Chapter Fourteen

THE DEER INCIDENT WAS absorbed by Charlie as a dream about Tommy looming above, and he woke in a panic, sweating from a brown sky and its oppressive midday heat. Paula said it was typical of Philly. “You just sweat and sweat and get a zit, but you don’t even care because everyone else is sweaty and has a zit.”

“I’ve never fallen asleep outdoors,” said Charlie. “Is it a brave thing to do?”

“It requires trust,” said Paula. “Animals do it all the time.”

“Do I have a zit?”

“No, you’re clean. Me?”

“Clean.”

They left the park holding hands. Francis’s heirloom flung over Charlie’s shoulder. Odd, he thought. Fall asleep and wake up with a girlfriend.

“Do you want to come over, or something?” she asked.

“Sure.” It wasn’t even noon on a Saturday. What do you do with that? It was too bright, and he was too sober to lose his virginity in a room without an air conditioner. A full eight hours till moonlight; more Chet Baker would be a mistake. Kissing under the Frucor poster would be good, but it might lead to daylit nudity, which would be bad; he wasn’t ready to show all of himself to her. She was right about falling asleep outdoors. It took courage, a contract of sorts. He wasn’t ready to sign a similar contract with Paula. Maybe tonight he would sign? But he suspected that contracts between boys and girls were signed behind your back, by your better or worse selves, and the next thing you know, you’re walking around the kitchen naked or sharing a credit card.

“So, what should we do today?” he asked.

“You probably have schoolwork, don’t you?”

“Classes don’t start till next Wednesday, and frankly the thought of taking notes in a classroom full of kids seems ridiculous.”

“I was never good at paying attention in school. Daydreams were my specialty. So, listen, I thought we could have a talk.”

“A talk? About what?” Talks never end well. My last talk was with Angelina, and then she left.

“I think I’m going to go back home to New Hope. I had a long phone call with my mom this morning, and I think I’m going back to regroup.”

“When?”

“This afternoon, I think.”

“But we were just getting to know each other.”

“I know. Which is why I thought you could come with me, for the weekend. Would that be weird? I told my mom about you, about how you stood up for me and everything. She’d like to meet you. She’ll do your laundry, if you have any.”

“Wait, are you going to be in New Hope permanently? I mean, how will this work?”

“I don’t know. So, you’ll come home with me for the weekend?”

“Yes. Of course.”

*

The plan was to go back to her place, pack, say so long to Jasmine, and go to High Rise South so he could get his things together. She wanted to see the inside of an Ivy League dorm room.

It took her only an hour to stuff her life into a bulging suitcase. She had Charlie take down the Frucor poster and agreed with Jasmine to leave the bed until some future day when she had a place of her own. She also left the CD player, a lamp, and her bicycle. It was only fair, Paula thought. When she’d moved in, she’d inherited the bike from the last girl, in addition to a garbage bag full of books and magazines. It’s what girls my age do. We leave each other things. Maybe it would be best to leave Charlie to the new roommate.

But she needed him this weekend, and wanted his big brown eyes searching for hers. Going back home was a defeat, she knew. She’d try to get back her waitress job at Martine’s. She’d try to avoid dating Gary for the fourth time. She’d try to save enough to move out of her mom’s house before Christmas, then save enough to visit Mr. Frommer’s Europe next summer or, more realistically, the summer after. As for Charlie: an instant boyfriend was dangerous, but so was being alone in New Hope.

Jasmine had already called in an ad to the City Paper for a new roommate. She sat on the floor while Paula finished packing, Charlie bouncing on the now-stripped bed.

“You’re really high up when you’re on this thing,” said Charlie.

“Everyone loves this bed,” said Paula.

“I’ll miss you, man,” said Jasmine. “Shit me.”

“Everything will be fine.”

Everyone loves this bed. How many other boys had loved it? The Dignidad must surely forbid ever asking such a thing.

“I’ll mail you the security deposit after I go over your room,” said Jasmine.

“I’m a clean girl,” said Paula. “You know me.”

“Yeah. I’ll miss you. Shit me.”

In the taxi to Penn, Charlie asked if Jasmine was a lesbian.

“I don’t really know,” she said. “I think maybe.”

“What does ‘shit me’ mean?”

“I don’t know, she just started saying it.”

Charlie thought they were best friends and assumed Paula would know everything about her. Perhaps John was right, that a politeness separated girl friendships, and that they used the friendships as flotillas before reaching the landfall of marriage.

“I thought you guys were best friends?” asked Charlie.

“No, not really, we just hang out a lot. I’ve never really had a best friend. Lots of good friends. My mom’s probably my best friend. Does that sound sad?”

“No, not at all. I wish I knew my mom better, or at all. We seem to keep a healthy distance, but after today I find distances awful.” He found her hand as they drove by the university’s football stadium, where they could hear a marching band.

“Sounds like fun,” said Paula.

He kissed the hot center of her palm. Crashing cymbals are for freshmen, he thought.

*

“If you guys want to do it, I can go to the TV room,” said Francis.

Now Paula was jumping up and down on Charlie’s bed, kicking the tires of dorm room life.

“Don’t be silly,” said Paula.

“I have studying to do, anyway. One of my professors mailed us the syllabus over the summer.”

“You’re getting straight As, aren’t you?” asked Paula.

“An A-minus average is my goal.”

“We’ll both be working for you, one day.”

“Francis works in Dining Commons,” said Charlie. “Our industrious friend is up every morning at six thirty.”

“Six,” Francis corrected. “But I only work four days out of the week. Still, I get up at the same time every day, that way I’m used to it.”

“Makes sense, fellow hash slinger. Actually, I guess I’m now an ex–hash slinger.”

“It’s a good job,” said Francis. “On top of the salary, I eat for free. Well, have a good weekend in the country.”

“He’s so cute,” Paula said after he’d left.

“Really? You think?”

“Not cute like you’re cute, just nice and a little strange.”

“You don’t really think that we’ll work for him, right?”

“I don’t know. Who’s to say?”

“I’ve been keeping a secret from you: I’m rich.”

“Come here,” she said, and whispered in his ear, “No shit.”

“How do you know?”

“Oh, because of everything.”

“Well, I’m not rich yet. As poor as anyone, except for the cash in my wallet, which has to last me till Thanksgiving. But when I turn nineteen—”

“Don’t blink,” she said.

“Why shouldn’t I?”

“It’s what my mom says. ‘Blink, and the next thing you know, you’re thirty-five.’”

“I wish we were thirty-five already,” said Charlie, blinking, holding a stack of his underwear imprinted with tiny tennis rackets and tiny tennis balls.

“I know you’re rich because there are tennis rackets on your Polo boxers, and you have long, rich eyelashes that blink all the time. I like the boxers and will probably end up stealing a pair from you and wearing them tonight, and I like the lashes because they’re sexy, but I don’t really care about the money, because it’s not mine, and even if it were, there’s nothing much I need, except love and honesty. Lots and lots of honesty.”

She rolled over in his bed, and over again.

“When you come back here after this weekend, you’ll smell me on your sheets. Now, come lie down next to me and say pretty things about my eyes before we have to catch the bus.”

“I thought we’d take a cab,” said Charlie, looking for space amid the S she’d made.

“Too expensive, and the bus stop is right near here.”

“Move over,” he said.

“Make me.”

He shoved her gently, but she sprang back into place, panting, laughing. He pinned her down and she didn’t resist, just laughed; in her eyes, Charlie saw the blue skies of New Hope, the bus stop near the river, ugly luggage in the green grass. He searched her face for her eyes, found them every time.

“Butterfly me,” she said.

“What’s that?”

“With your lashes, butterfly my lashes.”

He did, and it made him shiver.

“God,” he said.

“This is the best, when it’s just starting.”

“I know,” he said. But he didn’t know. This was new. The start of Monica Miller felt more like the middle of things. He’d wanted so much more from Monica Miller, and he’d called the wanting love. The having, he thought—the having is love. Charlie faced Paula in bed and went to kiss her neck. She lifted her chin and let him in.

“I hope you like New Hope,” she said, while his lips brushed the barely tangible cilia that guarded her skin.

“I already love it.”