My Dark Vanessa(23)

This is, of course, the whole reason I came this way, why I wanted to go for a walk in the first place and asked Ms. Thompson if I could borrow the dog. I’d imagined myself passing by as he happened to be outside. He would see me and call me over, ask why I was walking Ms. Thompson’s dog. We would talk a bit, standing on the strip of front lawn, and then he’d invite me inside. There the fantasy fizzles out, because what we do after that depends on what he wants, and I have no idea what he wants.

But he isn’t outside and it doesn’t look like he’s inside, either. The windows are dark, no car in the driveway. He’s somewhere else, living a life that I know infuriatingly little about.

I lead Mya to the top of the library steps. We’re hidden there but still have a view of the street. I sit feeding her bacon bits I stole from the dining hall salad bar until the sun blazes orange and starts to set. Maybe he wouldn’t even want me to come inside because of the dog. I forgot he said he doesn’t like them. But he’d have to at least pretend to like Mya if he’s doing whatever with Ms. Thompson, otherwise how could she live with herself? It would be a real betrayal to date someone who hated your dog.

It’s nearly dark when a boxy blue station wagon turns into the driveway. The engine cuts, the driver’s door opens, and Mr. Strane emerges in jeans and the same flannel shirt he wore at the Halloween dance on Friday. Holding my breath, I watch him haul grocery bags from the back of the car up the front steps. At the door, he fumbles with his keys, and Mya lets out an indignant whine for more treats. I give her a whole handful and she eats them as fast as she can, her tongue lapping my palm while I watch the windows of the little saltbox house light up as Mr. Strane moves through the rooms.



After class on Monday, I take my time leaving. Once everyone else is gone, I swing my backpack onto one shoulder and say in my most nonchalant voice, “You live across from the public library, right?”

From behind his desk, Mr. Strane looks at me in surprise. “How do you know that?” he asks.

“You mentioned it once.”

He studies me, and the longer he does, the harder it is to keep up the nonchalant act. I purse my lips together, try to hold my frown.

“I don’t remember that,” he says.

“Well, you did. How else would I know?” My voice sounds harsh, angry, and I can tell he’s a little taken aback. Mostly, though, he looks amused, like he thinks my frustration is cute. “I might’ve gone there,” I add. “You know, to scope it out.”

“I see.”

“Are you mad?”

“Not at all. I’m flattered.”

“I saw you unloading groceries from your car.”

“You did? When?”

“Yesterday.”

“You were watching me.”

I nod.

“You should have made yourself known and said hello.”

My eyes narrow. That isn’t what I expected him to say. “What if someone saw me?”

He smiles, cocks his head. “Why would it matter if someone saw you saying hello to me?”

I clench my jaw and breathe hard through my nose. His innocence feels put on, like he’s playing with me by playing dumb.

Still smiling, he leans back in his chair, and him doing that—leaning back, crossing his arms, looking me up and down as though I’m entertaining, just something to look at—makes anger flare up inside me, so sudden and strong I ball my hands into fists to stop from screaming, lunging forward, grabbing the Harvard mug off his desk and hurling it at his face.

I turn on my heel, stomp out of the room and down the hallway. I’m furious the whole way back to Gould, but once I’m in my room, the anger disappears and all that’s left is the dull-ache desire for meaning I’ve had for weeks now. He said he wanted to kiss me. He touched me. Every interaction between us is tinged now with something potentially ruinous, and it isn’t fair for him to pretend otherwise.

*

My midsemester geometry grade is a D-plus. All eyes turn on me when Mrs. Antonova announces this during our monthly advisee meeting at the Italian restaurant. At first I don’t realize she’s talking to me; my mind drifts as I methodically tear apart a piece of bread and roll it back into dough between my fingers.

“Vanessa,” she says, rapping her knuckles against the table. “D-plus.”

I look up and notice the stares, Mrs. Antonova holding a piece of paper, her own faculty feedback. “Then I guess there’s nowhere for me to go but up,” I say.

Mrs. Antonova stares at me over the top of her glasses. “You could still go down,” she says. “You could fail.”

“I won’t fail.”

“You need a plan of action, a tutor. We’ll get you one.”

I glower down at the table as she moves on to the next advisee, my stomach tight at the thought of a tutor, because tutor sessions meet during faculty service hour, which would mean less time with Mr. Strane. Kyle Guinn flashes me a sympathetic smile after he’s given similar news about his Spanish grade, and I sink so low in my chair my chin practically rests on the table.

When I get back to campus, the Gould common room is crowded, the TV playing election results. I squeeze onto one of the couches and watch the states get sorted into two columns as the polls close. “Vermont for Gore,” the news anchor says. “Kentucky for Bush.” At one point, when Ralph Nader flashes on-screen, Deanna and Lucy start to clap, and when Bush comes on, everybody boos. It looks like a sure thing for Gore until right before ten, when they announce they’re putting Florida back in the “too close to call” column, and I get so fed up with the entire thing I give up and go to bed.