Twenty-One
Christmas, normally my favorite time of year, is miserable at my house. My parents seem to have returned to their normal lives, my mother bustling around with all her charity work, my father anxious to get back to the Senate (where, fortunately, he still has his seat) and trying to work out a book deal about his experiences during the campaign. I, on the other hand, can’t seem to get past what happened during the election, and spend most of my time either moping in my room or taking long walks around our neighborhood in the cold, where I’m lucky not to run into too many people.
The fact that my parents have been able to get past the loss so easily should be heartening, but instead I find that their chipper attitudes only make me more sullen. Their repeated attempts to cheer me up not only fail miserably, but also only serve to augment my never-ending bad mood. And so I head back to Brown on the day the dorms open, a full week before classes start (and several days before Ilse is supposed to arrive) just so I can have a chance to sulk in private.
Of course, as soon as I arrive back in Providence, I immediately begin to regret this decision. The campus is practically deserted, but I still am unable to walk across it without garnering some sort of comment from a passing student, be it a sympathetic, “Sorry about the election,” or a lewd, “I want to see your bra, too, Julia.” The worst part is, most of the people who stop me are ones I’ve never met before in my life, although some of them look vaguely familiar from class. Desperate for anonymity, I’ve had to revert to wearing my disguise again when I want to go out. This seems to keep most people at bay, although I still do get the odd remark here and there. I’m hoping it will die down completely before too long, because I certainly don’t want to have to wear sunglasses and a bandana everywhere I go for the rest of the semester.
One afternoon my second day back on campus, I arrive home from a coffee run just in time to hear the phone ringing in my room. I fumble with my keys, but by the time I get the door open, it’s too late and the machine has already kicked on.
“Julia?” comes a familiar male voice. “It’s Jake…Bennett.” I freeze in the middle of the room. “Are you there? If you are, pick up. I really need to talk to you. Julia? Okay, I guess you’re out. I’ll try you back later.”
The machine clicks off, and I sink onto the bed, staring at the phone. How did Jake Bennett get my number? And why does he keep trying to get in touch with me when I’ve made it perfectly clear that I don’t want to talk to him?
Over the next three days, I receive a grand total of five messages from Jake, each one sounding more desperate than the last. My resolve is starting to weaken with each plea, but I’m able to stay strong when I remember everything I’ve been through over the past couple of months. A quick reminder of the way in which I was betrayed is enough to keep my anger fresh.
One day, I arrive home from a walk to find the door already unlocked. When I walk in the room, it’s a maze of bags and boxes. Ilse is sitting at her desk, chatting loudly with someone on the phone. I smile and give her an exuberant wave.
As she waves back, I hear her tell the person on the other end of the phone, “Oh, hold on, she just walked in. Here she is.”
She stretches to hand the phone to me, and I give her a questioning look.
“Jake Bennett,” she mouths.
“No!” I mouth back, waving my arms and stepping away from the phone. Crap! I knew Ilse was coming back today, and I should have known Jake would call when she was here by herself. I’d erased all of his messages from the machine, and I didn’t think to leave her a note telling her about my new habit of phone-call screening.
She gives me a pointed look and shakes the phone at me impatiently. I continue to shake my head back at her. I can only imagine what Jake must be thinking on the other end of the phone as our silent argument drags out.
Finally, I see that Ilse isn’t going to back down, so I snatch the phone from her.
“Hello?” I say coldly into the receiver.
“Julia!” Jake exclaims with relief. “Finally, I managed to catch you!”
I say nothing.
“Your roommate’s really nice,” he continues conversationally.
“I know she’s really nice,” I snap back. “And I would appreciate it if you didn’t continue to bother her. Or me, for that matter.”
“There’s something I need to say to you,” he insists.
“No, there isn’t,” I reply firmly. “How many times do I have to tell you that I don’t want to talk to you before you’ll get the hint? Please don’t call me again.”
I hang up the phone before he can get another word in and turn to Ilse proudly.
“What was that all about?” she asks as I hand her the receiver.
“Oh, like you don’t know,” I respond, rolling my eyes.
“Actually, I don’t,” she says, bewildered. “I mean, I’m guessing you’re upset about the election, but I don’t see any reason why you should be so mad at Jake. He seemed like a nice enough guy.”
“Oh, Ilse,” I sigh. I sense that this might be a good time to unburden myself and confess to her everything that’s happened on the campaign trail. I tell her to sit down on her bed, then I pull up a chair and fill her in on the whole sordid story, from the details of my illicit affair to my awkward moment with Jake in San Francisco to my last night with Chris in Oregon and his ultimate betrayal. When I finally finish, Ilse can only let out a shocked, “Wow.”
“I know,” I reply ruefully.
Grinning, she grabs a pillow from behind her and lobs it at me. “How come you didn’t tell me about Chris?” she cries. “I thought I was supposed to be your best friend!”
“Ow!” I exclaim, tossing the pillow back at her. “You are my best friend! I didn’t tell anyone about my relationship with him.”
“Not even after what happened in Oregon?” she asks. “It seems to me like it would have relieved some of the blame on you if people had known what was really going on.”
“Actually, I think that would have just made things worse,” I reply. “And anyway, what does it matter now?”
“Well, whatever,” she says. “I still don’t understand why you’re mad at Jake, though.”
“Don’t you see?” I say impatiently. “It’s obvious he was behind the whole thing. I mean, Chris is just a writer. It’s Jake’s magazine. He’s the one calling the shots, so it had to have been his idea all along.”
“I don’t know, Julia,” Ilse hedges. “Isn’t it possible that Chris was just acting on his own? How do you know for sure that Jake was involved?”
I ponder this for a minute. “I guess I don't,” I venture, “but it just seems like the kind of slimy, underhanded thing he would do. You don’t know him like I do, Ilse.”
“That’s true,” she says slowly, “but what about that day you guys spent together in San Francisco? I mean, you said yourself that it was one of the best days you had during the campaign.That’s got to mean something, right?”
“Not necessarily,” I sigh. “For all I know, Jake was stringing me along, too, just like Chris was. It was probably just another instance of me being way too naïve and trusting.”
Ilse looks at me sadly for a moment, then shakes her head as if to jolt herself out of a reverie. “Well, you’re here now, far away from both of them!” she says brightly. “What do you say we go out tonight and toast the beginning of a fabulous new semester?”
“I don’t think so,” I reply, and her face falls. After everything that's happened the last place I need to be is in another bar. “I don’t really feel up to it,” I add, by way of explanation. “But you go and have fun. We’ll go out together some other time.”
She looks at me warily, but all she says is, “Promise?”
“Promise,” I respond, leaving her alone to unpack and organize her things.
As I mope down the hall toward the student lounge, I think about what she said. I really don’t have any proof that Jake was involved in sabotaging me. I mean, he certainly had a lot to gain from my downfall, and he was definitely in a position to orchestrate it, but does the addition of those two facts equal his guilt? I sink down into a chair and gaze out at the window at a group of students congregated outside the dorm, hugging each other and exchanging ebullient back-to-school greetings, and I wonder if perhaps I should have given him a chance to explain himself. If nothing else, I think, maybe he at least deserves that.
The fact that my parents have been able to get past the loss so easily should be heartening, but instead I find that their chipper attitudes only make me more sullen. Their repeated attempts to cheer me up not only fail miserably, but also only serve to augment my never-ending bad mood. And so I head back to Brown on the day the dorms open, a full week before classes start (and several days before Ilse is supposed to arrive) just so I can have a chance to sulk in private.
Of course, as soon as I arrive back in Providence, I immediately begin to regret this decision. The campus is practically deserted, but I still am unable to walk across it without garnering some sort of comment from a passing student, be it a sympathetic, “Sorry about the election,” or a lewd, “I want to see your bra, too, Julia.” The worst part is, most of the people who stop me are ones I’ve never met before in my life, although some of them look vaguely familiar from class. Desperate for anonymity, I’ve had to revert to wearing my disguise again when I want to go out. This seems to keep most people at bay, although I still do get the odd remark here and there. I’m hoping it will die down completely before too long, because I certainly don’t want to have to wear sunglasses and a bandana everywhere I go for the rest of the semester.
One afternoon my second day back on campus, I arrive home from a coffee run just in time to hear the phone ringing in my room. I fumble with my keys, but by the time I get the door open, it’s too late and the machine has already kicked on.
“Julia?” comes a familiar male voice. “It’s Jake…Bennett.” I freeze in the middle of the room. “Are you there? If you are, pick up. I really need to talk to you. Julia? Okay, I guess you’re out. I’ll try you back later.”
The machine clicks off, and I sink onto the bed, staring at the phone. How did Jake Bennett get my number? And why does he keep trying to get in touch with me when I’ve made it perfectly clear that I don’t want to talk to him?
Over the next three days, I receive a grand total of five messages from Jake, each one sounding more desperate than the last. My resolve is starting to weaken with each plea, but I’m able to stay strong when I remember everything I’ve been through over the past couple of months. A quick reminder of the way in which I was betrayed is enough to keep my anger fresh.
One day, I arrive home from a walk to find the door already unlocked. When I walk in the room, it’s a maze of bags and boxes. Ilse is sitting at her desk, chatting loudly with someone on the phone. I smile and give her an exuberant wave.
As she waves back, I hear her tell the person on the other end of the phone, “Oh, hold on, she just walked in. Here she is.”
She stretches to hand the phone to me, and I give her a questioning look.
“Jake Bennett,” she mouths.
“No!” I mouth back, waving my arms and stepping away from the phone. Crap! I knew Ilse was coming back today, and I should have known Jake would call when she was here by herself. I’d erased all of his messages from the machine, and I didn’t think to leave her a note telling her about my new habit of phone-call screening.
She gives me a pointed look and shakes the phone at me impatiently. I continue to shake my head back at her. I can only imagine what Jake must be thinking on the other end of the phone as our silent argument drags out.
Finally, I see that Ilse isn’t going to back down, so I snatch the phone from her.
“Hello?” I say coldly into the receiver.
“Julia!” Jake exclaims with relief. “Finally, I managed to catch you!”
I say nothing.
“Your roommate’s really nice,” he continues conversationally.
“I know she’s really nice,” I snap back. “And I would appreciate it if you didn’t continue to bother her. Or me, for that matter.”
“There’s something I need to say to you,” he insists.
“No, there isn’t,” I reply firmly. “How many times do I have to tell you that I don’t want to talk to you before you’ll get the hint? Please don’t call me again.”
I hang up the phone before he can get another word in and turn to Ilse proudly.
“What was that all about?” she asks as I hand her the receiver.
“Oh, like you don’t know,” I respond, rolling my eyes.
“Actually, I don’t,” she says, bewildered. “I mean, I’m guessing you’re upset about the election, but I don’t see any reason why you should be so mad at Jake. He seemed like a nice enough guy.”
“Oh, Ilse,” I sigh. I sense that this might be a good time to unburden myself and confess to her everything that’s happened on the campaign trail. I tell her to sit down on her bed, then I pull up a chair and fill her in on the whole sordid story, from the details of my illicit affair to my awkward moment with Jake in San Francisco to my last night with Chris in Oregon and his ultimate betrayal. When I finally finish, Ilse can only let out a shocked, “Wow.”
“I know,” I reply ruefully.
Grinning, she grabs a pillow from behind her and lobs it at me. “How come you didn’t tell me about Chris?” she cries. “I thought I was supposed to be your best friend!”
“Ow!” I exclaim, tossing the pillow back at her. “You are my best friend! I didn’t tell anyone about my relationship with him.”
“Not even after what happened in Oregon?” she asks. “It seems to me like it would have relieved some of the blame on you if people had known what was really going on.”
“Actually, I think that would have just made things worse,” I reply. “And anyway, what does it matter now?”
“Well, whatever,” she says. “I still don’t understand why you’re mad at Jake, though.”
“Don’t you see?” I say impatiently. “It’s obvious he was behind the whole thing. I mean, Chris is just a writer. It’s Jake’s magazine. He’s the one calling the shots, so it had to have been his idea all along.”
“I don’t know, Julia,” Ilse hedges. “Isn’t it possible that Chris was just acting on his own? How do you know for sure that Jake was involved?”
I ponder this for a minute. “I guess I don't,” I venture, “but it just seems like the kind of slimy, underhanded thing he would do. You don’t know him like I do, Ilse.”
“That’s true,” she says slowly, “but what about that day you guys spent together in San Francisco? I mean, you said yourself that it was one of the best days you had during the campaign.That’s got to mean something, right?”
“Not necessarily,” I sigh. “For all I know, Jake was stringing me along, too, just like Chris was. It was probably just another instance of me being way too naïve and trusting.”
Ilse looks at me sadly for a moment, then shakes her head as if to jolt herself out of a reverie. “Well, you’re here now, far away from both of them!” she says brightly. “What do you say we go out tonight and toast the beginning of a fabulous new semester?”
“I don’t think so,” I reply, and her face falls. After everything that's happened the last place I need to be is in another bar. “I don’t really feel up to it,” I add, by way of explanation. “But you go and have fun. We’ll go out together some other time.”
She looks at me warily, but all she says is, “Promise?”
“Promise,” I respond, leaving her alone to unpack and organize her things.
As I mope down the hall toward the student lounge, I think about what she said. I really don’t have any proof that Jake was involved in sabotaging me. I mean, he certainly had a lot to gain from my downfall, and he was definitely in a position to orchestrate it, but does the addition of those two facts equal his guilt? I sink down into a chair and gaze out at the window at a group of students congregated outside the dorm, hugging each other and exchanging ebullient back-to-school greetings, and I wonder if perhaps I should have given him a chance to explain himself. If nothing else, I think, maybe he at least deserves that.
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home