“The Jareds are coming?”
“Didn’t I tell you? Mrs. Jared is coming and so is Richard. He’s taking the weekend off from Sarah Lawrence,” she said.
“Richard?” Hmmm, that ought to be interesting, I was thinking, but tomorrow was The Dressed To Get Screwed party and there was no way I was going to leave Sean here unguarded. “You have got to be kidding,” I told her. “Is this a joke?”
I was leaning against a wall in the phone booth of Welling. I had been in town all day, most of it spent in an arcade with Sean who was trying to get the high score on Joust and was failing miserably. We smoked pot and had three beers each at lunch and I was tired. There was a cartoon someone had drawn next to the phone: in a cage was a hot dog that had sad eyes and a mean, pursed mouth and spindly arms grabbing at the bars. The hot dog was asking “Where’s me muddah?” and beneath that someone had written: “A term for the wurst.”
“Now, can you take the bus down Friday into Boston, or the train?” she asked, knowing damn well that Friday meant tomorrow. “How much does that cost? From Camden to Boston?”
“I have money. That’s not a problem. But this weekend?” I asked.
“Darling,” she managed to sound serious, even long-distance, “I want to talk.”
“What about Dad?”
There was a pause, then, “What about him?”
“Is he coming too?” I asked, then added, “I haven’t spoken to him in a month.”
“Do you want him to come?” she asked.
“No. I don’t know.”
“Don’t worry about it. I will see you at The Ritz-Carlton on Friday. Right, dear?” she hurriedly asked.
“Mom,” I said.
“Yes?”
“Are you sure you want to do this?” I was relenting. Suddenly she depressed me so badly that there wouldn’t have been any way to say No under any circumstance.
“Darling, yes. Now don’t worry. I will see you Friday, right?” She paused and then said, “I want to talk. There’s things we have to talk about.”
Like what? “Fine,” I sighed.
“Call me if there are any problems?”
“Yes.”
“Goodbye. Love,” she said.
“Yeah, you too,” I said.
She hung up first and I stood there for a minute and then slammed my fist against the wall and stormed out of the booth. My mother’s timing had never been worse.
I can tell by the way he moves that he knows. In some way he has caught on and I’m no longer left in the dark about the messenger who is me. I know he knows. The way he looks around a room, the dining hall, the way he walks past Commons. Everything about him. And I think, I just think, that he knows it’s me. I’ve seen him look me in the face; those sultry dark eyes scan the rooms he’s in and they come on me. Is he too afraid to come up to me and tell me how he feels? I listen to “Be My Baby” and dance sad dances and sing His name while I listen and hug myself. I know he likes me. I know it. And tomorrow night at the ball it will be complete. The final answer will be …
(I called my mother today … she wasn’t feeling well … I received a nice comment from a glowering teacher….)
A teacher asked us today in class if a person can die of heartbreak. He was serious. He is also a devil. My idea of hell is being locked in a room away from you but able to see you and smell you. Shut up, shut up, I tell myself over and over again. If I taught a class I would tell you, “You must sleep with me and love me to pass.” I have to learn to write my notes to Him neater. I sit so still thinking of Him. Afraid to breathe. Sometimes I think I will scream. Mary, I tell myself, tomorrow is the night. What do you think about? Who do you think about? Me? Alone? Who has seen you naked, I think to myself. Who have you slept with and loved, is another one. How many cigarettes have you smoked, also crops up. Two, today? True? Shrewjewblue-brewcrewdrewrabbitfrufru. Song for poor Mary. Nobody likes me. Everybody hates me. Guess I’ll go eat some worms. Oh! Lay! Your! Hands! On! Me!
I am in a class now with only forty minutes left. I think I’m going to throw up. I have to see You. I am frustrated, I tell myself calmly, because I want to moan and writhe with You and I want to go up to you and kiss Your mouth and pull you to me and say “Love you love you love you” while stripping, while sex commences. I want to kill the ugly girls who sit around you at The Pub but cannot. I hear a Bread song and suddenly you appear. Someone came up to me and said “Undo the karma, undo the karma,” and I thought of you. I could leave and go somewhere, I guess. Take a vacation … where? Concentration … on what? Penn Station? Masturbation? I have seen this couple walking around and they seem to be very unhappy and I want to touch you. I want you to touch them. Do you like those boring naive coy calculating girls? A poster I saw the other day in a room I peeked in on: When two snake rattlers fight, it is according to strict rules. Neither uses poison fangs, the object is only to force the opponent’s head to the ground and hold it there for a few seconds, thus establishing superiority. Then the grip is released and the loser dismissed. Who can turn the world on with her smile? Who can take a nothing day and suddenly make it all seem worthwhile? Well, it’s you girl and you should know it, with each little glance and every movement you show it. Love is all around, no need to fake it, you can have it all, why don’t you take it, your gonna … Sometimes I hate Him. Tomorrow night.
