The doors of reality in this case are the large double arches (no, not of artery-clogging fast food) of Master’s Hall. Set back from the main campus, Master’s looks small compared to the grand pillared style of the ivy-covered brick buildings used for classes. Once the Headmaster’s office (once=1790-something) and is now the site of formal investigations into academic doings or undoings. Not to be confused with the Discipline Committee that meets elsewhere (and with my father, I might add), the Academic Committee (or the AC as they’re known) of one small room that, despite its ventilated name, is known for its intense humidity.
As soon as I walk through the doors, I’m sweating. Droplets of perspiration make their way from my workout bra to my belly button and I hope I don’t look nervous — just overheated.
“Please, take a seat,” says Mrs. Hendricks, the remarkably non-sweaty ACC. “I’ve elected to handle your case myself as George Humphries is dealing with another matter.” Not sure what that “other matter” is — I’m too out of the Hadley Gossip Loop these days — but I’m thrilled to have Mrs. Hendricks. She has a reputation for being kind and gentle with her cases.
“The fact that I have a case seems really unsettling,” I say. Last semester, a senior in my ethics class realized she was three semesters shy of completing her math requirement, and once she explained her situation to Hendricks, all she had to do was some Saturday tutorials. I’m hoping for something easy, too, given the circumstances.
As if she reads my mind Mrs. Hendricks says, “Given the circumstances, I believe you did the best thing.” She gives me a small smile from across the desk and I notice her pink ribbon pinned to her sweater. Everyone knows someone or is connected to someone with breast cancer and it’s comforting not to feel so alone.
“I’m so glad you see my point of view,” I say. “My aunt is — she’s very important to me as I’m sure my dad explained. So there’s really no way I could stay abroad and miss…” my voice starts to crack. I will myself not to cry.
“Love — I understand the circumstances and as I said, I agree with you. Were I in your position I would likely do the same thing.”
I sigh, glad I won’t be penalized. “Great. So do I just make my college counseling appointments and audit classes?”
Mrs. Hendricks shakes her head. “I’m afraid it’s not that simple, Love. LADAM won’t give you credit because you’re not actually attending their program.”
I lick my lips and feel the sweat gather in my bra. “But they gave me assignments. My friend Arabella Piece — the exchange student who was here — emailed me all the work I’ve missed and I can do it all here and send papers back…”
“But LADAM won’t accept all of them!” Mrs. Hendricks allows her voice to get stern. “You don’t seem to grasp the full situation, Love.”
“No, I guess I don’t. I left London really suddenly and no one told me about the problems that would cause.” My hair slips from its loose knot and the red of it covers my eyes. I quickly tuck it behind my ears and try to think fast. “Can’t I do the Hadley work?”
“You’re not a registered student at Hadley this term,” Mrs. Hendricks explains. She looks for something in one of the antiquated files that form a u-shape into which her desk is tucked.
“So basically, I’m a woman without a country, with no school and yet lots of requirements to fulfill,” I say. “And since Hadley has no summer school, I wouldn’t graduate for a year and a half? Nothing I did in London would count?”
“Yes, I should think that sums it up rather well. In the fine print of your application to LADAM, it states that work must be completed in full and in person in order for any of the credit to count.” In her cotton cardigan and sensible skirt, Mrs. Hendricks comes around to my side of the table. “Now, ordinarily, I would be the first to tell you that you’ve made your academic bed and now you must lie in it. But due to the nature of your decision to come back, I think we need to find a solution.”
I manage a smile. Maybe I won’t have to be the oldest senior ever at Hadley. “Suggestions?”
“I’ve taken the liberty of speaking with…” she looks at the paper in her hands. “Poppy Massa-Tonclair. Quite a name. Anyway, she gave you such a glowing review that I asked her to sponsor you in an ISPP.” She pronounces this last term iss-pee, like a snake with a bladder problem in the punch line of a joke, but I refrain from commenting on it.
“I’ve never actually known anyone who did an ISPP,” I say. “They’re sort of mythical on campus.” Rumor had it that one guy Something Something Addison (one of those cool boarding students of legendary status) who graduated years before got one for doing a non-profit project, but until now I assumed it was campus lore.
“They’re extremely rare. For extenuating circumstances only and I believe this qualifies.” Mrs. Hendricks hands the paper to me and I look at the paragraphs that describe my project.
“PMT — I mean — Poppy Massa-Tonclair said she’d do this? Really?”
Mrs. Hendricks nods. “The final project is due in duplicate to this office. You’ll need to send another copy to LADAM. Any of the work you’ve been assigned through your London courses is up to you to consider — it’s not a technical requirement, but it would serve your record well to complete it anyway. Good luck.”
Serve my record well? So the reality is that I have more work than before. Well, it’s better than repeating half of junior year. I stand up, convinced I’ve lost those extra London pounds by sheer loss of water-weight. “Thanks — thanks so much!”
“So you’re basically making a movie for credit while I have to slog through academic hell otherwise known as calculus and advanced Latin?” Chris asks as we do non-impact-heavy cardio on the Elliptical trainers at the LOG.
“Hey — my movie as you call it is just an idea right now. And no one forced you to take advanced Latin — you just signed up because that guy you thought was hot was in it.”
Chris swats my shoulder. “I told you that in confidence!” His look these days is a perfect melding of the nineteen-fifties prepster (think: black and white photos of guys in Madras on the porch of some summer estate) and leftist cool (think Elvis Costello glasses and roughed up seams on all his pants).
“Like there’s anyone around,” I say and gesture to the empty gym. “Which is a shame only because if there’s no one here, there’s no one to appreciate how great you’re looking these days.”
Chris quickens his pace and smiles. “It’s so good to have you back — I missed my fan club.” He breaths hard. “You know you’re the only member of that club, right?”
“I hardly think that,” I say and check how many minutes I’ve been ellipticalling. Not enough for that endorphin release.
We have the most coveted spots in the LOG, the row of machines that face directly onto the quad, perfect for people-peering and taking my mind off my woes.
“Blah — I’m so relieved — Mrs. Hendricks seriously made me think I wouldn’t graduate next year.” I get off the machine and go to the weight training center, which is far enough away from where Chris is that I have to yell a little. Or whatever the word is before yelling.
“It’s not like the film will be easy — I mean, first of all, PMT has to approve my whole idea. And she might not, given the fact that she is, in fact, a professor of LITERATURE.” I work my thighs and then pause between sets. “Then I have to think of a topic, an angle, a whole way of making it coherent. Which is why a movie makes the most sense.”
“And what will this Oscar-winning viewing experience be about?” Chris yells back.
“I don’t know yet,” I say. More sweat drips from my forehead, my hair is greasy and matted, and my face has that blotchy hot itchy feeling — a sort of allergy season meets deodorant ad. I am SO sexy. “What’s a good plot for a movie?”
Then, from behind me:
“Why don’t you make a movie about how much better things were around here when you were gone?”
The words alone could belong to anyone with dire need of butt-pole removal, but the sultry, nasty voice comes attached to none other than the bitch on wheels Lindsay Parrish. Evil incarnate is close enough to smell — and I have to admit her scent is kind of appealing — like one part Upper east Side expensive perfume, the other like freesia; how anyone so mean got to smell so good is beyond me. Then again, the world’s not a fair place, is it? The smell of her is enough to send my mind reeling (ha-ha, film reference) back to her cruelty last term, the way she and Cordelia (AKA faculty brat extraordinaire) tried to condemn me in front of the whole school at my play. The way Lindsay made Arabella — my best friend — run naked around the flag pole. The way she tried to steal my old boyfriend, Jacob. And the minute I think this, I all of a sudden realize, she might have succeeded.
Chris comes over to stop the slur-slinging before it starts. “Hey, Lindsay,” he says and eyes her fancy workout attire. “Did you not get the memo that you can’t bring bitches into the gym?”
“If you mean dogs, then your fake girlfriend here should leave.”
“Enough,” I say and hold up my hand and turn to Chris. “She’s so not worth it.”
“Funny,” Lindsay cocks her head and smiles wickedly, her teeth bleached and ready for the kill. “That’s just what Jacob said about you when he and I first hooked up.”
I don’t give her the credit of responding but when I drop Chris at his class and head home to shower; I have that rush of TISHS (Things I Should Have Said). I should have told Lindsay that it doesn’t matter to me what happened with her and Jacob. That I knew they hooked up while I was in London — yes, London, Lindsay, with my hot aristocratic boyfriend. EDid I mention he’s amazing and out of every girl in the entire small though highly populated British Isles, he chose me?
I wash the remains of the morning’s sweat and sludge off in the shower and picture Asher coming for his promised visit. Am I totally shallow for wanting to parade him up and down the quad, to make out with him in front of Lindsay so she can drool and then go home and pick her zits (okay, maybe she has one — somewhere) and doubt her self-worth? Perhaps this wish is surface level, but I hate the fact that I’m back here dealing with anvil-heavy issues and Lindsay can come along and knock me down with one phrase.
As I towel my hair dry and consider various subjects for my ISPP, I realize I have yet to set up my college counseling meeting with Mrs. Dandy-Patinko, so I decide to go over there on my way to Mass. General. So much for putting in solid study hours at the library. As a compromise, I shove some books in my bag and head out the door, trying not to admit the real reason Lindsay’s words bugged me.
The real being, of course, that I have unresolved issues with Jacob. Not with Lindsay. Lindsay’s a known entity — nothing she does or says or inflicts should be surprising. But Jacob — he’s the one I thought I knew. And yet I never would have predicted he’d fall prey to Lindsay’s hot body and mean spirit. For some reason I put his morals and desires above the random hook-up.
The college counseling building remains, comfortingly — annoying — the exact same as when I left. Sturdy bookcases filled with college catalogues, pamphlets, leaflets, lots of lets and yet none that reads “This is Where Love should Apply, Be Accepted and Go”.
Only as I wait for Mrs. Dandy-Patinko to free herself from the tangle of her headphones do I admit it — not even in my journal because putting it on paper would make it too real. In my mind I say, very small, like I’m talking to myself in lower case — Lindsay hooked up with Jacob. He hasn’t been pining for me. He has put his mouth, which is lovely full but not too full so as to be pouchy — on her mouth. She probably had her hands tucked into his dark mop of curls.
Never mind that I’ve been kissing — and beyond — close to sleeping with Asher. And never mind that I haven’t even seen Jacob in almost a year. But the thought of him with Lindsay makes my stomach turn. The other students waiting for college counseling don’t look at me as I seethe; they’re all too focused on their own problems — SATs, college interviews (um, hello, note to self: need to get butt in gear for those and feet in non-flip flops to make studious impression), and the dreaded SIBOF scores that Hadley uses to Magic-Eight Ball your college track. Maybe they predict where you’ll get in so they can claim “very high acceptance rates to students’ top choice colleges” in their catalogue. Hey, maybe my brain is finally off the thaw status and back to thinking clearly (until seven-thirty tonight when I crash and loose the ability to do simple math).
Mrs. Dandy-Patinko, my good-natured bosomy college counselor, appears at the doorway to (no, not hell — that’s Lindsay’s dorm room in Fruckner House) her office. She straightens her hair and smiles — one of us is the lucky person who is next in line to focus on their futures.
“I’m ready for Love!” Mrs. Dandy-Patinko announces.
Aren’t we all?
“Hello,” the now-face familiar head nurse on Mable’s floor greets me in her hushed tones at the nurses’ station. “Before your visit today, we’d like to have a word.”
My heart races, my chest throbs, my knees threaten to buckle. I didn’t tell my dad I was coming today so there’s no chance he would have prepared me for the worst — if that’s what this is.
“Can I please just see my aunt?” I ask. I live in constant fear that one day I will come for a visit and she will just be gone. That panic-response makes me edgy. “I really need to get in there.” I make a move towards the corridor that leads to her room, but I’m stopped in my tracks by Nurse Insensitive who asks me to please take a seat in the waiting room.
I do as I’m told, surrounded by other anxious people connected by grief or worry. Someone hands me a cup of coffee without speaking — I wonder if she is here visiting a friend, or her mother, or partner. Who knows? I nod a thank you and sip the tepid cup of Joe (note to self: add cup of Joe to annoying phrase list in journal). No one’s coffee is as good as Mable’s. Slave to the Grind is the best. Of course I’m biased, but it’s smooth, strong, and rich without being overbearing. Oh my god, I think, I sound like I’m describing Asher. After a couple more sips, I am greeted by a familiar and welcoming face, Margaret Randall, Mable’s favorite nurse. She’s also Henry Randall’s (AKA Preppy Vineyard Boy) aunt and really nice. She’s become chummy with my dad and was friendly to me before I left for London.
“Love — it’s good to see you,” she shakes my hand and I’m thankful for the reminder of her first name. She’s so down to earth it’s funny to think of her as being related to Henry’s dad, Trip Randall III, who owns half of the Vineyard (including the café whrre Slave to the Grind II is opening this summer).
“Hi, Margaret.” She looks at me and I know she has bad news. I calm myself down by picking at the Styrofoam cup on not-Joe and breath through my nose like I do when I’m running long-distance.
“As you know, Mable’s been having a pretty rough time after the second mastectomy,” Margaret says. It’s clear form her soft tone and gentle way of touching my hand that she’s done this before. I’m kicking myself for not taking Chris up on his offer to come with me. I just felt guilty asking him to drive yet again with me when he could be working, wallowing, or crushing on campus.
I nod at Margaret. “You can just say what you need to say. I probably know it already anyway.”
Margaret’s expression changes. “Oh, you do? Well, then, I think I say for everyone here that we’re sorry. And we wish it had worked out.”
I start to bawl. Margaret puts her arms around me. “Were you and Miles close?”
I pull back and look at her. ‘What?”
“You and Miles — Mable’s fiancé — were you close with him? I know you were going to be a bridesmaid and…”
My world is spinning and I am close to barfing in the family lounge area. “I’m so confused — what are you talking about? How does Miles factor into anything if Mable’s in a coma — or worse?” Even saying the words makes me need to sit down. My dad should be here with me. Isn’t it illegal to tell bad news to a minor? I need an emotional judge for this ruling.
Margaret covers her face. “I’m so sorry, Love. On behalf of Mass General and myself, I apologize that you inferred that. Mable is actually much better — she turned a corner last night and is up and talking.”
I’m doing breathing that’s close to mutt-pants (note to self, do not make joke about mutt pants being a new trend — first boot cut, now Mutt Pants) — “So then what’s the bad news? Why the grief-talk?”
Margaret clicks her tongue. “She broke it off with Miles.”
“Again?” I shake my head. “I don’t care — just let me see her.”
“Of course,” Margaret waits for me to stand up and leads me past the nurses’ station and over the cold linoleum tiles towards Mable. “I think she thought you’d be upset, that you were looking forward to being in the wedding.”
“That’s the furthest thing from my mind,” I say and walk through Mable’s door to find her sitting up spooning Jell-o from a small plastic cup into her mouth. Her face is still pale, her lips dry. She’s cogent and cheerful, better than she has been since I’ve been back, though and talks fast to prove it.
“I forgot how good raspberry flavor is!” Mable says and gestures with the wobbly dessert like it’s champagne. “Of course, you probably spell flavor with a u — that’s so British. Like neighbour and colour. I went through a horrid phase in my early twenties of spelling everything Britishly. I know. Britishly is not a word. But I did — I spelled color c-o-l-o-u-r and everything. So lame!” She smiles at me; a real, full-on smile and I grin back.
“You’re insane! It’s like, I’m unconscious — no I’m not, now I’m awake and speed-speaking!” I say and rush over and hug her, careful not to do it too hard lest I disturb any of the tubes. I haven’t seen her awake like this in so long; even when I visited before, she didn’t really know I was there, although she did mumble a lot.
“I’m not insane — well, not completely. I’m so glad to see you, British Lady.” She pats my hair and I feel her familiar hand on my head and start to cry. I’m just a flood these days and I can’t help it.
“Oh no, Love,” Mable lets me sob a little, Margaret excuses herself and I just wail. “I’m okay. I’m going to be okay.”
I sit up and sniffle, unable to let go of Mable’s hand. “I’ll tell you about the situation between me and Miles in a second. First, let’s talk a little about this summer — Slave to the Grind is waiting for you.”
“And Arabella, right? She can still come?”
“Of course,” Mable says. Then she pulls the nurse button and I panic again. “It’s nothing health-related, Love.” When Margaret reappears Mable says, “Didn’t you have something for Love?”
Margaret pulls an envelope out of her pocket and hands it to me. “My nephew Henry came by to visit Mable. He hoped to see you but I told him you were in London for a while. Anyway, he left this.” Margaret’s pager blips and she hurries out of the room.
Mable raises her eyebrows at me as I look at what Henry left for me and I roll my blues at her. “It’s not like that. Henry’s just a really nice guy.”
The card reads:
Tried to find you at Brown again — you must be really busy — I never seem to catch you on campus. Hope your college trip abroad was enlightening but not so much that you stay there forever (we’d miss you stateside). Hope your aunt feels well and that this note finds you happy and at home. —Henry
Friendly, slightly formal, not too this, not too that.
“Yeah,” I nod at the note. “He’s just really nice.”
“Sure — a really nice, handsome rich guy who is so kind he visits your sickly aunt while you’re off partying in London.”
“One — I didn’t party in London. Okay, a little I did. And two, don’t make me feel guilty that I wasn’t here the whole time.” I look in to her eyes and she smirks.
“I wasn’t guilt-tripping you. All I meant was, Henry seems pretty decent.”
I shake my head and gather my hair up into a ponytail then let it fall. Mable twirls the end of some strands. “I’m all set in the guy department,” I say.
“Do they have that at Bloomingdale’s these days? I thought you had to custom order them on line. Silly me.” She motions for me to help her with her pillow so she can lie flat. “All I’m saying is I’ve been out there a long time and sometimes when you think you’re all set with romance, it vanishes.”
My cheeks blush for no good reason. “I’m sure that happens. But with Asher — it’s good. Things are good. I’m going to bring him to meet you when he visits.” I pause and then Mable overlaps with me as I say, “Lucky him.”
Song for the drive back home=Aztec Camera. The words your head is happy but your heart’s insane make me nod. I know I’m doing the right thing, what I have to do, by being here, but I can’t shrug the feeling that I’m missing out on everything in London. Storrow Drive slings by me, the twinkling lights of Harvard in the distance. It’s hard to think about college and planning for four years that are more than a full twelve months away; who can know what I’ll feel then, or where I’ll be happy and find a new home?
I sing and drive and go past Slave to the Grind for a coffee that will aid me in my quest for staying up later than I have been. Inside, the place is hopping. Mable’s hired a bother-sister team to run the place while she’s unable to, and they seem to have the system down pat.
“Hey — you’re the singer, right?” the brother asks me. I nod. “Doug Martin. I know, two first names.” He smiles at me and gets his sister’s attention.
“Ula,” she says and shakes my hand. Unlike her brother she doesn’t offer an explanation of her rather interesting name.
“As in oh-la-la?” I ask and smile.
“Yeah, like I haven’t heard that before.” Ula rolls her eyes. “No, as in Swedish heritage.”
“Never mind my sister,” Doug says. “She burned herself on the frother — you know what that’s like.”
“I do, actually. It sucks” I take out some money, more as a gesture than anything else. “Can I have a medium mocha please?”
Doug nods. “So I guess we’ll see you on the Vineyard this summer?”
Ula actually takes my money and counts it. “We’d give you one for free but we told Mable we’d keep track of everything.” Ula’s mouth is one slim line, like those smiley faces that are supposed to show “in the middle”. “So we refuse freebies to everyone.”
“That’s fine,” I say even though it’s not and accept the mocha from Doug. “Are these new cups?” I look at the cardboard. It’s thinner than the other kind was. “They’re not as good — the heat’s coming right through.” I don’t mean to criticize, but heat seepage bugs the hell out of Mable and she doesn’t approve of doubling up on cups because of the tree waste.
“They’re cheaper,” Ula explains.
“Oh,” I say. It’s really not my business, I figure and Mable will be back soon and she can sort out the thick and the thin. “Thanks — I have to go. Have a good night.”
“Thanks for coming by,” Doug says.
“And see you in Edgartown,” Ula says. “I’ll be helping out there this summer, too.”
Oh, fab! Sign me up — sounds awesome. I do a small, not-too-fake smile. Note to self: complain to Mable about potential for evil twins (okay, so Ula and Doug are not twins, it sounds better) to corrupt café life. Not to mention seriously hinder my Vineyard vibe. But I give a quick wave and manage to get out “See you then!” before whisking myself back to the safety of my Saab. My Saab that Mable used to drive. My Saab that has already seen me through so many ups, downs, though as of yet no ins and outs. Heh. I press play on the CD again and sing along, my mind has torn its track to you, my feet can’t wait to go… but then my singing fades out while the song continues. With my hands on the steering wheel I approach the dusky campus and realize, until how the song finishes, my feet aren’t going anywhere. London is over. And I’m back here.