Relations seminar, I read everything I could on the Columbia
website and printed out a few online lists of the most popular
college interview questions.
After lunch I went home to change clothes and gather
myself. I chose a black miniskirt, black tights, and a charcoal-gray
turtleneck sweater. Then I went into the closet.
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I turned on the camping lantern and settled into the corner
with my list of possible questions. For a moment I closed my eyes
and felt the calming effect of the space seeping into my mind and
muscles. Everything was going to be okay. I had plenty of time to
prepare. I just needed to concentrate.
I assigned Cubby the task of interviewer. I didn’t need her in
here to hear her voice, but I’d have felt stupid being interviewed
by the walls.
Why do you want to go to this college? she began, her
schoolmarm tone perfect for the role.
“I don’t,” I said, then laughed. “No, wait. I don’t think that’s a
good answer. Ask me again.”
Why do you want to go to this college?
Even in here, without the pressure, my mind was blank. I
couldn’t say, Because I need to live in New York so I can shack up
with my boyfriend. Not to mention that I’d read on the website
that first-year students were supposed to live on campus. (There
had to be a way around that, right?) Such a basic question and I
couldn’t even think of an answer, couldn’t remember why
Columbia had been one of my top choices this past summer. My
eye twitched. Okay, I’d come back to that one.
I moved on to the next question.
What do you think you can bring to this college?
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“Uh, I guess I bring a concern and caring for the . . . the
health of the community. I’ll talk about starting peer counseling
here.” I didn’t think I had to mention that I was on hiatus from the
program.
What is your biggest weakness?
“Hmm . . . I’m supposed to say something that’s really a
strength.”
You don’t know?
I pulled my turtleneck up over my chin. “My biggest
weakness?” I had plenty of weaknesses, but none of them
seemed like the type I could spin into strengths.
This one isn’t a strength.
What did that mean? What was I trying to say? “If you’re
trying to make me less nervous for my interview, it’s not
working.”
I pushed Cubby aside. This wasn’t the time to be worrying
about all of the things that were wrong with me. Maybe trying to
anticipate questions was stupid. Not to mention, my body was
beginning to crave a nap, the way it often did after lunch. Resting
was probably a better plan than making myself more nervous
about the interview. I slid down and curled up with my head on a
pillow, and let my mind go blank, a slight ache pulsing at my
temples. The minutes ticked by. My limbs felt heavier and
heavier. At 1:45 I made a motion to stand up, but I couldn’t bring
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myself to do it. It was like a multiple snooze-button morning. I
kept trying to get up, but my mind kept dragging me down.
“I don’t want to go,” I said. And I knew what I meant. There
were many ways it was true. I didn’t want to go to the interview. I
didn’t want to go to Columbia. I didn’t want to go anywhere.
No one is making you, Cubby said.
“But I have to.” I pushed into my palms, hoping I’d be able to
raise myself up, hoping I wouldn’t be able to.
You don’t have to. You can stay right here.
David found me in the backyard where I was finally planting
the bulbs I’d bought at Home Depot.
“Leena.” He crossed the yard with quick, long strides.
“What’s going on? Why didn’t you answer my calls?”
“Sorry. I’ve been out here for a while.” My cheeks, cold from
the damp fall air, heated up.
“Didn’t you have your interview at two?”
“Mm-hm.” I turned my attention back to the hole I’d been
digging for the next bulb. An angular stone blocked my trowel
from going deeper. I reached down and worked it out of the hard
earth.
“So . . .” he said. “How’d it go?”
“Okay.”
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“Just okay? C’mon, you’ve got to give me more than that.”
David leaned his knees against my back. His hands raked
through my hair, tingled my scalp. The affection intensified the
guilt in my stomach.
“Good. It was good.” I nestled a lumpy tulip bulb in the hole.
“Harder than I thought, maybe.” I couldn’t possibly tell him the
truth: that I’d been twenty minutes late. And that my interview
clothes had been rumpled and wrinkled from my time in the
closet. A raw breeze slid across my scarfless neck. I shivered.
“Hard? What kind of hard?” David said.
Why couldn’t he leave it alone? I fil ed the hole with soil and
smacked it down with the back of the trowel, then brushed my
hands together. I stood up and turned to face him.
“Look,” I said, “you’re not going through all this college stuff,
so maybe you don’t get that it’s really not a fun topic.” My voice
had an edge to it.
His lips parted for a moment. “I’m just asking because I’m
psyched for next year. That’s all. Did it . . . did it not go well?”
“I’m going inside. It’s cold.” I walked around the side of the
house. David’s steps crinkled dry leaves behind me.
“Leena,” he said. “Wait . . .”
My throat tightened. David had no way of knowing it was
myself I was angry at. He followed me inside, down the hall.
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Hot water from the bathroom faucet cut through the
blackish soil on my hands and swirled it down the drain. Warmth
flooded up from my hands and through my body as if the boiling
liquid was running directly through my veins.
“I’m sorry,” David said from outside the bathroom door. “I
just—”
“I can’t hear you,” I called over the whoosh of water. “I’ll be
out in a minute.”
I turned off the tap and dried my pink hands on a towel.
Afternoon sun filtered through the bathroom’s small stained-glass
window, a window not so different in style from the one drawn
on my skin, the one that continued to fade, as if my body was
trying to forget the memory of my old room. The late sun cast a
red-and-blue glow on the wall above the tub. The chalky white
paint absorbed the color like a bloodstain.
I did want to live with David next year, didn’t I? Why had I
jeopardized that by screwing up my interview? Twenty minutes
late is unheard of. Unthinkable. A big, red X on my application
folder.
What had Cubby told me when I’d been in the closet after
my interview? You’ll end up where you’re supposed to be. A good
philosophy to live by.
I found David waiting for me on my bed.
“Did you get parietals?” I asked.
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“I checked before. She’s not home.”
“David.” I stood next to him instead of sitting down. “You
know we can’t risk getting busted.”
“When has she ever, ever come back here?” he said. “Not
once.” He reclined on an elbow and patted the bed with his other
hand. Reluctantly, I shrugged off my jacket and sat next to him.
He reached his hand under the back of my sweater. The cold
touch sent tentacles creeping up my spine. I lay down so he’d
have to move it. But he took my shift as an invitation to lean over
me, to remove my glasses, to place hands alongside my shoulders
and start kissing.
I want this. I want this. I had to repeat this over and over in
my head whenever we fooled around in Frost House. For some
reason, at David’s dorm, I was completely relaxed. I loved every
moment of touching him, and being touched. And loved that we
were having fun without going further than I wanted, which, for
now, meant we hadn’t had sex. But here, in my own room, my
skin never felt quite right with someone else’s hands on them. My
heart would pound, but not in a good way. My mind
wandered . . . began to picture things like Celeste’s cockroaches
lying right where we were. And, I hated to think it, because it
made me feel like Celeste, but I had a bit of a sensation that
someone was watching us. Probably because I knew she could be
right outside the door at any time.
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I rolled out from under David and reached for my glasses.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m just too paranoid. It’s not worth getting
kicked out.”
He sat up, his face flushed, readjusted his pants. “So you
want me to leave?”
“I don’t want you to.” I leaned over and nuzzled his cheek,
rubbed my nose in the warm crook of his neck. Did I want him to
leave? He smelled so good. And when he left, it would just be me.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I’m just freaked about the probation
thing.”
“That’s all it is?” he said.
“Yeah.”
I gave him what I meant to be a quick kiss but it turned into a
long, hard one. For a moment, my body hummed and squirmed
and wanted to be against his. This time, he pulled away.
“If I’m leaving, it has to be now.” His lips glistened, deep
pinkish red.
I considered changing my mind. It had felt so good, for a
moment there. But then, behind him, I caught a glimpse of
something. The closet door was open just enough so you could
see my mattress. Usually I was so careful. I couldn’t believe I’d left
it open like that.
“Yeah,” I said. “You’d better go.”
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Chapter 31
THE FOLLOWING FRIDAY was the start of Barcroft-Edgerton
weekend, our weekend of sports events with our rival school. Old
bedsheets, spray painted with war cries and crudely drawn
pictures, hung between windows on the big, brick dorms along
the center quad. What Do We Eat? RED MEAT!!!! Red = DEAD. Go BIG BLUE!!
At the beginning of the semester I’d imagined Frost House
working together on a banner. Ha. I readjusted the strap of my
book bag and kicked at a lacrosse ball hiding under a cover of
sunset-colored leaves. I leaned over to pick up a quarter, and
when I stood back up, the quad spun before me. I closed my eyes
to regain balance.
When I opened my eyes, the world stood still again. In the
days since my Columbia interview, I’d been taking a regular dose
of pills to counteract my constant “What now?” anxiety. Dizziness
was a possible side effect, but I’d never had it happen before.
“Leena?” A girl’s voice came from behind me. I turned and
saw red hair sprouting from under a navy Barcroft baseball cap.
Nicole Kellogg. She stood with a short, curvy girl—another
freshman.
“Nicole, hi,” I said. We hadn’t said more than a word in
passing to each other since the counseling session. I’d considered
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talking to her about it, but eventually—when it was obvious she
wasn’t leaving school—I didn’t care enough to bother.
“Hi,” she said. “This is my friend, Sera.”
Sera and I exchanged heys.
“I was wondering if you have hours anytime soon?” Nicole
asked. “You know, office hours.”
“I’m actually not counseling for the rest of the semester,” I
said.
“Oh my God.” Nicole brought a hand to her lips. “It’s not
because of me, is it? That whole thing was totally blown out of
proportion by my hysterical parents. I felt so bad you got in
trouble.”
“Her parents are total whack jobs,” Sera added.
“No.” I shook my head. “I was busted for illegal offcampus.
Stupid. Anyway, Dean Shepherd thought I should take a break
from the leadership position, blah, blah, blah.”
“Oh. Good,” Nicole said. “I mean, not good, but—”
“I know what you mean,” I said, giving her a smile.
“Well,” she said, “would you maybe have a few minutes to
talk to me sometime anyway?”
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“There are other counselors, Nicole.” I was sure Dean
Shepherd wouldn’t want me to have anything to do with Nicole
Kellogg.
“But I know you. And it’s actually not about my own
problem.” She fiddled with a button on her peacoat. “It’s, like, I
just need advice about how much to butt into someone else’s
life.”
“Oh.” I checked the time on my phone. Could the dean get
mad (madder than she already was) if I talked to Nicole as a
friend? I was almost too tired—too drained—to care. “Well, I
have about an hour. I’m walking to town, and if you want to walk
with me . . .” I glanced at Sera. “Unless you want to meet alone,
Nicole. I have time after the assembly this afternoon.”
“That’s okay,” Nicole said. “Sera knows about it, too.”
The three of us shuffled through blankets of dried leaves.
Winter would be here soon, and then spring, and then . . . God.
Which other New York schools should I apply to? I needed to do
some serious research. David kept asking about it.
“So, it’s like this,” Nicole said. “I’m in that freshman PE class,
you know? Where they try to drown you?”
“Sure,” I said. “We hated it. Abby told them submersion in
water was against her religion.”
“Abby?” Nicole said.
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I waved my hand. “No one. Sorry. Go on.”
“Well, when I was using the locker room a couple of days
ago,” she continued, “I saw this girl in the showers, and she didn’t
look too good.”
“You think she might have an eating disorder?” I said.
“No. It’s not that.” We reached a crosswalk. Nicole
readjusted her baseball hat, fussed with her hair. When the sign
changed to WALK she spoke. “I don’t know. Maybe I shouldn’t be
