Archives: May 7-May 13, 2006

May 7, 2006

“If she doesn't go to jail, it'll set a precedent,” I read.

“Hold up,” Nick cuts in. “You've got to emphasize doesn't—not jail. Robert is stressing that this has to happen.” Nick is doubling as director and star of our class's staged reading of The Shimmering Line . He seems to have missed the part where Professor Jones told us that as long as the reading happened, we would get As for it. I'm all for some rehearsal so we don't look completely stupid, but there's not exactly a need to get it all perfect.

Nonetheless, we're entering our second hour of practice and Nick doesn't show any signs of letting up. “If she doesn't! go to jail, it'll set a precedent,” I repeat, with just enough over-emphasis to show I'm annoyed, but not enough for him to call me on it.

“Please, have mercy on me!” Valerie says. Nick has given up on trying to get her lines right. Valerie was the only one in the class to volunteer for the role play's heroine. She's borderline literate, making the prospect of her being on stage for the bulk of a reading a little humorous, but she does have just the reputation to pull off the persona of a prostitute.

I focus on the benefits of doing this play. While I don't like standing around a classroom, sacrificing the afternoon hours of a spring day like this, I'm grateful that reading from the play will get me out writing the final paper for the class. That means that after tomorrow's reading and polishing off the final exam, I'm done with the class. From there, it's hard to believe that in less than two weeks, the semester will be over, and with it, my freshman year of college.

“ Preston !” Nick calls out.

I turn back to the page. “Fine, have it your way. But don't blame me for the ruin of the town.” It's my last line in the play. I walk from the front of the room to take a seat at one of the desks.

May 8, 2006

It would be embarrassing to present our reading of The Shimmering Line in front of a formal audience, given the minimal practice we've had and, collectively, how little talent we have as an acting troupe. Presenting our reading on the quad, though, is more awkward than embarrassing. Our audience is always changing. Through every step of the play, people are walking past, on their way to study sessions, or meetings, or to hang out with friends. Meanwhile, we've chased away more than a few people, who were attempting to study, or who had come out to play Frisbee on the grass.

We do have a few people who stop to watch—mostly friends of cast members, or our classmates. I have had Dave stop in here and there. He was going to partake in the reading but missed the meeting Nick called to get things organized, and never caught up. Regardless of Dave's presence, I'm pretty disinterested with putting on a show. I step out onto the patch of grass we're using for a stage and read my lines, then step back at the right times.

“All the same, you're a rather fetching lady,” I read. I'm playing the part of a misguided police officer, stuck on the principle behind the laws, with a lack of concern for real people. After persecuting Valerie's prostitute character and Nick's Doring, the protagonist and brother of to Valerie, in this scene I fall for and begin to court a woman at a party, not realizing that she too is a prostitute.

“I would stay—I mean, say—that men do more of the fetching for me,” a girl named Rachel reads back. As she reads the line, I peer out and see Veronica. She's standing with her arms crossed, smirking as she looks on.

“Well perhaps there's something I can fetch you?” I say, eyes off the page, meeting Veronica's smirk.

“Perhaps a glass of wine.”

“Why not the bottle?” I say, raising my eyebrows to Veronica, who giggles.

“So,” Nick chimes in, entering the scene. “I see that you have met Lilith.”

I read again, “Yes, I have, in fact.”

“And would you say that she is—becoming?” he asks, spinning and putting an arm over her. Throughout the production, he's the only one really acting, taking any motion beyond what the stage directions most explicitly demand.

In an instant, I whirl in equally dramatic fashion Rachel's other side. “Yes, I was just saying how fetching a lady she is.” I peer off to see Veronica giggle again. “I am surprised to see that a man like you has already made her acquaintance.”

I look at Nick to see him glaring at me a little—maybe acting, maybe aware I'm mocking him. “I suppose you could say she's a family friend.”

“Oh really, and how did that connection come about?”

“Why the lady is a co-worker to my sister—or was until she was forced from her line of work.”

I stop, scratching my head, once again, over-dramatizing the moment. I'm putting on a show for Veronica now. She is my audience. I open my mouth wide, in a moment of realization of what Doring is saying. “She—she—oh, well this is no good. You foul woman! You foul man!” I whirl around again and run from the staging area.

In running, I spy not only Veronica, but Emma looking on. It's the first time I've seen her in days. As Veronica laughs, Emma only looks on—no expression on her face. I wonder how long she's been watching.

May 9, 2006

The tables have turned tonight, as I sit in the audience, watching Veronica and Emma perform. Neither acknowledge me from the stage—contrary to my performance in the reading, The Off Beats are serious and well-prepared.

“That girl on the end ain't bad looking. And I think she was in my anthro class,” Dave whispers. I dragged him to the show with me so I wouldn't have to sit alone, though he doesn't have much interest in a cappella. “The one all the way to the left.”

I turn my eyes to the end, where Claire is doing the vocal percussion for an upbeat song. She bobs her head, mouth expanding and contracting, synthesizing a fast drum beat. “Her name's Claire.”

“Claire—that's right. She was in my class,” Dave says. “The way she's going there—can you imagine what else she could do with her mouth?”

I dart Dave a look, eyebrows raised.

“What? I'm just saying—”

“I know what you're saying.”

We stop as the song does, and the crowd applauds. “Think you could introduce me after the show?”

“I thought you already knew her.”

“I know who she is, but I don't know her. She a friend of yours? Veronica's?”

“A friend of Emma's.”

“Ah, never mind then.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Na, what do you mean? Emma and I are still friends.”

“Okay.”

“We are.”

“When's the last time you talked to her?”

“I'm gonna talk to her tonight, after the show.”

“And now,” Veronica cuts us off on the stage, “I would like to introduce the Region 3 National A Cappella Tournament's best soloist, Emma Rogers.”

Emma takes the mic, not really looking at Veronica. It's true that I haven't really talked to Emma since we split up. I haven't asked Veronica about her either. Even given the unusual circumstances, I can't fathom that it would be a good idea to ask my current girlfriend about my ex.

I wonder how the two of them get along. I never got the impression they were really close before—just members of the same group, and friendly enough with one another. They're both professional on stage. I wonder if there have been problems during rehearsal. I know Veronica is planning to direct the group again next year. I wonder if Emma will return.

As Emma sings, I remember the last time I heard the group do this song, after The Sidewinders had done it. I remember how passionate she was that night—how she made a shitty song beautiful, and how she looked at me.

The passion isn't there tonight. Emma's going through the motions, hitting all the right notes, but without any of the flavor. I second guess my plans to talk to her after the show—I was just going to tell her that she sounded good, and see where it took us. But now, I can't help thinking that even that might be too much.

May 10, 2006

“Why did Doring say that his sister should leave town in act one?” I ask, standing by door of my dorm room.

Dave tosses the little foam basket ball at the hoop on the back of our door, banking in his shot. “Because he thinks she can find honest work someplace else, and doesn't want her to have to choose between getting arrested or starving.” I toss the ball back to him and he takes another shot, this one dancing off of the rim. He turns to his stack of index cards. “Where does Pittington keep all the things he steals.”

“Top shelf of his closet under a little lamp so they'll shine when he wants to look at them.”

We go on, quizzing one another from the index cards we drew up this morning. It surprises how well Dave can summarize each text without having read much of any of them.

We have the shades drawn to keep out the sun and the sight of all the people walking by our window, en route to have fun in 75 degree weather. We're shooting hoops while we study, and that's distraction enough.

As much as I would like to be outside, there's a part of me that's enjoying studying as well. I've liked Jones's class, and it has reaffirmed my interest in being an English major. Furthermore, it's gotten me thinking about how I might like to be like Jones. There have been times in my life when I wanted to be a writer, and pen the next great American novel. But something about Jones's work seems more accessible to me. I'm not sure I could ever be as dynamic or interesting as him. But as Dave and I go over the plots, characters and themes of the texts from this class, I think of how I could spend my life unraveling texts—going from writing papers to writing articles or even books about other people's works, and talking about these things with students.

“I'm getting hungry,” Dave says, lobbing up a shot underhanded. “Want to order food?”

“Pizza?”

“I was thinking Chinese.”

“That'll work,” I say, catching rebound tossing the ball behind my head, through the hoop. Dave opens his desk drawer and begins to sort through the take out menus he has accumulated there.

May 11, 2006

Somehow, Dave manages to fly through the final for Jones's class. Meanwhile, I take about the full time allotted writing up detailed responses to each essay question, making allusions to the text, trying to drum up new readings while echoing what I can remember from class.

After three hours, my hand is cramped and my brain is fried. I head to the Student Center to pick up a sandwich at the café, and on my way out, I pass by The Window office.

I'm surprised to find the door open, and Sam inside. “Didn't anyone tell you where done for the year?” I ask from the doorway.

“Presto, how you doing?”

“Not bad,” I say. It's not until I step into the office that I see the state of it. Sam's got a packing box open beside him at the center table. It's not the only box, and I notice every desk is cleared off. “Uh—there something you haven't told us, Sam?”

“The boxes?” I nod. “The Student Center staff is stripping our floor over the summer.”

“What's that mean?”

Sam grins. “Fucked if I know. Guess they're supposed to be making it nicer.”

“Well I guess that'll be good.”

“It might be good if it didn't mean that they'll have to clear out the whole office to do it,” Sam says. “I might note that they're doing this at our new SA President Tucker's suggestion.”

“Interesting.”

“Interesting that he decided to have this done in our office and the MTO's—that's what's interesting?”

“So he's trying to make nice?”

“He's trying to be a nuisance. And that's something we'll have to get used to,” Sam says, lifting a three hole punch, and tossing it into the box. “He was friends with Chilling, and as long as he's in power, things aren't gonna be easy on us.”

“You really think he's out to get us?”

“Time will tell,” Sam says, leaning back. He flashes me a grin. “But if he does want to stick it to us, we'll do it right back to him. Even if I've gotta break into his dorm room too.”

We share a laugh. “So can I give you a hand with all this? I'm surprised to see you don't have Carrie here to help you out.”

“Eh, Carrie's checked out. She's spending the rest of her college career in a bar or in bed recovering from it. This is on me,” Sam says. “It's all right, though. I'm all done with finals. This is all I've got left to do.”

Ordinarily, I might insist on helping. I'm still friend from the test, though, and anxious to get to my place and have my lunch. And so, I shake Sam's hand and head on my way.

May 12, 2006

This evening, Veronica and I grab dinner at the Chinese place on Main Street . We laugh and smile at one another. She tries to teach me how to use chopsticks before I give up, and spear one of the sticks through a piece of chicken. We crack open fortune cookies and trade fortunes, adding “in bed” to the end of each one, then try our hand at the Chinese phrases printed on the backs. We outlast the few other customers in the place—most of them take their food as take out. A little kid with androgynously short hair, wearing a pink dress waddles out from behind the counter and to say hi to us, before growing shy when she's a few steps away. Veronica stoops and smiles at the girl, introducing herself in a high voice. The girl giggles and waves.

It's dark by the time we leave. I hold the door for Veronica as we head out. It's grown outside and Veronica crosses her arm. I peel off my hoodie and hand it to her. She takes it with a smile and throws it on over her t-shirt. In a single motion, she reaches her hand out of the sleeve and grasp a hold of my fingers.

We walk around campus by the moonlight, cutting across the athletic fields, down by the woods at the edge of campus. “Are you cold?” she asks me.

I am a little bit, but it feels nice when I touch my arm to hers, warm in the wool of my own sweatshirt, too big on her, but keeping her warm along the walk. “Not really,” I say. “You doing all right.”

“I'm fine,” she says, hugging my arm for a second, sniffing at my shoulder.

We walk by the academic buildings, around the perimeter of the main quad. “So what do you think you'll be up to in a year?” I ask. “With that whole graduation thing coming up.”

She shrugs. “Probably headed to the City. That's where corporate America is.”

“A voice like yours, I would have thought you'd want to get a record deal or something.”

“Yeah right—I'm gonna be the next pop star.”

“Why not?”

“When have you ever heard of a successful musician coming out of Taylor College ?”

“First time for everything.”

Veronica shakes her head. “Not for this. The highlight of my musical career's always going to be singing with The Off Beats, leading the group. It's all right, though. That's reality.”

I want to argue the point, but what do I know about the subject? I switch gears. “Well if you're in New York you'll be in the same City as Matt.”

“So?”

“So I can have him look out for you,” I say, wrapping my arm around her, drawing her close. “Or I don't know, you guys can hang out or something.”

“I don't even know Matt.”

“Yeah, but we're talking a year from now. If we're gonna be together, you're going to know him by then.”

“So you think we'll still be together in a year?”

“Don't you?”

She smirks. We've left the quad and walking toward the stretch of road where most of the dorms are. When the path curls around, leading back toward Main Street . I catch a whiff of fresh mown grass. Funny how the sound of groundskeepers mowing the lawn outside my window was so annoying this morning, but it smells so nice now, just the way summer ought to.

“I'm hungry,” Veronica says, kicking a stone ahead of us. “Want to grab ice cream up on Main Street ?”

I smile at her. “Didn't your mother ever teach you you had to finish your dinner if you were going to get your dessert?”

“Do you see my mom here?”

“You never seem to finish your dinner.”

“Maybe I've got to watch my figure.”

“Right,” I say, looking down at her. Under the cover my hoodie she's got an amazing body. “You need to trim down stat. Oughta go anorexic.”

“That's not funny,” she cuts me off, and we're both quiet. It occurs to me I've probably hit on a touchy subject—something that means something to her.

It's awkward for a second as we walk on, just the sound of our feet on the road. But then I think about all the things I don't know about her. Over our heads, there are a thousands stars shining in the sky. And for every one of them, there are probably two things I don't know about Veronica Andrews.

In the same split second, I want to know everything, and I feel lucky not to know a word of her story. I think of how this is the best part of a relationship—where there no facts, just possibilities. Possibilities good and bad—stuff so unique you could never even dream of it all.

For a second, I think I might love her.

I settle for running a hand down the back of hair, and kissing her cheek. The conversation moves along. We move along. We grab ice cream cones on Main Street , then share a cold, sticky kiss on her doorstep before parting ways for the night.

May 13, 2006

It's my last Saturday night at school for the year. With that in mind, I can't think of a more fitting time to party.

Conveniently enough, Mike's teammates, TJ and Perry, are having a party tonight, so Mike, Dave and I head over. We stop to grab Josephine, who Dave's been talking to again, along the way, then meet up with Veronica on a corner of Main Street .

When we get to the apartment, I can't help remembering the last time we were here. Mike and Pepper were fighting, and Emma went off to console her. I remember sneaking off with Veronica then. A pang of guilt still hits at me, but then another piece of me is happy to be back here, this time with nothing to hide.

As soon as we're inside, a couple guys and a girl come up to us. One of the guys, with long blond dreadlocks whispers into Josephine's ear and laughs. There's something a little off about this guy. She turns to Dave and whispers into his ear. He hesitates for a second, then nods to her, before turning to me. “Presto, we're gonna go out back for a little while. I'll catch up with you later.”

Veronica sees some people she knows and veers off with them, so I join Mike at one of the beer pong tables. It's really not even fair when Mike plays this game. He hits every shot he takes, even when our opponents challenge him to stand a foot farther back than anyone else. We win handily, and I only have to drink from one cup. With control of the table, we turn back our next two teams of challengers with the same ease. I decide I'm simply not drinking enough in this game, and turn over my spot on the table to TJ. With him and Mike on the same team, I wouldn't be shocked at them pulling off a shut-out.

It's going to be interesting next year, living with Mike. Unlike the rest of his teammates, he opted to stay in the dorms, and with his senior status in the housing lottery, it was easy enough for him to secure a four person suite, which he'll share with me, Dave and Dave's friend Kyle. I'm envisioning that he'll want to have parties in the suite, which I'm not necessarily opposed to, especially with the crowds he'll draw, big star on the basketball team that he is.

Heading over to the keg, I'm more than a little surprised to come face to face with Emma. “Hey,” she says. From that one word, I can tell she's drunk.

“Hey, what's going on?” I ask, pumping the keg for her as she pours down the side of her cup.

“End of the year, big party,” she says, eyes a little glazed, and she pours a little beer on her hand as she takes the cup away. “Seems like that's what's going on.”

“Guess you're right,” I say, taking the tap from her hand. I can't tell if she's annoyed with me or just talking.

“You here with Veronica?”

“Yeah—yeah I am.”

“And how's she doing?”

“You should know—you probably see her as much as I do with The Off Beats and all.”

“I don't really talk to her anymore.”

I finish pouring my beer and hand off the tap to the next guy, taking a sip. I opt not to leave things be just yet, and make my way over to her side of the keg. “She's doing all right.”

“And how about you?”

“I've been all right. Mostly just studying for finals and all. How about you?”

Emma drinks deeply from her cup, then makes a face, drinking too much. “I've been all right,” she says, looking away. “You know, I have a new boyfriend, too.”

“Oh yeah?” I ask, looking away myself.

“Yeah, he's a singer. One of The Sidewinders.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, his name's Jesse. We started talking after the last competition.”

“So, before I was out of the picture?”

“After Veronica was in the picture.”

I wonder about the logistics of how she would get together with Jesse, whoever he is. With hours between them and the animosity that there was between the groups, it just doesn't add up to me. And I wonder how she would be in touch with him or vice-versa anyway—unless she gave him her number that night of the competition.

Just as I'm starting to get mad, it occurs to me that she could just as easily be lying as telling the truth. I turn back to her, and she's still looking away. “He's good to me. And the distance is good for us—we don't have to do everything together, or stay over with one another every night. It's good.”

“He treat you all right?”

“Well enough. Hasn't given me any reason not to trust him.”

It's a shot at me, and I know it. And I know that if Jesse does exist, flirting is probably all they've ever done. Off in the distance, I hear Mike's voice. “Only bitches blow, back the fuck off the cup!” In that second, I'm not mad at Emma. I feel bad for her—that she has to say these things. That's all she has now.

“Well I'm happy for you then,” I say. “You deserve that.”

Emma looks away, drinking again. “Veronica's over there,” she says at last. “You should go keep her company.”

I nod. “Yeah, maybe I will.” I look down at Emma until she meets my eyes. “Take care of yourself, Em.”

I do go off to Veronica. She smiles when she sees me and kisses my cheek. Out a window, I see a little shack, maybe a tool shed. Some shadows are moving around inside there, and I can only assume that's what Dave was talking about when he said he was going out back.

I take Veronica's hand and lead her around a corner, out of Emma's line of vision. Hip hop music is blasting from behind me, and I can hear Mike yelling more from the beer pong table. Seems like he's grown louder with every game.

I turn my full attention to Veronica. She wraps her arms over my shoulder, and I bend slightly, my beer tainted breath colliding with hers in a kiss.