Summer.
Two whole months off.
As I pull away from campus and head home, I review my first-year highlights.
I aced the hideous Dr. Gaw’s gross-anatomy class and pulled honors in pathology and neuroscience, which pissed off Shelly and her gaggle of gunners. I made three great friends. Dated one cute girl for four months. Spent an immaculate two hours with the hottest girl on earth. I’ll never see her again, but oh well.
Mainly, I lived through first year. And now I outline my plans for the summer. Starting with—
Sleep.
That’s it. I just want to sleep.
I may also mess around on the guitar, read trashy novels, run, lift weights, and attempt to reach the highest level on the latest video game.
But mostly, sleep.
My parents greet me in the driveway. My mother clings to me as if I’ve just returned from a war. My father claps me on the back. He wrinkles his face into what I’m pretty sure is a smile.
“I did it, Dad. Made it through first year.”
“Ah, first year, nothing. Second year worse.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Second year kill you.”
“Great. Thanks. Thank you.”
“You want lunch? Mommy make soup.”
The summer zips by. I do lose weight, muscle up, learn a bunch of new chords, reach the highest level, read some good junk, and sleep. I call James and Ricky several times, speak to Tim almost every day. We apply for and become accepted as orientation leaders. Now we’re golden. We get the first shot at the hot new first-years. The moment we get our orientation schedule and group assignments, I bury Bianca. I don’t even think about her. I’m moving on. I live by a new creed. Next.
SECOND YEAR. FIRST semester.
The first person I see on campus is Bianca.
She comes out of the bookstore hugging a canvas book bag stuffed with textbooks. I’m twenty feet away, driving the Ford Tempo, on my way to meet Tim at our new house. I do a double take. I hit the brakes and nearly take out a trash bin.
“Bianca!”
She turns at the sound of her name. Her face lights up when she sees me. I think. I’m pretty sure. I’ve flipped the dashboard visor down to shield my eyes from a brutal August sun. I leave the Tempo running and bolt out of the car. Horns scream behind me.
“Tony!”
I throw my arms around her and receive her cheek and a handful of canvas book bag. “How are you?” I ask.
“Great. I’m great.”
“You got in.”
“Amazing, huh?”
“I’m so happy for you. And for me.”
“I know, right?”
An asshole leans on his horn. Another asshole calls me an asshole. “I’m sort of holding up traffic.”
“I see that. Uh-oh. Not good. A guy’s getting out of his car. You might want to—”
“I’m going. Hey. Good to see you.”
“Good to see you.”
We lean in to each other, peck each other’s cheeks European-style. I run back to my car, duck inside. I poke my head out the window. “Do you want to hang out? Get dinner or something?”
“Definitely. Absolutely. Call me.”
I pull away to pissed-off bleating horns and a crapload of cursing.
IN THE MIDDLE of a lush tree-lined street, Tim and I stand on the sidewalk facing our new house.
The place looks as if it has leaped off the cover of Better Homes magazine. Two-story colonial. Manicured hedge lining both sides of the walk. A front porch with white railings and a swing. The smell of lilacs, rows of which rim a front yard as manicured as a fairway. A basketball hoop attached to a garage at the end of a driveway wide enough for two-on-two.
A screen door snaps open, and James, cut-off tee, hands on hips, steps onto the porch. “Hello, girls. Welcome home.”
“Oh, yeah,” Tim says.
“Wow,” I say.
“Sick, huh? We totally lucked out. Let me give you the tour.” He swings the door open, smirking like a real estate agent. We follow him in, so excited we’re practically slobbering.
The inside tops the outside.
Living room with overstuffed couch, cushy chairs, TV, fireplace. Family room, another couch, bar, wine rack. Cozy kitchen fully loaded with glimmering new appliances. Half-bath in the hall for guests. Freshly polished hardwood floors throughout.
“You like?”
Tim and I nod and squeal like monkeys.
“And now our wing.”
We follow him upstairs to two master bedrooms, each with an attached full bathroom. We identify James’s room by the basketball rolled into a corner below a blown-up yearbook photo of Daisy. We identify Ricky’s room by the bathroom with the tub lined in scented candles and a collection of duckies.
“Wow,” I say. “So, where’s our rooms?”
“This way.”
Like a running back, James sprints down the staircase, taking two steps at a time. I jump a flight down to the landing to keep up.
“Small thing. Since I found the house and Ricky decorated, we thought we should get dibs on rooms.”
“That’s fair,” Tim says.
“Totally,” I say.
We skid across the family room floor, a tight twosome at James’s back. He pulls up at a door beyond the kitchen that I hadn’t noticed before. He taps the door with his knuckles. “Got your own private entrance.”
He flings the door open and yanks on a string dangling from a socket holding a naked yellow lightbulb. He descends. I see only his back.
“Careful. Couple of these stairs are a little uneven.”
I ease down a flight of rickety wooden stairs that buckle and squeak under every step.
“Oh, and watch your—”
Thunk.
My forehead slams into a low ceiling. Pain streaks across my head. My neck tingles. “Shit!”
“—head.”
I steady myself, dip my head, and squat my way down the rest of the stairs. I hear a crunch. Wood splinters.
“That was my foot,” Tim says. “Ripping through a stair.”
“I’ll get that replaced, no worries,” James says. “But it’s the bottom stair. You don’t really need it.”
I arrive at the shattered last step and hop over it. I land on a concrete floor. I smell mold. And I hope I’m imagining things, but I hear animals scurrying. James pulls on another string. A long fluorescent tube buzzes and more pale yellow light flickers over my throbbing head. Barely. I’m six-one. The light is six-two.
“This is the cellar,” Tim says.
“Basement, yeah,” James says.
“It’s about fifty degrees hotter down here,” I say. “It’s like Guam.”
“What are those?” Tim. He speaks in a deeply disturbed and hoarse monotone.
Two rooms, each the size of a hall closet, loom before us, separated by a flimsy wall that shimmers and sways. The wall can’t be moving. Can it? It’s a wall. The conk on my head must be causing me to imagine things.
“Don’t tell me,” Tim mutters.
“I’ll take a shot,” I say, massaging the golf ball–sized welt that’s forming on my forehead. “Those two phone booths are our bedrooms.”
“You have so much more privacy down here,” James says. “Think about that. With all the partying going on upstairs, we won’t be able to study. No way.”
I’m pissed and my head hurts. “Do we have a bathroom? Or do we have to drive to the gas station by the exit ramp?”
“That’s funny, Tony. You have a bathroom. A shower, too. Right through there.” He waves at a doorway that opens to a laundry room.
I see only a dented and dusty washer and dryer. “Where?”
“Right there. In the back.”
I storm into the laundry room and walk right into a cobweb that covers me like a net. I open my mouth to scream and swallow a mouthful of stringy, sticky goo. “Blah!” I claw at my face, punch at the web that’s folded over my lips and nose.
“Nobody’s been down here in a while,” James says.
“What the hell.” I spit out another mouthful of web, then bang farther into the laundry room. In the corner stands a portable shower. The kind of plastic shower you usually find at a trailer park—outside.
“This is our shower?”
“Uh-huh,” James says. “Look at the time. I need to call Daisy—”
“Don’t move.” The evenness of my voice freezes him. Fastening my eyes on his, I reach behind me into the shower and turn on the water.
Something crawls onto my hand. Something with a lot of legs. Something that stings.
“Yaaaaa!” I jerk my neck back and bang my head on the shower door. “You have to be kidding me!” A matching lump rises, this one on the back of my head.
I close my eyes and thrust my hand back inside the shower and turn the knob to max. The shower groans, shakes, then screeches. Ice water shaped like a tear trickles out of the gooseneck shower spout and splats onto the back of my hand. The water drips for another three seconds and dies.
“Not to worry. I’ll call the landlord and have him adjust that pressure,” James says.
“I think you need a shower, James,” I say.
“Yeah,” Tim says. “He smells like shit.”
“Guys, come on. We’re friends.”
I lower my head and walk toward him with menace. Tim falls in step next to me. He slams a fist into his palm. “We’re about to go all Dawn of the Dead on your ass, Jimmy boy.”
James starts backing up toward the basement steps. “How’s this? We’ll knock ten bucks a month off your rent. We square?”
Tim and I keep coming. James turns and flies up the stairs. I charge after him. He’s a dead man.
Except I hit my head on the ceiling again. “OW! SHIT!”
I fall back into Tim. He yelps as his midsection sags, and the two of us tumble over each other and somersault down the stairs. We land in a tangled heap, sprawled on the cold concrete floor. Above us, the cellar door opens and slams, and James’s footsteps clatter on the hardwood floor. The front door opens, and we follow the sound of James hitting the porch and running out of the house.
Alone in the basement, breathing furiously, Tim and I lie in silence, unable to move. My nostrils sting from what I’m sure is the stench of deadly advancing black mold.
“Well, you have to admit,” Tim says after a while, “it is much nicer than Owen Hall.”
IN ADDITION TO becoming an orientation leader, I sign up to be a second-year “older sib,” a mentor to an incoming first-year student. For the next year I will serve as a kind of big brother and guide. I’m looking forward to showing some unsuspecting rookie the ropes, starting with this subtle piece of advice: avoid Dr. Gaw. While two beefy guys with names stitched over their pockets lay cheap outdoor carpeting—no pad—over our concrete floor, nail another plywood sheet to reinforce the wall between our bedrooms, and throw together a couple of makeshift closets out of a kit, I call Amy, my sib, and arrange to meet her for coffee.
As I wait for Amy to arrive, I think about Bianca. I haven’t called her yet. Something about her attitude the day I saw her coming out of the bookstore.
“What’s the matter with you?” Tim said over beers at the USA Café the night before. “You’ll never get a chance with anyone hotter. Call her. Can’t score if you don’t shoot.”
“I know. I just . . . I don’t know.”
“You’re scared. Understandable. Bianca’s the type who goes more for guys like James and me.”
I waited for his laugh. There was none. He’s serious.
“I just got my confidence back,” I said. “I don’t want it crushed again. That would set me back years. I don’t have years.”
“I hear you. That’s why we have the two-date rule.”
“I’m drawing a blank. That’s a new one.”
“That’s because until recently, you never had two dates. The rule is simple. If you don’t get any action by the end of the second date, do not go for a third date. Hear me? You go oh-for-two, the party’s over. Drop her. It’s not happening.”
“I don’t know if that’s my style. I move a little slower than you.”
“Not a question of style. This is a hard and fast rule. Two dates, no action, say goodbye. Trust me. Have I ever steered you wrong?”
“Constantly.”
Waiting for Amy now, I doodle on a napkin. “Two-date rule,” I say aloud. “Worth a try.”
“What’s the two-date rule?”
I look up. I gulp. The napkin flutters to the floor. Amy, dark hair, killer smile, hypnotic eyes, stunning, takes the chair across from me. Not sure what I expected. I did not expect her to look like this. I don’t speak for a solid ten seconds. Inside my head, a voice chatters nonstop like a machine gun: Hummina hummina hummina.
“Tony, right?” Amy says finally to break the ice.
“Yes. Hi. Sit down.”
“I am sitting. I’m Amy.”
“Yes, I know. I mean, I figured. Do you want some coffee?”
“Don’t drink coffee. Thank you.”
And the meeting starts.
Because that’s what it feels like. A business meeting. Amy folds her hands in front of her like a job applicant or a boss and launches into a series of tough, smart, well-prepared questions. I answer as best as I can, go early to my saver—avoid Dr. Gaw.
“I’ve heard that. Interesting, because she’s won so many teaching awards. Apparently, she’s intimidating. Word is, if she likes you, you’ll do well.”
“She didn’t like me. I know. Hard to believe.” I laugh.
She doesn’t.
I think her lip starts to curl up in the first leg of a smile, but if so, she slams it right back into place, as if she’s shutting a window.
“Anyway, I wore her down. I ended up doing okay. I’m sure you’ll do great.”
Amy fidgets, moves on to her next set of questions.
The meeting lasts for twenty minutes, and then she abruptly stands, shoves her hand in the direction of my chest, we shake, and she promises to contact me if she has any more questions.
“Actually, that’s my job. I’ll be checking in with you.”
“Oh. Fine. Either way.”
A bored eyebrow raise.
Good start to second year.
I’m living in a cellar and my sib hates me.
We’re off and running.
ORIENTATION WEEK. I see Amy in the hall. I nod, I wave, she looks the other way. She can’t be ignoring me. She probably doesn’t see me. The next day we nearly collide as she walks out of the main lecture hall. I say hi. Loudly. Enthusiastically. She walks right by me as if I’m invisible.
What the hell?
For a moment I thought there might be potential with Amy. I found out through a friend that her last boyfriend was Korean! What are the chances? I’ve met only one other woman in my life who’s into Korean guys, and she’s married to my father.
Have I pissed her off? Offended her? What can it be? I go right to the most logical possibility. Body odor. Our shower does suck. You have to run around in there to get wet. But I still shower every day and pride myself on my hygiene and grooming. I dismiss the BO notion. What, then? I can’t figure it out. I ask the expert. The Love Guru.
“What is her problem?”
Tim and I sit at lunch in the school cafeteria, picking at plates piled high with something brown.
“Classic case,” he says. “Seen it a million times.”
“Yeah? What is it?”
“ILS.”
“What the hell is that?”
“Ivy League Syndrome. I went to an Ivy League school, so I know all about it. Very common. She’s Ivy League and you’re not. Translation? She thinks she’s hot shit. She’s used to having all these Ivy League suckups falling all over her. She’s not interested in you. You’re below her station.”
“I thought maybe she was just shy.”
“No, my naive friend. ILS. Easy call.”
“You really think she would be more interested in you just because you went to an Ivy League school?”
“Definitely. But we’re not gonna find out. I’m obsessed with Jane.”
“How’s that going?”
“Terrific. I’m this close to getting her number.”
Should I really be listening to him?