write and describe exactly what your room is like,
what pieces of furniture are in it, and what you’ve put on
the walls. What does Hannah look like? Do you eat together? Do you have nice conversations? What are her interests? How are your classes? Are you finding Art History
as interesting as you thought you would? What text is your
class using? Is your professor a real member of the faculty
or just a summer-school teacher? Does he/she know your
name? Is the food of good quality, and are the menus varied? Where do the other juniors come from? Do you think
you and Hannah will remain friends? Are the bathroom
facilities clean? Is there privacy? Do you keep your room
locked at all times? Have there been any thefts?
I’d stare at the letter, then fold it up and put it into a drawer.
Three weeks along, Archie arrived in his hiccuping old Saab. I couldn’t wait for him to see the new me. I was as tanned as Hannah by then, I’d learned how to knock down tequila in shots, and I’d been having fascinating discussions with a guy on my hall about how neither side of his brain was dominant, like Leonardo da Vinci’s. But Archie took all the changes in stride. Within the first few minutes of his arrival, he had pulled out a map to show me the routes he planned to cycle during his visit.
“This one’s an ass-buster,” he said gleefully. “My brother did it once. Up into the hills, along the crest, down the other side to the ocean. Maybe you could come pick me up.”
“But won’t that take all day?”
“I’m not sure,” he said. “I’ll get an early start.”
“God. I thought we were going to be hanging out together,” I said.
“We are! Why do you think I came all the way up here?”
“Oh, good,” I said. I kissed him.
That night in the dining hall I introduced him to my new friends. It made me feel important, having a visitor from the outside.
“Nice bike,” Dwight, a guy from our hall, said. “Is that the same kind of Peugeot Nils Brennerhof used for the Tour de France?”
“Exactly,” Archie said. “You into racing?”
“How much is that thing worth?”
“Got it used, fixed it up, and I could still sell it for nearly a grand.”
“Thought so.”
After dinner, Archie and I walked around the campus holding hands. His knuckles felt oversized. He was my first real boyfriend. He came all this way to see me.
“I ran into your mother last week at Gelson’s,” Archie said. “She turned around and went the other way.”
“Maybe she didn’t see you.”
“She saw me, all right. She hates my guts. Don’t worry, I think it’s funny. I wouldn’t
want
her to like me.”
“Why not?”
“Because then it would mean I was some kind of eunuch, probably.”
“My mother doesn’t like eunuchs.”
“I betcha she does,” Archie said.
It wasn’t the time to argue. We ended up back in my room, and I locked the door and turned out the lights. I was proud of the smell of the magnolia flowers drifting in through the windows, and proud to have all this freedom to offer, more valuable to me than gold coins in a purse. I led him to my bed.
“Come here,” I said.
Archie liked exploring my ears with his tongue. But when I tried to play with his belt, he giggled like I was tickling him.
“Whoa,” he said.
“Okay.”
“I’ll do it,” he said. But he didn’t.
“You know what I think is weird?” I said.
“What.”
“You know how, in movies, they often show wives not wanting to have sex, like pretending they have a headache or something?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, I don’t understand it. If I were married, I’d never feel that way.”
“Oh. Really.”
We continued to kiss, but now he seemed on guard. He strayed from my lips and kissed my ears and suddenly the flickering of his tongue became a rope coiling into my head.
“Wait,” I said. “No!”
Twisting, coiling—his mouth swallowed my ear. The inner ear exploded. Something warm was running down my neck, onto my shoulder. I
what pieces of furniture are in it, and what you’ve put on
the walls. What does Hannah look like? Do you eat together? Do you have nice conversations? What are her interests? How are your classes? Are you finding Art History
as interesting as you thought you would? What text is your
class using? Is your professor a real member of the faculty
or just a summer-school teacher? Does he/she know your
name? Is the food of good quality, and are the menus varied? Where do the other juniors come from? Do you think
you and Hannah will remain friends? Are the bathroom
facilities clean? Is there privacy? Do you keep your room
locked at all times? Have there been any thefts?
I’d stare at the letter, then fold it up and put it into a drawer.
Three weeks along, Archie arrived in his hiccuping old Saab. I couldn’t wait for him to see the new me. I was as tanned as Hannah by then, I’d learned how to knock down tequila in shots, and I’d been having fascinating discussions with a guy on my hall about how neither side of his brain was dominant, like Leonardo da Vinci’s. But Archie took all the changes in stride. Within the first few minutes of his arrival, he had pulled out a map to show me the routes he planned to cycle during his visit.
“This one’s an ass-buster,” he said gleefully. “My brother did it once. Up into the hills, along the crest, down the other side to the ocean. Maybe you could come pick me up.”
“But won’t that take all day?”
“I’m not sure,” he said. “I’ll get an early start.”
“God. I thought we were going to be hanging out together,” I said.
“We are! Why do you think I came all the way up here?”
“Oh, good,” I said. I kissed him.
That night in the dining hall I introduced him to my new friends. It made me feel important, having a visitor from the outside.
“Nice bike,” Dwight, a guy from our hall, said. “Is that the same kind of Peugeot Nils Brennerhof used for the Tour de France?”
“Exactly,” Archie said. “You into racing?”
“How much is that thing worth?”
“Got it used, fixed it up, and I could still sell it for nearly a grand.”
“Thought so.”
After dinner, Archie and I walked around the campus holding hands. His knuckles felt oversized. He was my first real boyfriend. He came all this way to see me.
“I ran into your mother last week at Gelson’s,” Archie said. “She turned around and went the other way.”
“Maybe she didn’t see you.”
“She saw me, all right. She hates my guts. Don’t worry, I think it’s funny. I wouldn’t
want
her to like me.”
“Why not?”
“Because then it would mean I was some kind of eunuch, probably.”
“My mother doesn’t like eunuchs.”
“I betcha she does,” Archie said.
It wasn’t the time to argue. We ended up back in my room, and I locked the door and turned out the lights. I was proud of the smell of the magnolia flowers drifting in through the windows, and proud to have all this freedom to offer, more valuable to me than gold coins in a purse. I led him to my bed.
“Come here,” I said.
Archie liked exploring my ears with his tongue. But when I tried to play with his belt, he giggled like I was tickling him.
“Whoa,” he said.
“Okay.”
“I’ll do it,” he said. But he didn’t.
“You know what I think is weird?” I said.
“What.”
“You know how, in movies, they often show wives not wanting to have sex, like pretending they have a headache or something?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, I don’t understand it. If I were married, I’d never feel that way.”
“Oh. Really.”
We continued to kiss, but now he seemed on guard. He strayed from my lips and kissed my ears and suddenly the flickering of his tongue became a rope coiling into my head.
“Wait,” I said. “No!”
Twisting, coiling—his mouth swallowed my ear. The inner ear exploded. Something warm was running down my neck, onto my shoulder. I
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