My Last Innocent Year(29)
It was snowing when I arrived for my Thursday morning shift, and the linoleum floor was already smudged with salt and slush. Someone cleaned these floors—they were always shiny when I arrived—but I’d never seen anybody do it. My responsibilities at the desk were few: answer the phone, direct visitors, sell tokens for the video games downstairs. Not much happened at the information desk, except for one time junior year, when someone forgot to log off the public computer and someone else used that account to send an email that said “I’m going to rape you after winter break.” The girl who received the email notified campus police and, since I’d been working that day, the officers asked me if I’d seen anyone who might have sent it. I couldn’t remember seeing anyone who would have sent an email like that—and at the same time, I’d seen so many people who might have sent it. In the end, I wasn’t any help, and that, as far as I knew, was the end of that.
Things quieted down after the breakfast rush. I picked at a corn muffin and took out my knitting. I’d started making a scarf using leftover yarn, something my mother used to do. It was a peculiar, patchwork-looking thing, but it had a strange charm. Debra had called dibs on it, but I thought I might keep it for myself. Outside, a small band of students had gathered on the green to work on the ice sculpture in preparation for Winter Carnival. A few people were up on the scaffolding that had been erected around the ten-foot-tall sculpture of Jack Frost; the rest were down on the ground, spraying it with cold water from a hose. The process took weeks, and there was always a concern that it would rain or get warm and they’d have to start all over again. Lucky for them, it had been a cold winter.
The giant laser printer behind me hummed. I rose from my seat with a bounce. This was my favorite part of the job, filing the documents that came off the public printer. Confidentiality was assumed, but I read everything—essays, stories, medical records, angry letters to mom and dad. Recently, people had started printing their résumés, which revealed GPAs, internships, awards, accomplishments, and ambitions. The one I held in my hand was impressive: 3.89 GPA, women’s studies major, sociology minor. Internship with NARAL, founder and editor in chief of bitch slap. It belonged to Debra Sadie Moscowitz of Scarsdale, New York, and before I could place it in the alphabetical hanging file that sat at the corner of the desk, the door opened and Debra walked in.
“Anything good come through?” Debra pointed at the printer. She had on a long paisley skirt and a bright purple ski jacket. Her dark hair was covered with a dusting of snow, making her look like she was dressed up to play Golde in a high school production of Fiddler on the Roof.
I thumbed through the files. “Let’s see. Hannah Lamb has a 4.0.”
Debra yawned, unimpressed by Hannah Lamb. “What else?”
“Marcus Wainwright is looking for a job in marketing.”
“Let me see that,” she said, grabbing the letter. “‘I believe my dedication to excellence and strong interpersonal skills make me a prime candidate for this position.’ Please—Marcus Wainwright wouldn’t know strong interpersonal skills if they fucked him in the ass. I can’t believe these frat guys are going to run the world.” She handed the letter back to me, then rested her head on the desk.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, curling a strand of her hair between my fingers.
“Nothing,” she sighed. “Just that everyone’s pissed at me.”
“Who’s pissed at you, bubeleh?”
“Where do I begin?” she said dramatically. “Gamma Nu’s mad because I sent Crashy and Maureen undercover to write an exposé of their rush party. And now the conservative douchebags at the Wilder Review are trying to get our advertisers to pull out because I published those vagina pictures in bitch slap. God, it’s like they never saw a clit before. Oh, right! They haven’t.” She tore open a bag of sunflower seeds. “And don’t get me started on Kelsey, Miss Junior League. I swear, if she does my laundry one more time.” She held up a fist. “You know I only agreed to live with her so I could live with you.”
“I know. Who else is pissed at you?”
She cracked a seed between her teeth. “Well, you are.”
“Me? I’m not pissed at you.”
“It feels like you are. You know, after the whole Zev thing.”
“Oh, honey, I’m not. I promise.” I gripped her hand. “A little worried maybe.”
“Worried? About me? What, you think I’m going to pull an Elizabeth McIntosh and get carted off in an ambulance right before graduation? Please, have you seen how much I eat? Hey, did you see this?” She pulled out a copy of the New York Observer. “I’m trying to get the same kind of round table together for bitch slap, asking women, ‘Would you fuck Bill Clinton?’”
“I don’t think they even fucked.”
“Whatever. Fucking Puritans. The guy should not resign. She said it was all consensual.” Debra tossed a handful of shells in the trash, then pointed at my scarf. “I want that by the way.”
“I know,” I said as she came around the desk to give me a hug. Debra hugged with her whole body, pressing herself so close I imagined no daylight escaping.
I watched her walk off and wondered again if she was okay. Kelsey had told me what her “reporters” had done at Gamma Nu, pretending to be hostesses at their rush party, then writing a scathing hit piece about the whole house. According to Kelsey, everyone at Gamma Nu was furious—even Jason, who never got mad at anyone. And even I thought her decision to print detailed anatomical sketches of vaginas was crude. I’d also heard every frat house on campus had a copy taped to the wall. I wondered why Debra couldn’t leave well enough alone. We had so little time left here, why not enjoy it?