Been There, Done That Read online

  “The government doesn’t bother me so much,” I said. “It’s those telemarketers who call at dinner time.” I paused, trying to bat the conversation back, then caught myself. “My mother hates the telemarketers.”

  “Mine does, too.”

  When Tiffany asked about my interests, I was prepared. I sang alto in my high school choir and in our a cappella group, the Roses (I was supposed to have graduated from Roosevelt High School). I was photo editor of the yearbook (as I said this, I realized I didn’t have a yearbook, so I hoped Tiffany wouldn’t pursue this part of my past). And, finally, I was president of the French Club.

  “Quelle choses accompli!” Tiffany trilled.

  “Yeah, uh—merci.”

  Tiffany’s resume was equally well-rounded (not to mention real). She played oboe in her school orchestra and hoped to join a choral group at Mercer. A member of the junior varsity swim team, she loved the sport but lacked the shoulders necessary to make her really good. She had been a member of the bulletin board committee, which, in her tenure, had introduced many novel lighting effects. But her real devotion lay outside of school.

  “I was the secretary of our local CYC chapter.”

  “CYC?”

  “Committed Young Christians. We go on retreats and talk about our faith and make pacts with God.”

  “What kind of pacts?”

  “No drinking, no smoking, no premarital sex. But don’t get the wrong idea about me—I love to have fun!”

  I waited till after eleven to call Tim. It wasn’t the low rates, so much—I just relished the idea of waking him up.

  “I don’t think my roommate is going to be much help in getting me to the hookers.”

  twelve

  Sheila was thrilled about my upcoming project.

  “It’s all set,” I told her. “I’ve got a dorm assignment, and—”

  “Yes, yes, Richard told me all about it.” She fluttered her French-manicured nails at my lips as if willing them sealed. “The timing is more perfect than perfect. My whole renovation project? I have been having the most impossible time management issues. But with you to help me out, I can do it all. This is fabulous!”

  It seemed that Richard had taken one primary thing out of the meeting with Tim: that I would have plenty of time to write features. Sheila barely had to whimper about what a strain it was to work and pick out faucets at the same time and he’d assigned me as her slave.

  I went immediately to Richard’s office. “Perhaps there has been a misunderstanding.” I tried to sound forceful, but my voice had taken on the “five-year-old girl about to cry” quiver it always gets when I feel defeated.

  There was, of course, no misunderstanding—merely subjugation. When I told Richard that I couldn’t possibly write all the lifestyle features while managing my own section, he shrugged. “So get Jennifer to write about education.”

  “But she doesn’t know anything about it,” I said.

  He opened his mouth, then closed it again before he’d had a chance to say, “And you do?” But the sentiment hung there.

  “Are you demoting me?” I immediately wished I hadn’t asked; I was giving him the opportunity to say yes. But he smiled benevolently and shook his head and began to gush: you’re such a valuable member of the team, you inspire others to do their best, your writing is so clean and crisp, blah, blah, blah. Early in his career, Richard had discovered that stroking egos was much cheaper than paying decent wages. We all ridiculed his stroking (which only came when someone expressed displeasure) even as we craved it.

  Richard said that since education pieces required more footwork than the lifestyle items, I could assign topics to Jennifer, have her do interviews and write drafts, then polish the final version. At the same time, I could crank out a few articles about entertaining and decorating. “You’re so good, you can write one of those in your sleep. Really, I’m just trying to free you up for the undercover piece because I know how much it means to you.”

  I smiled and nodded and finally agreed. It wasn’t until I left his office that I realized that I’d been taken again.

  I had two weeks before freshman orientation. If I could write, say, four articles, I’d be set for a while. I just couldn’t see myself at the college, knocking out features about upholstery while pretending to write about Chaucer or Faulkner or whoever the hell eighteen-year-olds were forced to read these days.

  I needed ideas and contact names. I’d been meaning to call Dennis, anyway; he’d left me a couple of messages that I’d felt guilty about not returning.

  He was so happy to hear from me, so happy to be able to help me out. I wished once again that I could feel even a little bit attracted to him. Maybe it would come. At least he didn’t repulse me; that was a definite plus.

  “Actually, I’ve been meaning to call you,” he said. “You remember your slogan idea for Mission Accomplished?”

  “Uh—”

  “The ugly sofa, the bumper sticker? My other couch is a Mission Accomplished?”

  “Oh, right.”

  “They loved it.”

  “Who did?”

  “The Mission Accomplished people. It’s going to be all over the place in a couple of months: The Globe, The Times, The New Yorker—”

  “Something I wrote is going to be in The New Yorker?”

  “We’ll pay you, of course. I didn’t even have to push John. That’s my boss. A really good guy. It won’t be much, but we think you’ve more than earned it.”

  After he gave me the contact names and numbers I’d asked for, he asked me to go to an antiques fair on Saturday.

  I told him honestly I’d be buried in work all weekend and couldn’t figure out whether I was disappointed or relieved.

  Fittingly, the first article of the batch was a profile of Mission Accomplished. They’d already agreed to a full-page ad, so Richard was behind me “one hundred and ten percent.” Mitch Lambert, the owner, lit up when I walked in the oversized glass front door. “Dennis told me you came up with the ad idea! You’re a genius!” I felt like Maya Angelou.

  Next, I wrote about tapas parties; do-it-yourself framing; and, finally, shopping on a budget (my conclusion: “Often, it pays to spend a little more for quality”). I’d hand in two of the articles now and hold out two more for the next issue.

  And with that completed, I was ready to pack up my plastic milk crates and head for Mercer.

  thirteen

  Clay Aiken got to the room before I did. He was everywhere: on the walls, on the dresser, on the ceiling over Tiffany’s pink bed. There were pictures cut from newspapers, magazine covers and posters purchased from God-knows-where. Clay, Clay, Clay: there was no escaping him. He made me long for the unicorns and rainbows I’d imagined Tiffany would favor. I dropped my suitcase and laundry bag, stuffed with linens, on the gray industrial carpet, sat on my bare mattress, and gawked at the room.

  On the far wall, built-in brown laminate desks spanned the length of the aluminum-rimmed windows. Tiffany had claimed the desk near her window: it held a framed photograph of a collie and a closed laptop computer. On the opposite wall were our built-in bureaus, also of brown laminate. The beds, which ran along either side wall, were the only pieces not bolted-down—not that there was any place else to put them.

  It wouldn’t look much better once I’d unpacked. Richard had given me one hundred dollars with which to outfit my dorm room. Jennifer had come along on my shopping spree to lend her post-adolescent perspective. How my purchases broke down:

  $25: Bedspread—a turquoise and pink striped monstrosity that would probably make me sweat, as synthetics always did

  $9: Hello Kitty throw pillow

  $8: towel; $3: washcloth—I wasn’t convinced these would even absorb water

  $4: lime green bath supply bucket

  $9: toiletries, including lip balm, loofah, shower gel and a strawberry-scented shampoo (I’d have bees trying to pollinate my head)

  $12: cheap makeup that would make my skin
break out

  $6: scrunchies

  $10: white plastic milk crates

  $14: “Green Day” CD

  Richard refused to spring for a new wardrobe, so I brought along a bunch of jeans and T-shirts, some of which I’d owned since my (real) college days. I also packed my down pillow and 300-thread-count sheets because I didn’t think I’d be able to sleep without them. I was tucking the too-big sheets around my lumpy twin mattress when I heard a voice.

  “You settling in okay?” I jumped. I’d forgotten the door was open. Peering in was a beautiful boy with sparkling teeth and greenish gold eyes. He sported the kind of tan that you abandon forever once you join the world of nine-to-five. His wavy brown hair, tinged with blond, was about an inch too long for Wall Street. His gray T-shirt and black gym shorts didn’t do much to cover a lean, muscled body.

  “I’m fine,” I said. “Just trying to adjust.”

  He scanned the walls. “You like that guy? What’s his name?”

  “Clay.” I scrunched up my face. “I have nothing against him. He has a very nice voice. I just never imagined myself living with him.”

  He laughed. “Not a fan of pop music, huh? I’m Jeremy Dunbar. The Resident Assistant. I’m in room 322 if you need anything.”

  When I was in college, all the boys were named Jeff or John or Steve: nothing cute like Jeremy. Then again, I didn’t have to put up with girls named Tiffany, so times weren’t all bad.

  She wasn’t anything like I’d pictured. No poofy blond hair or fuzzy sweaters. She giggled, sure, but in a breathy, nervous way—not from an irrepressibly bubbly nature. She held her hands together as if hoping to build strength and smiled too wide with a naked need for acceptance. Her loose clothes were meant to hide a body that she probably considered obese but that, in reality, was only ten or fifteen pounds too heavy. She was the kind of girl who suffered the ironic self-consciousness of those who are rarely noticed. Her eyes were small and of an indiscriminate color. A plain elastic pulled her medium brown hair back from a round, pinkish face. Only her mouth was beautiful, full and red.

  “Tiffany?” I asked, just to be sure. She had been misnamed. She would have had better luck trying to live up to a plain, strong name: Joan, maybe, or Ruth.

  She nodded. “I hope it’s okay that I took a bed. I was going to wait, didn’t want to be all, you know, grabby. Not that the side I took is any better, I don’t think, but my mother said that was silly and you wouldn’t care and we should just get settled. Mothers!” She smiled.

  I rolled my eyes. “Tell me about it.” Too late I had realized I was the only freshman moving in without assistance. Where was my father, hauling crates? Where was my mother, fighting back tears and admonishing me not to stay up too late? Fortunately, my hallmates seemed too intent on their own boxes, posters and looming independence to sniff out imposters. I hoped Tiffany would assume my parents had already come and gone.

  She motioned to her pink bed. “If you want, we can change.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I said. Both beds were pushed against scratched, yellowed walls. Apparently, the paint crews had never made it this far. Of course, paint wouldn’t have added much thickness, which I already realized was desperately lacking. In the room next door, I could hear parents offering to take their daughter to a nice restaurant. “Don’t take this the wrong way,” the girl replied. “But you always tell me to be honest. And I just, like, really want you to leave.”

  “Okay, then, honey.” Her mother was trying to sound upbeat, but I could hear her open a zipper: probably getting a tissue out of her purse to surreptitiously wipe away tiny tears. I felt like knocking on the door and offering to go in the daughter’s place. I could help buffer the parents’ loneliness while sparing myself from whatever institutional atrocity the cafeteria was planning to serve. That’s my idea of making good while doing good.

  A skinny girl, her arms full of neon yellow flyers, knocked on our open door. She had long blond hair and a nose that turned up just a notch beyond cute. She wore one of those tiny tank tops with straps that can’t possibly accommodate a bra, assuming a person wore a bra, which, apparently, she did not. She looked like a Tiffany.

  “I’m Amber,” she chirped. (I’d been close.) “Your R.A.”

  “I thought Jeremy was our R.A.” As the very personification of a lie, I could only assume those around me were similarly disposed.

  “You get both of us! Lucky you!” She thrust a yellow sheet in our direction. I stepped forward and took it. “This is the orientation week schedule. See you both at dinner!”

  fourteen

  Mercer felt more like camp than school. The materials I’d received in the mail informed me (and all those paying parents) that freshman orientation week “provides a time for transition and acclimation. Students can settle into dorms, meet classmates, and prepare for the rigorous academics that lie ahead.” Apparently, the truth—“seven sleepless days and nights of beer swilling, junk-food munching and, for the lucky, virginity-losing”—didn’t make good copy.

  Our first night on campus, Amber’s yellow sheet instructed us to “meet in dormitory hallways and proceed to dining hall” at six P.M. At 5:59, the heavy doors lining our narrow hall opened, almost in unison, and the new freshmen stepped out into the hall blinking, as if being exposed to daylight for the very first time. The shy ones crossed their arms and stared at the carpet, while the extroverts laughed a touch too loud and called hellos to the friends they had already made while carting up trunks and using the communal bathrooms.

  Amber and Jeremy worked their way to the middle of the throng. “It looks like everyone’s here,” Jeremy said, gazing out at the sea of heads. Everyone came to attention, relieved to have something to focus on. The girls looked especially pleased to have an excuse to stare at Jeremy’s flawless features.

  “For those of you we haven’t had a chance to meet, I’m Jeremy and this is Amber.” Amber gave a little wave. She wore silver rings on each of her fingers, even the thumbs. “We’re both seniors, and we’ll be your resident assistants this year.”

  Someone snapped a piece of gum. It sounded unusually loud in the close space. Jeremy halted his spiel to look at the gum chewer, a tall, athletic-looking girl with blond hair pulled back in a ponytail. “Anyone who chews gum will be sent directly to the principal’s office,” he deadpanned.

  The blond girl flushed red and reached up to remove the gum without so much as a scrap of paper to stick it in. “Sorry,” she mumbled.

  Jeremy’s eyes widened. He held up his hand. “I was just kidding. This isn’t high school. You can chew gum whenever you want, even in class.”

  “You can chew gum in class?” someone asked, giddy with freedom.

  We walked to the dining hall in an orderly line and took turns filling our plastic orange trays with cooked carrots, tater tots, and meat of an uncertain origin. There was a salad bar, but I didn’t trust the sneeze guard. A stainless steel dispenser offered skim, low fat, whole and chocolate milk. Most of the girls, myself included, bypassed it in favor of Diet Coke.

  Since there was no table big enough to accommodate everyone, the larger boys pushed three tables together. We sat down, and, suddenly, everyone relaxed, perhaps because we had an instant topic of conversation.

  “This meat looks nasty. What is it?”

  “I think it’s beef.”

  “Looks more like pork.”

  “It isn’t veal, is it? I don’t eat veal.”

  “I’m a vegetarian,” a girl announced. “And the carrots are kind of nasty, too.”

  “Did anyone see what’s for dessert?”

  “This apple crumb thing. Smelled good.”

  “Maybe we could just skip dinner and eat dessert?”

  “Hell, why not? Who’s gonna stop us?”

  “I might,” Jeremy broke in.

  Silence.

  “I was kidding! Geez!”

  After dinner, we strolled back to the dorm, in loose formation now. The air w
as warm with just the slightest hint of fall. Low in the sky, the sun cast a gold light on the brick buildings and made the grass glow so green it looked artificial.

  Back at the dorm, we checked the downstairs lounge, only to see that the students from the third floor had already commandeered it. We trudged up to the second floor and lingered outside our rooms until someone finally plopped down on the floor and we all followed suit, our backs leaning against the hall’s cold cinderblock walls.

  An hour or so later, when Jeremy and Amber abandoned the group for their rooms, a tall, dark-haired boy in faded jeans nipped into his room and produced an enormous, shatter-proof bottle of vodka. “Anyone got orange juice?” Another boy, equally tall, volunteered to run to the convenience store, returning in an amazingly short time with a package of Dixie cups and a gallon of Tropicana.

  By the time I stood up to go to bed (Tiffany, yawning, had left when Jeremy and Amber did), the same kids who had lined up so quietly and obediently a few hours before were lolling around on the floor, slurring words and laughing, a couple of girls sitting in boys’ laps.

  College had begun.

  In time, I knew, jealousies would develop, boredom would fester, hierarchies would evolve. But for now, we were one big, happy, drunk, incestuous family. We traveled in packs. Those with cell phones programmed in each other’s numbers; all day and all night, the phones rang, beeped, trilled and played music as hallmates summoned each other to dinner or down to the lounge. Foolishly, I had left my own phone at home, considering it a suspicious-looking luxury. If anything, I stood out for not having a perpetually ringing backpack.

  We were an odd assortment. On paper, the student body was frighteningly homogenous: white, East Coast, reasonably bright and financially comfortable. Most of the students were exactly what you’d expect. For example, Mike and Jake—whom we all referred to as one entity, “Mike-n-Jake,” from the first day—were big, affable jocks who set off their orthodontia-enhanced smiles with backwards baseball hats. They were rarely seen, that first week, without a beer. They were never seen without each other. But I was surprised and impressed at how accepting they were of Katherine’s roommate, Amelia, who consistently introduced herself as “Amelia—I’m gay.” Not like that was any surprise, given her spiky butch cut and her affinity for wearing men’s cologne. Petite with huge brown eyes, she had a surprisingly delicate beauty that was only marred by her pierced tongue.