Archives: April 9-April 15, 2006

April 9, 2006

“How are classes going?” my father asks, droning on through our Sunday afternoon chat.

“They're all right,” I reply tossing the foam basketball at the hoop on the back of my door as I speak. “Got finals coming up in about a month, so we're getting toward crunch time.”

“How you feeling about them?”

I'm not in the mood for this sort of conversation. In truth, the only conversation I'm really in the mood for is one about Veronica and Emma, and there's really not anyone to have that talk with. I don't have anyone at Taylor who doesn't know Emma, and I can't have her hearing anything the wrong way. And then there's the risk of people judging—I don't know how my dad would react to hearing I had spent the night with another girl. I figure Matt's my best bet, but I haven't been able to catch him on the phone these couple days.

I lucked out yesterday—getting back to my room, Dave was still asleep. Going over to Emma's, she was hung over, watching the last of the Saturday morning cartoons, and she apologized to me for ditching me at the party. I forgave her and, a little awkward, sat down in bed with her to finish watching the show she had on, then went to brunch with her at the dining hall as if nothing had happened.

“I got a letter from your mom the other day.” Dad says.

“Oh?”

“Yeah. She was—she was asking for a divorce. She wants to make it all official.”

I stop, all at once recognizing this isn't just any generic Sunday call with the family. In a sense, I had come to accept that Mom probably wouldn't come back. But I think this news is more significant to Dad. Divorce is a legal term, and that carries a lot of weight with my father, the lawyer.

“I'm sorry, Dad.”

“Well, I guess it's not so shocking at this point, for all the time she's been gone.”

April 10, 2006

It's funny how some things take on so much more meaning for you when you almost lose them. I was annoyed with Emma when this past weekend began—probably as annoyed as I've ever been with her. But it's not as though I was thinking of breaking up with her. No relationship is perfect.

We sit together a little circular table at the Student Center café, having soup and sandwiches for dinner. I'm taking a break from my work in the Window office, and Emma was good enough to head over here just to meet up with me. It's little things like that that I really appreciate about her.

“Do you really think Sal can win with a smear campaign?” Emma asks, blowing on her minestrone.

I've been tracking the campaigns for Student Association President. The elections are going on next week. “It's not so much a smear campaign as telling the truth,” I try to explain. Sal Rodriguez, from the Multicultural Theatre Organization, is campaigning largely on the basis of his organization having been manipulated by the old SA. “He's talking about bringing integrity back to the organization. And sure, in a kind of backhanded way, he's saying Tucker's a slime ball. But looking at the history, he may not be so far off.”

“Well don't get me wrong. I read you article, and I know how shady Alan Chilling was, and I wouldn't count on Tucker Williams to be much better. But I feel like on the flyers and from what you're telling me, Tucker's talking about the issues, while all Sal's doing is going off the principle that he's a better person, and that you can't trust Tucker.”

I smirk. “Maybe you should take over as his campaign manager.”

“I'd get the girls to sing on his behalf—it'd be a cakewalk.”

“Well Sal's going to need all the help he can get from the latest poll numbers. It's looking like he's going to get stomped.”

April 11, 2006

“I thought your folks were divorced,” Dave says, launching a shot at the hoop on the back of our door from his desk chair.

“Separated,” I reply, gathering the ball and tossing it back to him as I stand by the door. “Until now, that is.”

“So what's the point of the divorce then?”

“I guess she wants to make it official.”

“You talk to your mom?” Dave heaves up a brick.

“Nice shot,” I say as the ball rolls back in his direction. “Na, I haven't. I don't know, we don't talk too much. I mean, every once in a while I'll call her or she'll call me on a weekend, but that's about it.”

“Seems like this is sort of a special circumstance.”

“What are you at?”

“32 for 43.” Dave shoots again, banking it in. “Make that 33 for 44.” I toss the ball back to him and he prepares to shoot, then pauses. “I wonder if there's another guy.”

“What?”

“Well think about it—why else would she ask for the divorce?”

“My mom left for Florida because she wanted to make her own life—run the restaurant with my aunt.”

“I'm not saying she was having an affair.” Dave lets the shot fly. It hits the front of the rim and bounces back toward him. “I'm saying now that she's out there, for all purposes, single, maybe she met someone new. So then she doesn't want to get involved while she's married. Or it could even be a money thing. Your folks have prenup?”

“I don't really know.”

“Because if they don't already, she could stand to gain a lot from your attorney dad. And that's money that might go away if your dad could prove she was unfaithful.”

“If my dad wants to keep her from the money, he'll find a way,” I say. I've never heard of Dad arguing over something that petty in a court room, but from what I have seen, I'm confident he could tear apart whoever my mom hired—though I wonder if his heart would be in it.

“So then she keeps the new guy under wraps until after the legal stuff is all over.”

“Pretty picture you're painting here,” I say as Dave misses his fiftieth shot. “About as ugly as that shot.”

“Low blow, Preston . Low blow.” Dave says as I take a seat, and he gets up to collect my rebounds. “So what's Emma think about all this?”

It hadn't occurred to me until now that I haven't told Emma about the divorce. I've been distracted every time we have spoken—thinking about Veronica and what Emma might come to learn.

“It's funny,” Dave goes on, before I answer. “Feels like I haven't seen Emma in a while.”

April 12, 2006

“So do they compete against other girl groups?”

“Na,” I reply, typing in the corrections for this week's news in the Window office. “From what I saw it's pretty much just a free for all—guy groups, girl groups, mixed—they're all competing against each other.”

“That's interesting,” Teri says. Teri is the Student Life Editor for the paper, meaning she covers what student groups are up to, and a lot of the events on campus. This is the first she heard about this side of The Off Beats. “And they won their competition?”

“Well they won the first round. It's like a tournament, so now they're going to second round.”

“Huh, interesting,” she taps her pen against her teeth, leaning back in her chair. The Student Life desk is right next to the news one, but we haven't been in the office at the same time much. She's running late this week, though, and I'm ahead of where I've been before. “And you say you can get me in touch with somebody for an interview?”

“Dating a member,” I hesitate, “And I'm friends with the director.”

“Well the director would probably know the most about it—she's like the president of the group, right?”

“Yeah, it's sort of like that.”

“Yeah, so I'll start with her. Maybe go to your girlfriend or some of the other girls for supporting quotes.”

“I'm sure they'd love the press either way.”

“Hey Presto,” Sam chimes in. “Don't make me question your journalistic integrity. I don't want to see your girlfriend on the front page, even if they win their contest.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I reply turning back to my computer screen. I haven't so much as seen Veronica since Saturday morning, and wonder how she'll respond to having someone from The Window contacting her for story.

For a minute, I wonder if I should call her or stop by her place, and what that would mean. The one thing I'm certain of is that I do want to see her again.

April 13, 2006

Rounding the corner on my way to the Window office for a staff meeting, I'm surprised to find Veronica leaning against the wall.

“Hey,” I begin, a little awkward.

“Hey.”

“I'm sorry for just kind of showing up on you like this,” she starts, moving her hair from her face. “I just—I don't know, I thought I might say hi.”

“Yeah—I mean, I'm glad to see you.”

She smiles, and I can't help feeling warm all of a sudden. Part of it's the excitement of seeing her and having her smile at something I said. Making her happy just feels right. But then I'm also a little embarrassed, or maybe scared, and peek behind me to be sure no one's watching, as if the exchange we've had so far would incriminate me.

She looks down, blushing slightly, and starts again, her voice a smooth and slick a freshly waxed floor. “Look, I don't know exactly where we stand now. But I wanted to see you before we left for the competition.”

“I—you know—” I stop, smiling. “I don't know where we stand either, Veronica. But I think I'd like it if we could figure that out together sometime. Maybe we could talk after you guys get back.”

“I'd like that,” Veronica nods. “So, wish us luck?”

“Good luck.”

April 14, 2006

The morning after I had wished Veronica luck and kissed her goodbye, I did the same for Emma. Then, both women were off.

This afternoon, I find myself in a gymnasium, shooting hoops with Dave and Mike Weaver. I've hardly ever played at Taylor before, but when Mike invited us, I think we were both sort of flattered, not to mention excited at the prospect of playing with a guy like him.

We start with a game of 21. It's a simple enough game—every man for himself. When a player makes a shot, he gets two points and gets to go to the free throw line. He gets one point for each shot he makes from the stripe, and shoots until he misses, for up to the three shots, then gets possession of the ball if he makes the third, and the game goes on.

The main catch of this game is the concept of tipping. If one of the guys misses a shot, and another one can catch the ball in the air and put it in the hoop before his feet hit the ground, it wipes out the score of the first guy to shoot. The first one to reach the score of 21 wins.

Dave takes first ball. He backs me down toward the basket, then spins around and tries to go up for a layup. The ball hardly leaves his hand before Mike slaps it down for the block. From there, Mike jumps back up, laying the shot in off the glass.

Given Mike's record from the line during the college season, it's no surprise when he drops three straight. He does catch us a little off guard, though, when he gets the ball back. He darts right between us, dropping a pretty finger roll through the basket.

“Come on guys, D up a little bit,” he says, going back to the line.

“I'm just waiting for you to miss,” Dave replies, positioning himself by the basket. “Doesn't matter how many shots you've made. Once I tip you, it's back to zero.”

“So you think I'm going to miss?” Mike asks, draining his first shot.

“Everybody misses eventually.”

“Uh huh.” His second shot goes in.

“Just like in the regular season. Even the great Mike Weaver missed foul shots.”

“Did you see the shots I missed?”

Dave shakes his head.

“Na,” I reply. “Why, were they close?”

Mike chuckles. “They were a little something like this.” He tosses the ball at the backboard underhanded. Before Dave or I can react, Mike's in the air, catching the ball.. He's only a couple inches taller than either of us—maybe 6'3”—but that doesn't stop him from dunking the ball.

While Dave and I laugh, realizing what he meant, Mike heads back to the line, promptly draining his next three shots.

April 15, 2006

Looking at the caller ID screen on my cell phone, I'm a little disappointed to see Emma's name appear. I am anxious to hear about the competition, but, irrational as it may have been, I was anxious for the call to come from Veronica.

“Hey babe,” I say, standing from my desk chair. Dave and some of his friends are watching a documentary about the tobacco industry, so I head out to the hallway to take the call. “How's it going?”

“Not so hot.” Emma sounds tired, but then maybe her voice is just strained from another emotional performance.

“Oh?”

“We finished in third place.”

“Well that's not bad.”

“And The Sidewinders won.”

“I'm sorry, hon,” I say pacing down the hall. All I'm thinking of is how Veronica predicted it. She knew they wouldn't get past the second round. “But you know it's really something to even get to the second round—and to make third place there.”

“Yeah, I know. It's just kind of disappointing, and my solo wasn't that great. And The Sidewinders did “Falling Too Deep” again, right in our faces, and were so much better. They just crushed us.”

I sigh, making it to a lounge where I sit on one of the couches. “Wish I could be there, hon. Maybe I should have come.”

“No, that's all right—it's too long a trip for you have to come just to watch us,” Emma says. “And I'll be okay. Most of us are just worried about Veronica.”

I straighten on the couch. “Why, what's wrong with Veronica?”

“Oh, she just got really upset. After we performed she was screaming at everybody off stage, and crying.”

“That doesn't sound like her.”

“Yeah, I'd never seen her like that before. But some of the older girls said she freaked like that at competition last year, and no one else could understand why. So I don't know, she's alone in one of the rooms now, and some of the girls are out buying liquor, so we're hoping we can cheer her up and all just relax for the rest of the night.” She pauses. “In fact, it sounds like they're in the hall, so I should probably go.”

“All right, babe. I'll see you when you get back.” I want to have her say something to Veronica—some reassurance. But I have the sense that would sound suspicious, and let it go, ending the conversation and heading back to my room.