s a pop of red color from his socks. I focus on his clothes because I don’t want to look at his face.
“Yes?” I say. If he asks me to move, I’ll tell him I’m leaving anyway, although I can’t imagine what personal space I’m infringing on in this far-off corner.
“I’m Reynolds.” He puts out his hand and smiles. “What’s your name?”
I glance around the dance. Some version of this introductory inter-action was what spread throughout the crowd about twenty minutes ago, the boys going up to the girls and sticking out their hands, growing some forced confidence because they realize they’re running out of time if they’re going to kiss someone tonight.
Reynolds is late to this stage of things. But being out of better options is not why he approaches me.
Through the crowd, I see Greta standing with her back to me in a new co-ed group of which she is, naturally, the leader. But the Brunettes are staring over in my direction, and their faces are rapt with banked delight. They’re watching me, watching the boy.
He drops his hand. “So, what grade are you in?”
I look at him properly. He is very handsome, with sun streaks in his hair that probably came from sailboat excursions off of Cape Cod. His eyes are blue as a summer sky and his cheeks are bright and marked with the occasional mole.
“I’m a sophomore.” He pauses. “At St. Michael’s?”
My eyes narrow as I think of Strots. As I think of myself. “Tell Greta to fuck off. Does she think I haven’t seen Carrie?”
I walk out of the dance, leaving him, and so much more, behind.
chapter EIGHTEEN
It’s Saturday of Columbus Day weekend, late in the afternoon. I’m in my dorm room alone and it’s eerily quiet. I’m one of the minority of students who are in Tellmer over the three-day break, most of the girls having been picked up to go home or to head off on a last-gasp vacation at a summer country house somewhere. Strots took Keisha away with her, and I gather they were bound for Newport, Rhode Island.
Before Strots left, she told me that they’ve decided to, as Strots put it, “You know, be together.”
So this is a romantic weekend, not just one for friends, and I’m glad because then I don’t feel left behind by my roommate. I decide that Strots telling me about Greta freed her heart for K. I don’t know whether this is true, but it makes me feel helpful. They’re going to stay at Strots’s grandmother’s house. Given that she thought Greta would be impressed with the place, I’m guessing it’s big as a football field and has more columns than the White House. Strots said that she only likes going there in the off-season. In season, evidently, there are too many parties.
Wow, is all I can think.
And there’s been another reminder of my roommate’s wealth, in addition to the ever-gestating gymnasium going up at the edge of campus: A long black limo has been spotted at the construction site and around the administration buildings. I’ve overheard it belongs to Strots’s father. She hasn’t mentioned anything about it, and she also hasn’t talked about seeing her dad. But how could she not, if he’s here at the school? Fathers and daughters… see each other, right?
As if I would know.
What I am certain of is that just as I have kept Strots’s secret, she has kept mine. I can tell she’s honored our pledge to each other because none of the other girls in the dorm, even Keisha, are treating me any differently—which is not to say they’re welcoming me into their cliques, but they haven’t shunned me like I’m a ticking time bomb about to go certifiable.
I’m well familiar with the look people give me when they know my truth. I was the recipient of plenty of those wide eyes and hissed whispers in my old school after my breakdowns. In my small town, Tera Taylor’s daughter going nuts was big news. That was why I ended up writing the essay my mom submitted to Ambrose’s admissions committee. “How I Spent My Summer” by Sarah M. Taylor. I’d gotten tired of the speculation, and decided to set the record straight with brutal honesty, even though I never had any intention of anybody actually reading it.
And then my mom found the thing. After which, Ambrose.