Love and Other Things I'm Bad At, page 25
“We can replace the rug,” I offered.
“No worries,” said Dara. “If it cleans, great. If not, I kind of hated it anyway.”
Down in the basement, Bryan helped me put up some wall shelves and a desk and generally get settled. Then, as much as I kind of really didn’t want him to leave, it was time for him to go. It felt like Cornwall Falls all over again. Being abandoned in a strange place. Even if it was in Colorado, I still didn’t feel like I knew anyone or actually belonged here.
“I’ll miss you, buddy.” Bryan hugged Oscar by the front door while Shawna and I watched.
“Look at them. That’s so cute,” Shawna said as Oscar rolled over to let Bryan scratch his belly.
Oh no. Not my brother and my friend again, I thought. Not that it was on par with Beth and him, because I’d only just met Shawna. Or re-met Shawna. Or whatever. I still wasn’t interested in seeing history repeat itself. “OK, well, Bryan has to go now,” I said, and I shuffled Bryan outside as quickly as I could.
Shawna followed us out to the car, carrying her mug of chai. “Do you, like, have to leave right now? Because I was going to cook dinner, and if you want to, you know, hang around.”
“You’re cooking?” asked Dara, standing on the porch. “Since when?”
“Um—that sounds cool—” Bryan began.
“But unfortunately, he does have to leave now, he has to be home early, because he’s still in high school,” I said.
Bryan looked at me like he wanted to ram me with the car. “I’ll be up to visit soon,” he said. Not sure whether he meant that for me, or for Shawna, or for Oscar. Or all three of us.
“Like you have any actual homework in high school,” Dara said. “As if it isn’t a complete joke.”
“I know, right?” Bryan said. And then he gave me this two-second hug and got into the car and drove off.
Oscar and I went down to the basement and I started arranging my stuff, trying to make the place look homier. Oscar followed me around as I put up some pictures, a poster, magnetic bulletin board, and unpacked books for my bookshelves. I put up my little chili pepper lights around the short basement windows to give the place a little more warmth and atmosphere.
Oscar loves lights. He’s drawn to them.
But tonight, Oscar just let out this big, long, sad sigh as he settled down on the rug beside the bed. And I started leafing through all my new textbooks.
I knew exactly how he felt. What were we both doing here? I missed everyone I’d ever known in my entire life.
Then I realized: I could call people to cheer up. Oscar couldn’t.
He could, however, drool on my socks while I talked to Wittenauer.
9/16
Made it through first day of classes. My Monday-Wednesday-Friday classes—Art of the Essay (which Dara calls Art of the Easy) (and which they are making me take as punishment for missing Freshman Comp), Sociology of the Environment, and Psychology of Social Change—are mostly big, like their names, and stopping by TA desks to talk about my late enrollment was no big deal. They gave me the syllabus and said I could email them to get the missed class info, lectures, handouts, etc. I’ll have some makeup assignments to do, for sure.
Got a call back about a job I applied for. The Smoothie Stop. It’s close enough that I can walk to it. I’m not sure why they are still hiring, when every other place seems full. Someone must have quit. That doesn’t bode well, does it?
Neither does a cat named DeathKitty staring at me while I write in here. I expect to find this journal shredded one day and used as cat litter.
I hear Oscar outside, making funny, whimpering sounds. Must go investigate.
Hm. Didn’t find anyone or anything. Oscar only makes that whimper sound when he’s happy. Is he so happy to be living here? Well, makes one of us.
Time to call W.
9/17
Tuesday-Thursday classes not quite as smooth.
First, Oscar followed me out the door before I could close it, and I couldn’t catch him. He kept running around me and following me at the same time. Eventually I had to grab him and drag him back to the house, and he whimpered the whole way like I was a horrible dog owner, so I was wondering when my neighbors would come out and call the ASPCA on me—
Anyway. So, I was late to my first class of the day, Journalism 210. (No flashy name there. Because it’s hard-hitting journalism, y’all.)
In my second class, Environmental Activism, which I was late for because I got lost on campus and found myself outside the Potato Building (which, of course, I had to take a picture of with my phone to send to Mary Jo, the original Potato Clock owner) and which I had to beg to be let into because it was already at capacity (half of the guys in the class looked like they’d be totally willing to torch a ski resort for Earth First!—if they hadn’t already), the professor looked at me as if I had made a wrong turn.
“May I help you?”
“Is this Active Environmentalism?” I asked.
He chuckled, while the rest of the class just laughed loudly. At me. “No, but you are close,” he said. “This isn’t a phys ed class. If you’re interested in that, the gym is due west—” He lowered his glasses and pointed toward the mountains.
I cleared my throat. “I’m Courtney Smith,” I said. “I just—I’m a late addition to the class.”
“Late. I’ll say.” He glanced at the clock. “Find a seat promptly, Ms. Smith.”
I had to slink across the front of the room to the one empty seat, then I had to wait for the two guys who were using it as a footrest to move their feet.
Let’s just say they both needed a fresh pair of dude sandals. Mandals?
After class, could not even reach professor to talk to him. Giant crowd surrounding his desk would not let me in. Felt like I was at a casting call for Environmental Idol and he was Simon.
9/18
I was crossing Mulberry on the way home from class when a dude on a bike went past me so quickly that it left a breeze behind. Then he stopped on the other side of the street and just stood there. Waiting for me.
Great, I thought. Now what?
Then he took off his helmet. It was Grant.
Panic attack began.
“What’s up?” he asked when I got closer. Like we saw each other all the time.
Deep breath, deep breath, shallow breath, hyperventilating. “Not much,” I kind of exhaled. I’m only struggling to get settled into a new school and living in a place I only found because of you, when rightfully you could and should hate me. “You?” I asked. All casual-like.
He told me that he was headed home and that because we live on the same block he was waiting for me so we could walk together. I’d been here 4 days already and he hadn’t come by to see how I was yet. If he hadn’t nearly run me over with his bike, would he have made a point of stopping over, or not? I wanted to ask him that, but knew I couldn’t.
“So,” I said, and I thought I had a follow-up line to that, but I found out that I actually didn’t. “Nice . . . street.”
“Yeah. It is. You know, it’s close to campus, but it’s pretty quiet. Unless all my housemates are home.”
“Uh, which house is yours?” I asked.
“Um, that one.” He pointed to a brick house. Which was actually right beside the brick house where I was living.
“You said you lived on the same block. That’s not ‘on the same block.’ That’s next door!”
“Sure, but that’s a minor technicality.” He shrugged and looked kind of embarrassed. And then he laughed and looked slightly mortified.
“Grant! How could you not tell me this before now? How did you not come over and help me move in? And what about Oscar?”
“Oscar?”
“He moved in, too, or are you deaf?”
“Seriously?”
See, Grant and Oscar used to be pals. In fact, when Oscar went missing, as he always does, Grant was the one who helped look for him. Grant was the one who usually found him. He’d drop everything for that silly dog.
Now they were neighbors and he hadn’t even noticed? Where had he been? Or had he felt too awkward about us to come over?
“I guess, you know, I’ve been working later, studying late and stuff. I really hadn’t heard him.”
I can’t figure this out. Did he want me to live next door to him? Of all the places in town? Or did he have to think it over? Was he ever going to tell me? If I hadn’t called him back, would he have called me?
Was he embarrassed because he wanted me to live next door, because he never got over me? Or was he playing hard to get, kind of?
My head was spinning with questions as we got up to the house. I opened the door and Oscar bolted out of the yard, right into Grant, almost knocking him off his bike. He started making that funny whimpering sound—Oscar, not Grant, I mean—and it suddenly dawned on me. I’d heard those sounds before! It meant that Grant had stopped by before. He’d visited Oscar but not me. And that hurt, like, a lot. And the fact he was even kind of lying about it—wow. Things were very strained.
While Oscar was licking Grant’s face, a bit too lovingly I might add, I ventured, “Just so you know, I’m, uh, still seeing Wittenauer.”
Grant stopped snuggling with Oscar long enough to give me a look that could stop traffic, whatever that means, and said, “Just so you know, I still don’t care.”
Ouch. How long had he been saving up that line? Since last March? “Oh?” My voice warbled.
“Because we’re just friends now.”
“Friends. Right.”
Not sure how I am supposed to adjust. But I don’t get that feeling around him that I used to get, like a hundred ants were running up and down my body (not in an annoying way but in a good way), so I guess I am doing OK.
Suddenly my phone started ringing. Not just any ring. The CFC fight song.
Grant stared at me because I wasn’t answering it.
“It’s, um, Wittenauer,” I said.
“Don’t let me stop you.” He stood up, gave Oscar one last rub behind the ears, and wheeled his bike over to his garage.
Weird. We have never lived this close to each other. Now we don’t date anymore and we’re next-door neighbors. The kind that probably need a fence between them.
Forgot about Grant and talked with Wittenauer.
Practically made out on the phone.
Some calls are best taken in the privacy of one’s basement bedroom.
9/19
Got back from brunch with Dara and Shawna (cinnamon-roll toast = yum) and found a dead bird on my bed.
Thanks, DeathKitty. Thanks so much.
This is how my weekend is going, in case anyone is wondering. Which they’re not. Because they’re all having fun watching Wittenauer aka Corny leap around and cheer at soccer game. I heard.
Well, at least I found out how DeathKitty got her name.
She used to have a sister kitten. (I’m not sure if Dara was joking about this. She has a weird sense of humor.) Also, she’s taken out several birds and about a dozen mice. No doubt she’s working her way up to defenseless mutts with epilepsy. Killers don’t discriminate.
Maybe I need to get Oscar a dog sitter, someone to check up on him while I’m gone, because it’s not like I can stay inside the house all the time—I’ll miss college.
On the other hand, I should be realistic. How is a 15-pound cat going to bring down Oscar? By hissing?
Found out how Dara and Shawna became friends—they were roommates in a quad last year. They were supposed to be sharing this house with their mutual friend Tobie, but she moved in with her boyfriend in an apartment two weeks before school started. So that’s how I ended up getting her spot.
Shawna wants to major in Elementary Education. Dara is majoring in English and minoring in “getting out of here in three years.”
“What’s so bad about this place?” asked Shawna at brunch. “You’ve been saying stuff like this for, like, a whole year. Getting annoying.”
“What’s so bad? Look at that woman over there. She’s wearing Wranglers. I mean, what even is a Wrangler? And what’s with his cowboy boots? And look. Agh.” She sank down in the booth. “That guy has a horseshoe pattern vest.”
“Maybe you should major in fashion?” I suggested.
“It’s the West. People have, like, ranches here,” Shawna said. “Get over it. Get over yourself.”
Dara looked completely shocked that Shawna had stood up to her.
“So,” I said. “Who wants more coffee?”
Years of dealing with my parents’ arguing have given me special skills.
9/20
Met with Smoothie Stop manager yesterday. First thing he said was “Hey, I remember you from Truth or Dairy.”
“You do? Me?” This is weird running into people who knew me from Denver. Was it a good thing or a bad thing? Felt kind of like a celeb.
“Yes, don’t you remember me?” he said.
I stared at him for a second. He looked like he was about 25, wearing a ball cap with the Smoothie Stop logo, and a T-shirt and jeans. He wasn’t good-looking; he wasn’t bad-looking. He was slightly generic, if that makes sense. In other words . . . forgettable. At least, to me.
“I used to work day shifts before you came in the afternoon after school,” he said. “I was in night school. Business administration.” He held out his hand for me to shake. “Guy Nicollet.”
“Right, right!” Now I remembered. What I remembered was that he usually left before I got there and Gerry would get mad at him because it was not the smooth(ie), painless transition he wanted. Sometimes he’d leave half an hour early, and that was eventually why Gerry fired him.
“So, how’s it going, Courtney? What finds you here in the Fort?”
Wasn’t it obvious? “Here for school,” I said, and as I explained what had happened over the past few weeks, I looked at the menu and surveyed the place to see if it was somewhere I’d want to hang out for 15–20 hours a week. After my experience at Bagle Finagle last year, I can’t be too careful about accepting another part-time job. That one had been way too challenging, at least when you factored in personality disorders.
I couldn’t help thinking that lots of things were similar to Truth or Dairy, from the smoothie recipes, sizes, and combos to the frequent sipper cards to the cups and even the store’s logo.
Plus, Smoothie Stop not only offered smoothies but also had a menu section called Sundae Stop—just like Truth or Dairy. (Beth and I used to fight over those dumb cowhide print vs. green hemp aprons.) The freezer case was divided between healthy fruit options and the high-fat gluttony of chocolate-chocolate chip. It was torture for a person who couldn’t decide if she wanted to be a health nut or a high-in-fat pecan nut.
A person like me.
But since when have I ever shied away from torture? (Besides not running with my mom and Sterling.) I dive right into difficulty. Conflict is my middle name. Which is a lot better than Von Dragen.
We talked for a while—I guess technically it was an interview—and he asked if I could start next week. Which I can, so I will. If it doesn’t work out I can always bail, right?
On the one hand, I don’t want to condone the fact that it seems like he stole all his ideas from Gerry, and Gerry should probably be getting a cut of the profits. On the other hand, I need a job unless I want to get by on my so-called allowance from Mom, which is a mere pittance.
Guy said he might need me to work the late-night shifts. They’re open late, like midnight, for the late-night study crowd. (It’s not far from the library.) He said they usually get a rush on energy-boost drinks, and showed me some questionable-looking prepackaged brownies that felt like bricks. “Top sellers with the late-night study crowd. Maximizing our profit percentages,” he said.
I probably ought to be in the late-night study crowd, trying to catch up in all my classes, instead of selling them snacks.
9/21
Wittenauer and I spent all day—all day—on the phone or messaging.
He brought me to a meeting.
I brought him to the library.
We shared lunch.
It was a virtual date, but with actually zero contact. Did not enjoy that aspect.
He said the cutest thing, though. He said he was thinking about transferring here. As if Corny, Mr. Legacy Student, could transfer in his senior year. But he laid out the whole scenario and made it sound like it could happen. He said he’s always wanted to be a snowboard hound since watching the Olympic half-pipe.
“It’s not like that every day,” I reminded him. “That’s, like, vacation.”
“It could be every day,” he said. Then he mentioned he was not doing very well in his classes so far. That he was thinking it might be time to take a leave of absence.
“What? It’s only September. You have months to pull your grades up.”
“You would think so,” he said, getting all distant for a second.
Wait a second. He was distant the whole time. He was 1,000 miles away.
9/22
Freezing cold today. Snowing in the mountains. Went out for lunch (despite impending financial doom; we are Generation B after all) to this place called the Pythagorean Theorem Café. Bunch of equations on the walls. Shape mobiles. Sandwiches named after, well, mathematicians, I guess? Like I would know. But it was a near-vegan’s heaven. I could get anything I wanted. I could pay $12, which would kill my food budget for the week, but it would be lovely vegan food and fresh-squeezed organic juices.
“They put sprouts on everything. I hate sprouts,” Dara said while we were in line. She was wearing her hair in little miniponytails on the back of her head, and cool eyeglasses. She always wears dresses with leggings and boots or ballet slip-ons. I look hopelessly boring beside her.
So she hates sprouts. What does she even like? I haven’t found out yet. I know she doesn’t like:
Mountains
Fresh air
