Love and Other Things I'm Bad At Page 3

  Afterward, we all dispersed and went back to our rooms. Which was good because I wanted to finish my package for Grant.

  “What are you doing?” Mary Jo asked when I started filling an envelope with a bunch of different things for Grant: a goofy postcard of a cheese factory, a copy of my class schedule, a list of things that seemed weird about Mary Jo. Like the fact she used health and beauty products originally intended for horses or cows. (Grant would probably know all about them: Mane ’n Tail? Udder Butter? Bag Balm? Am I living with a girl or a thoroughbred?) I use stuff not tested on animals. She uses stuff created for animals. Which means they have to test it on them, don’t they? How can you tell if a horse shampoo is bad, anyway? If its tail has split ends? Who cares?

  “I’m putting together a letter for Grant,” I told Mary Jo. “My boyfriend, remember?”

  “Tell me more about Grant,” she said. “What’s he like?”

  I just sat there and stared at all the pictures of him on the bulletin board. “He’s great.”

  “He’s really good-looking,” she said. “Are you going to get married?”

  “What? I don’t know!” I laughed. “How would I know that? I’m only eighteen.”

  Mary Jo shrugged. “Most people back home know. That’s all. My parents got married when they were eighteen.”

  “Oh. Well, see . . . mine didn’t,” I said. I actually didn’t know how old they were, off the top of my head, but I did know they hadn’t stayed married. Which reminded me. Dad was way behind with his monthly check.

  I started writing another letter. Dear Dad . . . Hello? Do you expect me to live on Saltines and tap water?

  “So, um, do you and Grant have a commitment?” Mary Jo asked. “Like a promise ring?”

  I raised my eyebrow. “What? No.” I did, however, have the faux rabies tag necklace, which was almost the same thing. And he bought me a new hoop for my belly button, and if that isn’t commitment I don’t know what is.

  “Oh. So you’re not serious,” Mary Jo said.

  “Yes we are!” I protested. What was her problem? “We’re extremely serious. But we’ve only been together for about nine months.”

  Which would mean, if you were my stepsister Angelina, that you’d have a baby by now, but still no commitment.

  Getting engaged at 18? I mean, I love Grant and all. But that really hadn’t crossed my mind. Should it have? Am I weird for not thinking about it? Does Grant think about it?

  8/22

  So much for cool on-campus work-study job. I was supposed to be a research assistant. I was supposed to be in the law dept. Pictured myself writing legal briefs, wearing suits, appearing in court. Perhaps got a little carried away by watching too much Law & Order and Ally McBeal. Okay, I admit that. But do I deserve this?

  I just called the work-study office to find out about my research-assistant job. The woman on the phone looked up my name, then she sounded nervous and flustered and told me to look in my “welcome packet” for my assignment—I must have missed it.

  There was this letter stuffed in there, right underneath the list of Mental Health Resources (which I immediately stashed in my top desk drawer for easy access). It said that due to “changes in funding,” my work-study job in the political science/law department had been eliminated.

  ELIMINATED. Like something in a James Bond movie.

  And it had been replaced by a job in the Cornwall Falls Fun-Times Funders. What is that? Sounds like some sort of horrid barbershop quartet. Help me!

  LATER . . .

  Okay, I’m back from the Student Administration building. (Quit administering us already! You’re doing a really bad job.)

  I now have a job as a glorified telemarketer. Must not tell Mom. She will be furious, since she is obsessed with running all telemarketers out of business, after she settles her lawsuit against the phone company.

  Went down to find out what on earth they were talking about. They said my one job had been cut, which was kind of serious because it was lots of hours a week, and this new job was only going to be 5 hours a week. Which is going to amount to like $25 a week at minimum wage, which I can’t possibly live on, not happily anyway. But they were still giving me all this GRANT money, of course, so not to worry, I should be okey-dokey here at Cornwall Falls. I could either get a job in town. Or I could get loans to make up the rest. Or I could rely on my family’s trust fund, or I could start playing the lottery regularly, or I might want to start standing outside the student union, holding an empty coffee can and a placard that says: “Will Take Your Exams for Food.”

  Okay, those last parts they didn’t say.

  But the woman I was talking to was acting all bubbly about it, like this was good news and I should not be upset.

  Excuse me, but that work-study job is part of why I came to this tofu-forsaken town in the first place! I wanted to scream, but didn’t, due to the fact there was a line of 50 students behind me. Instead I asked who I should talk to about my assignment. They said I could talk to the Dean of Student Affairs, Dean Robert Sobransky.

  I found his office and knocked on the door. In the catalog, they kept bragging about this “open-door” policy they had when it came to teachers and students. So why was it closed?

  He opened the door. Apparently he had just finished getting changed for a tennis match. He asked if he could help me. Which was funny coming from someone wearing too-short white shorts against pale white legs with curly black hair and a bright green polo shirt with the collar turned up. If anything, he needed help. Fashion Emergency.

  I introduced myself, calmly. Professionally. Then I went into a slight tirade and said I really had to have an explanation for this. I said I had specifically come to Cornwall Falls because I was promised a chance to work in the law department, and now I find out, after I get here, it’s all a ruse, a sham to lure me and innocent other people from Colorado—

  “Whoa there, Courtney.” He sat on the edge of his desk. “Are you a conspiracy theorist?”

  “No, of course not,” I said. Though the whole thing was incredibly fishy.

  “Good. We have enough of those in our political science department already,” he said. “Ha ha ha.”

  Ha. So hilarious.

  He went on to explain that the school learned they had to make budget cuts over the summer, and they cut as few jobs as possible, and I shouldn’t take it personally, blah blah blah. . . . But he’d sure be happy to recommend me for anything I found in town, and next semester we could see about getting another work-study job for me, obviously I was in need. I should come talk to him anytime, and if I faced any hardships because of this he’d see what he could do, etc.

  The whole time he was talking, he kept tossing a tennis ball up to the ceiling and catching it, over and over, sort of obsessively watching it and trying to get it as close to the ceiling as he could without hitting it. Very weird guy.

  “So what is this job I have now?” I finally asked.

  He checked out my paperwork and smiled. “You’ll be a key member of our Cornwall Falls Funding Team!”

  “And that means . . . ?”

  “Ah! I keep forgetting you’re a freshman,” he said. “You seem so much more ma-toor.” (That’s how he pronounced it.) (What the hell did he mean by that?) (Adults who say this to me always highly suspect.)

  “It’s in our alumni relations office. You’ll be working with our gift programs, contacting alumni, and asking them to donate money, stock, land, what have you.”

  I guess I must have looked sort of upset, because then he said, “Don’t worry, Courtney, I’ll work with you every step of the way.” At which point he walked into the desk, hit his knee, and started swearing profusely.

  Afterward when I left the building, I was so mad I was walking really fast and not paying attention. I crashed right into this kiosk with a million flyers stapled onto it.

  There was this girl from my hall standing there, drinking a Mountain Dew and smoking a clove cigarette, and she caught
my arm. “Watch out, Courtney!”

  “Hey . . .” I said really slowly, as I tried to remember her name. “Annemarie!” She is the one who didn’t say a word at our hall meeting except to keep reminding everyone her name was 1 word and not 2, and her last name was Gustafsen with an e, not an o. She has one of the few single rooms on our hall. Her days so far seem to consist of coming home, slamming her door, putting on loud music like Garbage, Violent Femmes, Beastie Boys. She’s never even made eye contact with me, not even in the bathroom when we were both brushing our teeth at neighboring sinks. But now she was actually talking to me. It was so cool.

  “You look upset. What’s wrong?”

  “I just found out my work-study job,” I told her. “I have to call alumni and ask them to donate money.”

  “That sucks. Hey, you know that chick on our hall who doesn’t wear deodorant and has that Eve Goddess tattoo? Call her parents,” Annemarie said.

  “Thyme?” I said. “Why should I call her parents?”

  She pointed to a brick building across the quad. “That’s theirs. I mean, she told me it’s named after them,” she said. “The Newell Hall of Economics. Maybe they can cough up some cash for a new dorm and knock ours down.”

  Thyme’s parents are stinking rich? Huh. I’m surprised.

  “I could never call former students and ask them for money,” Annemarie said. “Aren’t we paying this place enough? I mean, I haven’t even been here a week and it’s like they want eighteen thousand dollars before I can even sign up for my gym card. Not that I want one.” She took a drag of her clove cigarette, then offered it to me. “My work-study job is working in the library. I can’t stand libraries. They’re too quiet. I don’t know how I ended up here, but I’m transferring.”

  Annemarie is completely right. I should transfer, too.

  Why am I here? So I want a degree in environmental law. So my grandfather went here and says it’s a great school. Since when have I trusted his opinion? The man thinks pork rinds are a food group. So they came after me and promised me enough financial aid to support me for 4 years and a work-study job. Which they already pretty much took away. Didn’t they?

  Isn’t there more to life? Like . . . a life?

  Why can’t I be getting a scholarship like Grant to study veterinary medicine? Why can’t I be any good at the same subjects he is? Grant and I could study side by side. We could open our own practice together. We’d call it Superior Animal Hospital. Brilliant, perfect name.

  Except I am afraid of blood. Seeing animals in pain also freaks me out. Could be a problem.

  Then I’ll be the receptionist. I’ll sit in the outer room, away from surgical procedures, and schedule appointments on environmentally friendly 100 percent recycled paper without thinking too long about what they’re for. I’ll be oblivious. Negligent. Whatever.

  8/23

  Mary Jo and I are not getting along.

  I was getting dressed this morning and all of a sudden Mary Jo shrieked and said, “What’s that on your stomach? Oh my God!”

  She was referring to my pierced navel.

  I explained that this was a piece of jewelry. She still seemed really confused about the whole thing.

  “Well, I just think that’s, um, I don’t know. Wrong?”

  “What’s wrong about it? People pierce their ears. And lots of other things,” I reminded her.

  “Yeah, but—I don’t know. It makes me think of the way that our cows have to get tags stapled to their ears to tell them apart,” Mary Jo said.

  She was comparing my navel to a cow’s ear?

  “Yeah, but that probably hurts them,” I said. “This didn’t.” Not much, anyway. Except for the way it swelled up whenever I didn’t use enough Hibiclens on it. “And besides, I chose to mutilate myself. I mean decorate myself. Whatever. Cows don’t have that choice.” Ha! So there for getting all self-righteous on me. At least I never stapled a cow.

  Maybe people argue so much here because of the crappy weather. It’s so hot. There’s like 97 percent humidity. My hair is a frizz pile. Rain came in through the window and soaked the granola fruit bars I left on the windowsill, and now they’re oatmeal. All the photos on my bulletin board are curled up at the corners. My towel smells like mildew. I smell like mildew.

  “This is nothing,” Mary Jo said. “Last spring it rained so much, our basement flooded. And outside? The cows kept falling in the mud and a couple of them broke their legs.”

  “How long is this going to last? I really need some sun,” I said.

  “Don’t worry, Courtney—you’ll get used to it,” Mary Jo told me when I kept staring out the window.

  “I don’t want to get used to it,” I said. “I want to get away from it. The weather back home is so much better.”

  Mary Jo got insulted and left for the cafeteria without waiting for me or anyone else. Like she’s responsible for the rain?

  LATER . . .

  Back from my new, exciting job.

  Had to phone people today and remind them what a great place “Cornball” Falls is.

  Hello? Does anyone see a problem here?

  So far I haven’t even been here a week, and I hate it. But there I was with my canned lines, reading them off a script that’s so worn it looks as if it’s been used by students every year since 1915.

  “Your donation provides valuable support for students like me.”

  “Would you consider increasing your gift this year?”

  “Would you like to donate a building?”

  “Would you like fries with that?”

  There’s this ear-of-corn Velcro poster-thing on the wall that measures how well we’re doing on the fund drive, like a thermometer filled with corn kernels instead of mercury. It looks like a project for a day-care center. And everyone has these signs up on their cubicle walls in front of them, to prod them into pushing for more money, like a reward system. “Way to Go, Rachel! $250!” and “$1,000—You Rule, Wittenauer!” Those are for the upperclassmen.

  And then there’s me. “Courtney. Keep Improving. $20.”

  Hey, is it my fault I get the losers’ cards?

  We have these index cards we have to use for each alum, with all this personal info, like what dorm they lived in, and what their major was, and what they do now, and how many kids they have. We have weekly goals, total amounts. So far I’m several hundred dollars short. Okay, thousands. I know—I’ll flip through the cards, find the person with the largest donation ever, hit them up. Is there a chance in hell that Bill Gates went to Cornball Falls?

  8/24

  This afternoon was fun. Thyme and I went to the bagel place for coffee. I asked her about the Newell Hall of Economics. She launched into their entire family history. “It’s—it’s not my dad, it was my grandfather, because he went here,” she said.

  Are we all just here because of grandparents? Must we pay for their generation’s mistakes?

  Her grandfather gave the money a long time ago when he made a ton of money by inventing something or other. Then he got pushed out of the company, and Thyme said he was “a victim of evil downsizing corporate warfare.” Is that typical or what? So they did have a lot of money, but they don’t anymore. How sad. Whereas I don’t have any money now, and never really had any, although I did all right working at T or D.

  After coffee we went to the bank so I could open an account with my last few paychecks. Thyme already had an account but she came with me. Which was funny, because there were all these signs all over the bank: “Tyme is money,” plastered on the cash machines. Turns out Tyme is the name of the ATM network here. I asked Thyme if that was embarrassing and she said she liked the juxtaposition of a free spirit and a corporate establishment. “Because it’s so untrue, you know. Me, Thyme? I’m not money. I’m so anti-money. So it’s so ironic.”

  The customer service person totally gave me the 3rd degree. She made me fill out a dozen forms, sign in 18 places. She practically wanted a sample of my blood. She was so suspicio
us of me, it was ridiculous. I was going to leave and open an account at another bank, but I’d filled out so many forms I felt like I couldn’t move.

  “Von . . . what does that say? Van Dragon?” the woman asked.

  “Your middle initials are V.D.?” Thyme asked. “Ooh. How rude.”

  “Tell me about it,” I said.

  “It’s better than STD though. I guess.” Thyme started laughing, and then told me if I thought my middle name was bad, hers was Penelope. So I guess things could be worse. Maybe. Thyme Penelope equals T.P. Not good at all.

  I got this big lecture on how not to bounce checks and customer service woman said they had problems with new students every fall, blah blah blah, and she hoped they wouldn’t have trouble with me, Courtney Von Dragoon Smith. Like we’re small children and can’t take care of ourselves or something without her telling us how to add and subtract? It was so insulting.

  “I’ve never bounced a check in my life,” I said.

  She smiled, sort of. “Oh, I’m sure you haven’t, Ms. Smith. But if you have, we’ll find out about it.”

  “What a witch,” I said to Thyme as we left. “She’s out to get me or something.”

  “It’s clear-cut ageism,” Thyme agreed. “You could file a complaint. I would.”

  “Maybe I should switch banks,” I said.

  “Don’t bother. They’re all the same.” Thyme flipped her skinny braids over her shoulder. “I don’t even believe in banks, but they’re a necessary evil.”

  “Like coffee?” I joked.

  We laughed and went over to the student center for another 3 cups. After that we were so wired we went to gym to work out. Thyme did yoga; I sprinted on LifeCycle. Felt like a real athlete until actual cycling club walked into gym. Very fit. Sleek. Me, sweating out coffee, face red from exertion. Thyme walked up cool and refreshed from basically lying on foam pad for an hour. Guys in club checked her out, ignored me.