Two-Way Street

  “Court,” I say when we finally pull into the front parking lot of school. “We’re here.”

  “Mmmm,” she says, opening her eyes slowly. I’m half hoping she doesn’t wake up so that I’ll have an excuse to touch her, to gently shake her awake, but she rubs her eyes and sits up.

  There’s a throng of people milling around, parents, students, all trying to find their dorm rooms. Jesus Christ. It looks like fucking Grand Central Station. I figured getting here so late would spare us most of the craziness, but apparently not.

  “How was your nap?” I ask. She looks cute, her hair rumpled from sleep, her cheek red from where it was pressed against the seat.

  “Can you help me with my stuff?” Courtney asks, ignoring my question. She reaches into the backseat, grabs her sweatshirt, and pulls it on.

  “Yes,” I say. “Court, listen, I don’t—”

  “Jordan,” she says, holding her hand up. “I can’t deal with this right now.”

  “But if we don’t—”

  She opens the car door and jumps down into the parking lot. After a second, I pop open the back of my truck, and then follow her around to the back of the car.

  A perky blond girl holding a clipboard and wearing a maroon polo shirt emerges from the crowd before we have a chance to start unloading any of the stuff. “Hello!” she says. “I’m Jessica, part of your welcome orientation committee. Do you need help finding your dorm?”

  “No, thanks,” Courtney says. “I know where my dorm is. I mapped it all out during my tour in the fall.”

  Jessica’s face falls, but she recovers quickly. She turns to me. “What about you?” She gives me a dazzling smile.

  “No, thanks,” I say. “I’m cool.” I open the back of my truck, sending Jessica the silent message to go away. I want to be able to talk to Courtney before we go our separate ways, and Jessica’s screwing up the plan.

  “Well,” she says, acting like we’ve made some sort of huge mistake by not taking her help. “Here are your welcome packets, map, etc.” She hands us each a huge stack of papers. Courtney and I take them obediently, even though I know I’m going to lose half this shit by tomorrow. “Do you have any questions?”

  “No,” Courtney says. She starts tapping her foot.

  “No,” I say.

  “Then let me explain a little bit to you about how our meal plan works. You won’t have to worry about it tonight of course, because—”

  “Listen,” Court starts. “We said we didn’t want to hear any of this.” She takes a step toward Jessica. Whoa. She must be really pissed off if she’s cutting off the orientation committee chick. Wasn’t her whole thing about getting oriented?

  “Um, Jessica, listen,” I say, deciding to step in before anything can get out of hand. I can’t have Courtney fighting some girl in the parking lot, no matter how hot that would be. “We’ve had a really long drive, we’re both tired and cranky”—Courtney raises her eyebrows—” and we just want to get to our rooms. So, thanks, really, for all your help, but we’ll come and find you if we need anything.”

  “Okay,” Jessica says, still sounding uncertain. She opens her mouth like she’s about to say something else, glances at Courtney, and then changes her mind. She turns around and disappears back into the crowd.

  Courtney reaches up and pulls a blue suitcase out of the truck and sets it down on the pavement.

  “‘Thank you, Jordan, for saving me from the scary orientation girl,’” I recite.

  She ignores me and continues to unload her stuff. Okay, so apparently, trying to lighten the mood isn’t the way to go. Check.

  I decide to try and make normal conversation. “You have a lot of stuff,” I try. “Seriously.” I set a huge box down in the parking lot. “What do you have in here?”

  “My books,” she says. She reaches up and gathers her hair into a ponytail, then slides a hair tie around it with her other hand.

  “Why would you bring books to college?” I ask her. “You know they give you books, right?” I mean it as a joke, but she gives me one of those looks, one of those “You’ll never understand me” looks, so I decide it might be better to keep my mouth shut until we’re done unloading everything. We spend the next half hour making trips back and forth to her dorm room. I was kind of hoping she’d want to start setting stuff up, maybe let me hang around for a while, but she just deposits stuff in a pile on her floor, presumably to deal with later. By herself.

  I realize that once we’re done unloading the stuff, I’m going to have to leave. So I take my time, but there’s only so much and finally, all of it is in Courtney’s room.

  “Thanks,” she says. She’s standing in the doorway of her room, and I’m in the hall, and she starts to shut the door.

  “Court, are we going to talk about this?” I ask, putting my hand on the door so that she can’t shut it. Well, she can shut it. Just not without breaking my hand. Hmm. On second thought, I drop my hand.

  “No,” she says. “We’re not.”

  “I understand you’re mad,” I say. “But I want to talk about it, make you understand.”

  “I already understand,” she says simply. She shrugs.

  “You’re upset now,” I say, starting to become frantic. “I know that. But you need to just take a breather, I think. Take a break from me and from the trip. You’re tired.” I realize once I leave this room, I won’t have anything to look forward to. No trip with Courtney. No seeing her every day in math. It’s over. We’re at college now. “Let’s have breakfast tomorrow. Before orientation. I know you don’t want to miss it.” I smile at her then, to let her know it’s okay, that I’m making a joke.

  “Jordan,” she says. “Please leave.”

  And then she shuts the door.

  courtney after

  One Day After the Trip, 9:03 a.m.

  The first full day of college is overcast and gray, which is not a good omen. Bad starts and all that. I’m a big believer in the fact that the weather of the day can totally dictate how the day is going to go. So far (at least for today), this theory has been proven true.

  First, I had eighteen new messages waiting for me on my voice mail when I woke up this morning. Jocelyn (“I’m worried about you, call me when you’re ready.”), my mom (“Courtney, honey, I want you to call me when you get this.”), my dad (“Call me, we need to talk about this.”), Lloyd (“It was kind of weird the way you left like that, Courtney, and I’m mad and worried.”), and finally, Jordan (“Courtney, please call me, I love you.”). I deleted all of them, then realized that was a horrible plan, as all it did was clear out my voice mail and leave me available to receive new messages.

  Second, my roommate hasn’t arrived yet, so I was stuck walking to the orientation breakfast by myself. The whole way over, all I saw were groups of twos, threes, fives, eights. It seemed like everyone had friends but me. Which was bad enough. But now that I’m here, I realize I don’t know anyone. Not one single person. Well, except Jordan, but I’m really, really, hoping I don’t run into him today. Or ever again. In my life.

  I grab a plate off the pile at the end of the buffet table and load it high with eggs, pancakes, and fruit. I figure if I’m not going to be talking to anyone, then I’m going to have to keep myself busy by eating. A lot. I wish I’d brought my book. But then wouldn’t I look like the loser who has to bring a book to the first day of college? If I’d known that navigating the social landscape of college was going to be so crazy, I never would have been in such a hurry to get here.

  I grab an orange juice off the table of beverages, and very carefully make my way to the end of an empty table.

  But once I set my stuff down, I’m stopped by a boy wearing a black T-shirt and a pair of jeans.

  “Uh-oh,” he says, shaking his head. He looks visibly upset, like someone’s just told him his dog is sick, or that he failed a test.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  “It’s just that…” He sighs. “You’re sitting at the table where
the orientation committee is supposed to sit.”

  “Oh,” I say. “I’m sorry.” I grab my plate and start to stand up. Leave it to me to sit in the one spot I’m not supposed to. I turn around and scan the dining room, but the tables have filled up fast, and there’s not another empty one. Which means I’m going to have to sit with someone else. A stranger. I try to decide between a table full of girls who look like they walked off the cover of a magazine, or two girls sitting by themselves with about twenty piercings between the two of them. The pierced girls would probably be nicer, although the magazine girls look like they could have an in on the cool things to do around here. Although, God could be trying to play a trick on me for judging people on their appearances, and it could be the other way around.

  “I’m afraid it’s not that easy,” the orientation guy says. He sighs again and runs his fingers through his short blond hair.

  “What isn’t?” I ask. A girl wearing a blue sequined tank top sits down with the magazine girls, nailing the last seat. Crap.

  “It’s just that if you sit at a table you’re not supposed to during orientation, that’s a disciplinary infraction.” He starts flipping through the papers on his clipboard.

  “What do you mean, a disciplinary infraction?” I ask, swallowing hard. This is just great. My first day of school—actually not even official school, just orientation—and I’m already in trouble. I wonder how many disciplinary infractions you can get before you get kicked out. And if it’s going to go on my permanent record. I thought at college you were supposed to have more freedom. Apparently not, if you can get in trouble just for sitting at the wrong table.

  “What’s your name?” the guy asks.

  “Courtney,” I say. “Courtney McSweeney.”

  “I’m Ben,” he says. He holds out his hand. “Nice to meet you.” He winks.

  “Hold on,” I say, my eyes narrowing. “Am I really in trouble?”

  “No,” he says, laughing. “You’re not in trouble.”

  “So you were just messing with me?”

  “Yes,” he says. “But only because I wanted to know your name.” He smiles, and now that I’m not worried about disciplinary infractions, I realize for the first time how cute he is. Tall, blond hair, green eyes, and a really nice smile.

  “Okay,” I say. “So now you know my name.”

  “I do,” he says, nodding. “And you know mine.” He leans in closer to me. “Now, I’m not really supposed to do this, but, do you want to have breakfast with me? Usually we don’t let the freshmen sit at the orientation table, but I’ve taken up all this time talking to you, and now there’re hardly any seats left.” He gestures toward the crowded dining area.

  “Sure,” I say. “I’ll sit with you.” He pulls out a chair for me, but I hesitate. “Hey, Ben?” I ask.

  “Yeah?”

  “Do you listen to rap music?”

  “Rap music?” he asks, looking confused. “No. Alternative rock. How come?”

  “No reason,” I say. I sit down in the chair he’s offered and Ben sits down next to me.

  after jordan

  One Day After the Trip, 9:23 a.m.

  Courtney is sitting with a guy. Some dude who’s on the orientation committee. How skeezy is that? Hitting on freshmen when you’re on the orientation committee. It’s like hitting on students when you’re a teacher. Definitely not cool.

  “Hey,” I say, turning to my roommate, a guy from Queens named Ricardo. Ricardo’s a cool dude, one of those guys who you can tell is always going to know what’s going on. Which means at some point this semester, we’ll probably get in some trouble, but, hey, that’s the price you pay. “What’s the deal with tonight?”

  “It’s gonna be sick,” Ricardo says. He takes a piece of toast and dips it into his over-easy eggs. There weren’t over easy eggs on the buffet, but Ricardo conned one of the dining room workers into making him one. “There’re no upperclassmen on campus yet except for the orientation committee, which means it’s going to be all freshmen.” He smiles at me and gives me a knowing look. I pretend like I know what he means, even though I really have no idea. Does Ricardo have some knowledge of statistics pertaining to freshmen girls giving it up?

  I glance over at Courtney, where she now appears to be writing her phone number down on the back of a napkin for the guy.

  “Define ‘sick,’” I say.

  “Tons of chicks, tons of booze,” he says. “It’s like the official kickoff to partying in college. And the girls here,” he adds, looking around the dining room, “are unfuckingbelievable.”

  He’s right, too. The girls here are amazing. Much hotter than the ones in high school. And there’s a lot more of them to choose from.

  I step away from the table for a second, pull out my cell, and dial Courtney’s number.

  “Hey,” I say into the phone. “I just wanted to tell you that I’m done. I don’t want anything to do with you, so you don’t have to worry about it. I’m not going to call you anymore.” I snap my phone shut with a satisfied click and start thinking about what I’m going to wear to the party.

  “So these girls are going to head over there with us,” Ricardo says later that night. He’s standing in front of the mirror, gelling his hair. From what I can tell, Ricardo spends a lot of time in front of the mirror. “You, my friend,” he says to his own reflection, “are spades.”

  “What girls?” I ask. I’m riffling through my suitcase, trying to find a clean shirt to wear to the party. One of the problems with packing my shit so late was that I didn’t have time to worry about if my clothes were clean or not. Therefore, I have a lot of dirty clothes in my suitcase, which is why I haven’t bothered to put them in my dresser or hang them up. Why fold them when I’m just going to have to wash them anyway?

  “These chicks I met at one of the orientation icebreakers,” he says. The whole freshman class spent the afternoon playing lame icebreaker games, like “three truths and a lie” in an effort for everyone to get to know each other.

  “Hot?” I pull a black button-up out of my suitcase and give it the smell test. Definitely not. I throw it back in.

  “Smokin’,” he says. “They’re roommates, friends from high school. It’s always good when the girls are friends.” Ricardo picks up a bottle of cologne from his dresser and gives himself a spray.

  “Jesus, that shit’s strong,” I say, backing away.

  “It’s Diddy’s new cologne,” he says. “It’s a total pussy magnet.”

  “Oh.”

  “Anyway,” he says, giving himself another spray. “I figure we can head over with Chelsea and Krista, lay the groundwork. And then if it doesn’t work out, we can ditch them when we get there.”

  This guy’s good. I hold a long-sleeved blue shirt up to my nose. Not the best, but it’ll do. I pull it over my head, slide my feet into my Timberlands, and sit down on the bed.

  “What time’s this thing start?” It’s already eleven.

  “Usually things don’t get going until around eleven,” Ricardo says. He’s making weird faces at himself in the mirror, pushing his lips out like a fish.

  “What are you doing?” I ask him.

  “Getting ready.”

  “What’s that thing with your lips?”

  “I read about it in some magazine. It supposedly gets your pheromones racing, so chicks want you.”

  “Cool.” My roommate is an insane person. I don’t have too much time to think about this, though, because there’s a knock on the door.

  “The girls,” Ricardo says, opening the door. “Come in, come in.” He ushers them into the room. For an insane person, Ricardo definitely knows his women. They’re both blonde with big boobs. One’s wearing the shortest skirt I’ve ever seen, and the other one is wearing a top that exposes her midriff. I realize I haven’t hooked up with anyone since I’ve been with Courtney. And now that Courtney and I are broken up, I can hook up with one of these girls. Maybe both of them. I feel myself starting to get turned
on.

  “I’m Jordan,” I say.

  “Chelsea,” one says.

  “Krista,” the other one says. I’m never going to be able to tell them apart.

  We head over to the party, and Ricardo makes it easy for me by latching on to the taller one (Krista, I think), and so I drop back and start talking to Chelsea. I’m starting to think that for all of Ricardo’s weirdness, he and I might get along just fine. Unlike B. J., he has play. Ricardo obviously knows the first rule of the double hookup, which is that when two guys are out with two girls, you immediately pair off in an effort to let the girls know a hookup is definitely expected.

  Chelsea and I do the required small talk on the way to the party. I find out she’s from Boston, an elementary education major, and really, really likes to party. I know this because she says, “Do you like to party?” and I say, “Yeah, I guess,” and she says, “Well, I really, really like to party.”

  By the time we get to the frat house, the festivities are in full swing. There are people all over the place—outside, inside, on the porch, on the lawn. It seems like the whole freshman class is here.

  I grab two cups of beer from the keg and take them over to where Chelsea’s waiting for me by the door.

  “Here,” I say.

  “Thanks.” She takes a few huge gulps. Whoa. This girl doesn’t fuck around.

  “So what dorm are you in?” I ask.

  “I live off campus,” she tells me, and then smiles. The strap of her bra is showing. Red. Hot.

  “No shit,” I say. “How’d you manage that?”

  “My parents pay for everything,” she says. “They feel guilty that they’re never around, so they make up for it by trying to give me everything I want.”

  “That sounds sweet,” I say, wondering if she’ll give me pointers on how I can finagle that situation for myself. My parents already give me pretty much whatever I want, but making my mom feel guilty is very appealing.