Tangerine(25)

“Friendly?” John laughed.

“Yes, well, what’s wrong with that?” I demanded, embarrassed by John’s cavalier attitude. I had only wanted a chance to change Lucy’s mind, to show her that John wasn’t entirely awful, that he could be good fun, when he felt like it. Only it had all gone wrong again—John had been cruel, Lucy had been offended. There was nothing, I suspected then, that I would be able to do to convince the other that they were worth knowing. But then, of course, it shouldn’t have surprised me, not really. Lucy and I had always functioned as a twosome, held separate and apart from the rest. Distinct.

“Honey,” John said, shaking his head. “Friendly is the grift.”

I realized then, watching Lucy as she glared at John, as he, in turn, eyed her with something like distaste, derision, there was nothing to be done. Nothing at all.

EVERYTHING HAD CHANGED during our junior year at Bennington College.

I had been away for the holidays, visiting my aunt on one of her trips to the East Coast—a formal dinner in whatever hotel she had been staying fast becoming our holiday ritual—and though she had offered to hire a driver to take me back to Bennington, I had insisted on catching the bus. I had left later that day, already looking forward to returning to my room, to Lucy, to what had fast become the definition of home. But as the bus pulled up at the station, several hours later, I had felt my stomach drop. We were still in Massachusetts, had not yet crossed the border, and while I knew that my ticket included a connection to Vermont, looking out of the window, my nose pressed against the cold glass, I could see that the bus station was completely dark.

The bus will be here, the driver assured me when I questioned him. “But the station,” I said, casting a nervous glance toward the darkened structure. “It doesn’t look open.”

“Closes at six o’clock,” he replied. “You’ll have to wait outside.”

I looked out of the bus, into the darkness beyond. The temperature was already hovering somewhere in the thirties, with snowfall forecasted for later that evening.

“But they didn’t say,” I began.

“There isn’t anything I can do, miss,” he cut in. “I have another pickup scheduled and I can’t wait around.” The other passengers had already disembarked, and he pointed toward the steps, indicating that I should do the same.

I nodded, dulled by the realization.

“Be safe,” he called, the doors closing behind me.

Afterward, I stood in front of the closed station, holding my suitcase between my hands, hesitant to set it down on the damp, snowy ground. A single streetlight illuminated the area in which I stood, so that while my own person was aglow, only a few steps away there was nothing, only blackness. I struggled to remain calm, my breath erupting before me in great, billowy clouds, the dampness clinging to the scarf knotted around my throat.

“Hey you,” a voice called out.

I peered into the darkness, uncertain whether the deep voice had been aimed in my direction. I could see nothing except the snow on the streets sparkling, or so it seemed, under the light.

“Yeah, you,” the voice came again.

A figure stepped into my small circle of light. He was young—surely no more than a few years older than myself—his tall, athletic build tightly bundled in a military green jacket, with worn leather patches at the elbows. A single suitcase dangled from his hand.

“Do you need a lift?”

“I’m waiting for a bus,” I answered. When he looked around, as if to indicate his doubt that such a thing existed, I hastened to explain, “It’s not due for another two hours.”

He frowned. “I think the station is closed for the day.”

“But the bus driver said—” I let the words die on my lips. I looked around at my surroundings, looked at the boy in front of me.

He glanced over his shoulder. “A few of us are splitting a cab back to Williams College.”

I squinted through the darkness, but if there were any others, I couldn’t see them. “I’m trying to get to Bennington,” I replied. “I go to the college there.”

“Bennington?” he asked, a grin spreading across his features. “I’ve heard some interesting stories about the girls there.”

I frowned, wondering whether I should be offended or not.

“I’m just teasing,” he said hastily, as if he had read my thoughts. “And besides”—he grinned—“I sort of go there myself.”

“What do you mean?” I frowned. “It’s an all girls’ school.” My voice was sharp, guarded. I wondered whether he was laughing at me or something else.

“I know.” He laughed. “So as you can see, I don’t really fit in, which is why I do most of my coursework at Williams College. But I’m actually part of the theater project at the school. At Bennington, I mean.”

“Oh,” I responded, taken aback by the response. I was aware, as were most of the girls at Bennington, of the strange loophole that allowed local boys to attend the college, at least on a part-time basis. The school had made the decision back in the 1930s, after realizing the need for a male population in order to widen the scope of stage productions they were able to produce. It was a source of endless gossip for those girls who took part in the college’s theater department, a chance to fraternize with the enemy, as it were. But the world of theater was one that rarely touched upon my own, and though I was now into my third year at Bennington, this was the first boy I had met who actually took part in the program.