Chapter 11
TWO DAYS LATER, sitting in my Gender Relations in America seminar, the closer we got to the bell the more distracted I felt.
“So,” Ms. Boutillier was saying from the other side of the round table where the seven of us sat, “do you think the author was ahead of his time? Or was he making a remark that was designed to stir controversy and prove that women didn’t, in fact, deserve the vote? Did you question his motives when reading?”
I kept my eyes on my text, as if giving her questions deep thought. Really, I was thinking about David.
Over the last couple of weeks, I’d gotten in the habit of leaving by the building’s side exit after my seminar. Usually, David would be coming out of his history class at that same spot. We’d walk over to the mailroom together, check our boxes, stop by senior tea … I looked forward to it.
Today, I wondered if I should go out the main exit of Holmes Hall instead. I hadn’t run into David anywhere yesterday—the day after the vase incident—and I’d been thinking maybe it would be better if I stopped going out of my way to see him. Just stay away from the freaky Lazar vortex; remove myself from Celeste’s rich, imaginative life.
“Leena?” Ms. Boutillier said. “Did you hear those page numbers for tonight?”
“Oh, sorry,” I said. “Can you repeat them?” She did, with obvious annoyance, and then the bell finally rang.
I slipped into my canvas army jacket, hoisted my bag over my shoulder, and followed the herd, taking a left toward the main entrance where I’d usually take a right. Then I stopped. David and I weren’t doing anything wrong. We weren’t doing anything, period. Why play into Celeste’s bizarre little game? Also, I wanted to talk to him about what was going on in the dorm. I turned around and headed to where I knew he would be lingering, putting books into his bag.
We swung into step next to each other—my small, blue Chucks next to his bigger, black ones on the shiny checker-board floor. I imagined Celeste making some comment about the cute couple-ness of it, felt her eyes on us even though she didn’t have class in this building.
“How were the genders relating today?” he said.
“You know,” I said. “Hostile.”
He held the heavy wood door open for me and for a bunch of other people. I passed by him out onto the steps.
“So, I hear there was trouble on the home front,” he said, catching up.
“Yeah.” I shivered—the sky was gray, the air was damp and cold and bit at my cheeks. “I actually wanted to talk to you about it.”
“Senior tea?” he suggested.
“Maybe somewhere more private?”
We were already heading toward the path to the mailroom. I was thinking about a small lounge nearby that was usually empty. I didn’t want anyone to overhear me as I talked to him about Celeste.
“Actually,” he said, “I have to meet someone later at senior tea. So …”
“Oh. Okay.” I didn’t know why, but this surprised me. Maybe because I hadn’t noticed him making any particular friends since he’d been here.
We entered the lower level of the student center and went into the mailroom—a total scene, as it usually was between classes. My box held a coupon packet from local businesses, a flyer for Buried Child—the play Abby was in, an Urban Outfitters catalogue, a glossy brochure from my mother’s office, and a note to call Dean Shepherd’s office. Probably about babysitting.
David came up behind me as I was sorting through things to keep and recycle. He rested a hand on my shoulder.
“Need a condo in LA?” I asked, waving the real-estate brochure, conscious of the warmth that spread through my body from where he touched me in a way I wouldn’t have been if Celeste hadn’t made an issue out of it.
“Why are you on a real-estate mailing list?” he asked.
“It’s my mother,” I said. I glanced at the brochure again. She’d drawn a speech bubble coming out of one of the windows: Can’t wait until you’re here!
I held it out to him and pointed at the building. “That’s where she lives.”
“Really?” he said. “Wow. Pretty slick.”
“Pretty awful,” I said, throwing it in the recycling bin.
He gave me a funny look. Sort of … pitying.
“That wasn’t a statement or anything,” I said as we made our way back outside. Ever since I told him about the divorce mess, I’d gotten the impression he thought my relationship with my parents was totally dysfunctional.
“Didn’t say it was.”
“I know.” I fastened a higher button on my jacket to keep the wind out. “I just feel like you might think we’re not close anymore. I mean, we’re not close the way we used to be, but it’s better. I was way too attached to my parents before. The separation had to happen sooner or later.”
“I guess,” he said, kicking at a couple of acorns on the path. “Seems like they didn’t have to make it so traumatic for you, though.”
“Maybe.” I was kind of annoyed at what he was implying about my parents. “But it all worked out for the best.”
We walked up the steps and into Grove Hall, to the same sprawling room where registration had taken place. There was a setup of baked goods, coffee, and tea here for seniors three mornings a week. I waited for an opening in the crowd around the food table—the way we all ate so much, it was as if we hadn’t eaten breakfast a couple of hours ago and weren’t going to lunch soon—got a pumpkin muffin and a coffee, and met David on a small couch in a corner of the room. He moved his bag off the spot he’d saved for me.
I sat down, shrugged off my jacket, and checked to make sure no one nearby was listening to our conversation. “So, you know about the vase,” I said.
“Yup. Am I still a suspect?”
“Don’t be silly.” I wished Celeste hadn’t told him that part of it. “I think it just blew over. Our room has such strong cross breezes, and it was pretty blustery.”
“What about Abby?” he asked.
“No,” I said, shaking my head. “But that’s why I wanted to talk to you. I’m worried that— Well, wait. Did Celeste mention the other thing?”
“What other thing?”
Lowering my voice a notch further, I told him about the knocking noise she’d heard. As I did, the expression on David’s face grew more and more concerned.
“Why didn’t she tell me this?” he said, pulling his phone out of his bag. At first, I thought he was calling her, but then I realized he was online, searching for something, following links. “You know that guy she was with over the summer?” he said, still typing.
It took me a second to remember. “The guy in the band?”
“Yeah. I’m just … Oh. Here. Hold on.” He didn’t say anything for a moment, then, “Okay. Good.” He turned his phone off and tossed it in his bag. “There’s video from a show last night in Amsterdam. He’s there.”
So David had thought the guy might have followed Celeste here? “Could you really have imagined him doing those things?” I asked, trying to picture a typical rocker guy hiding in Celeste’s closet and knocking on the wall.
“It would’ve been weird,” David conceded. “But he was weird. Maybe not technically a stalker, but close.”
I took a sip of coffee. “I guess dealing with him over the summer explains why she’d be paranoid now.” It made me feel a bit better to know that there was something behind her irrationality. “Because I’m sure it was just a noise that the house made, not a person.”
“Yeah,” David said. “I’m sure you’re right.”
“Anyway,” I said. “I’m worried that from now on, if anything slightly out of the ordinary happens, she’s going to blow it out of proportion. Look for someone to blame. Probably Abby. Do you have any suggestions for what I should do to … I don’t know, make her feel more comfortable in the dorm? And to help convince her that these things really were just random?”