Very Lefreak

  Very opened the El Virus photo file on her laptop. How was it that two people as passionately devoted to their electronic attachments as they were had maintained the agreement never to speak on the phone—to only exchange e-mail and text messages, with the occasional cryptic photo, full frontal face never allowed? It had been like a ridiculous chastity pact, designed to save the purity of their relationship for the first time they actually … met. In person.

  She loved his turbaned photos best, the ones that allowed a peek at black hair and beard stubble. She loved how cozy it made her feel to imagine herself as his sari goddess, flying through an auburn sky with him. They’d be love deities who sprinkled iPhones to their disciples on the ground, like when those World War II planes sent packages of Spam and smokes and Hershey bars to suffering people in war-torn Europe. Yes, Very and El Virus would operate some kind of modern-day airlift program, only without the unpleasant issues of postwar ravages, and without the Spam, of course. They’d be nice just for nice’s sake.

  Very concentrated on her IM list, willing Him to appear. El Virus could pop up … now … or now … or … WHEN?! WTF already? Why didn’t her deity fantasy extend to IM-summoning superpowers?

  Very might as well turn her attention to Professor Shaggy. No IM from E.V., and no one in class had bothered to answer her meme. If no one was responding, was it possible the professor was saying something worthwhile to the lecture hall after all? Very momentarily tuned him in:

  “No single factor will affect the global economy—and your personal future—more importantly than …”

  Nah, not interesting.

  Very slipped the earbuds hiding underneath her shirt onto her ears, then draped her hair over the earbuds to keep them out of sight of the TA. She tuned her browser to Google. She could spend the rest of the class time watching David Bowie trans-sexualness glam. Or just observing traffic patterns in downtown Helsinki at this very moment. Either one would adequately pass the time.

  Google, her favorite boyfriend.

  Free ‘n’ easy.

  Just like Very.

  CHAPTER 10

  “Jean Genie” in the Office of the Dean Deanie

  Very needed a father to flank her. That was her problem. She’d settle even for a father figure. Someone to reassure her, to pay her bills, to care about her unconditionally. Someone to accompany her to the dean’s office and stand up for her in stern indignation and In the Name of My Hard-Earned Tuition Money, Sir, I Will Not Stand By and Allow This Slander Against My Darling Veronica.

  Certainly she’d had a mother, and a mother figure in Aunt Esther, but how exotic and cool and provided-for would it feel to have a Mighty Manly Man standing up for her, looking out for her. Why couldn’t Very get anything right?

  As it was, Very arrived in the Dean of Students’ office twenty minutes late. She’d stopped by the Alma Mater statue on the walk over, hung out with some Jay folk there, and been recruited to host a karaoke marathon later that night. Shit just took up time.

  Very didn’t use those exact words with the dean. What she said was “I lost track of time. Sorry.”

  Luckily, the dean was one laid-back kind of dude. He almost had to be, with a name like Robert Dean. Which made him, in his academic capacity, Dean Dean. Very was clearly destined to program a “Jean Genie” / David Bowie mix out of this meeting experience.

  Dean Dean tilted back in his chair, put his feet up on his desk, and did that chin-stroking thing that, well, a good father figure would completely do for her if he were here now. “Veronica,” he said, almost comfortingly, “tell me about what’s going on.”

  “Like how?” Very said.

  “I think you know what I’m talking about,” Dean Dean said.

  “I don’t,” Very said.

  She did.

  “Songs for the Fatherless”—that could be an alternate playlist for the day. Songs reflecting all the Dad moments she’d missed in her life. If she found that mosher her mother had one-night-standed so many years ago, Very felt sure he’d be the grunge grown-up variety, all yuppified but still glorifying his old Kurt Cobain wannabe days. Father. Daddy. Papa. Pop. Old Man. Sigh.

  Songs to cue for fatherlessness-sob-story mix: “What’s Going On” by Marvin Gaye, “Come as You Are” by Nirvana, “Papa Don’t Preach” by Madonna, “Daddy Could Swear, I Declare” by Gladys Knight and the Pips, “Family Affair” by Sly & the Family Stone, “Papa’s Got a Brand New Bag” by James Brown, “Daddy I’m Fine” by Sinéad O’Connor, “Rescue Me” by …

  Dean Dean cleared his throat. “Veronica? I’m asking you a question. Why do you think you’re here today?”

  “Someone’s nominated me for student council president but you’re worried I’d be taking on too much, what with my heavy course load and all?”

  “That’s quite funny. But indeed. Let’s talk about your course load.” Dean Dean whipped a term paper out from a file folder and placed it on his desk for Very to inspect. It was one of her own papers.

  Damn, this dean guy was looking right at her, waiting for an answer. When he was looking right at her like that, oozing genuine concern, she couldn’t possibly pull out her phone and start texting classmates to see if anybody wanted to start a jihad, could she? Very’s hand touched her handbag, where she could feel her phone vibrating this very second. Someone was calling her!

  “Don’t you dare answer that,” Dean Dean said.

  Very placed her handbag on the floor and kicked it a few inches away so she wouldn’t feel any vibrations forthcoming from it.

  Okay, whatever, she’d give in. Uncle.

  Very glanced at the term paper, then picked it up from the dean’s desk. It had a large D marked across the top, written in thick red marker and circled all fancy to highlight its D-eity. It was her last Lit Hum paper. What did the dean care if she got a suck grade on a paper?

  “I didn’t plagiarize that, if that’s what this is all about,” Very said.

  “Believe me, no one is accusing you of plagiarizing this paper.”

  “Good.”

  “Because when one writes one’s Literature Humanities paper not on Plato’s thoughts on life, but instead chooses to focus it exclusively on speculation of exactly what type of homoerotic space-age Guitar Heroes that Plato ‘and his dudes,’ as you refer to the Great Thinkers, would have made, one does not necessarily get accused of plagiarism. The professor gave you the D rather than an outright F solely for your paper’s original content.”

  “Cool.”

  “It’s not cool, Veronica. It’s an offensive attack on your professor’s time and energy. You seem to be making a habit of turning academic essays into work that’s essentially glorified fan fiction, which is fine for your private time, but in pursuit of your Columbia degree? No. What were you thinking?”

  I didn’t give it any thought at the time. But wouldn’t you agree, Dean Dean, that fan fiction is way easier to write, and far more entertaining, than a real term paper?

  Very shrugged. “Dunno.”

  “You need to figure it out, young lady, if you’re to progress in this school. This isn’t the only academic work of yours that’s been called to my attention. There seems to be a growing concern that you appear to think you can fake your way through your course work by avoiding the actual texts and focusing on cleverly inane nonsense….”

  Cleverly inane. So close to cleverly insane. Or cleverly in-anal. Hah-hah-hah-hah-hah! Next stop, Sodom and Gomorrah fan fic, fuh sho’.

  Dean Dean said, “I can see I’m not getting through to you on this level. Let’s move on, for now, to the next topic. This Grid business.”

  “Can’t be traced.” Why had she said that? If ever there was an admission of guilt, there it was. Then Very remembered. She’d promised Bryan she’d stand up and take responsibility.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course it can.”

  “You’re right. It’s me. Me me me, and only me.”

  Dean Dean perhaps had decided to take on a new inte
rrogation tactic, because he took his feet off his desk and leaned over to open a mini-refrigerator. He pulled out two bottles of flavored water. “Would you like one?” he asked her.

  “Do you have raspberry?”

  “Goji berry.”

  Not as good, but the goji factor might be refreshing in her mouth. “Okay. Thanks.” Very took the bottle the dean extended to her and opened it for a sip. Indeed. Refreshing.

  Dean Dean would really make some lucky progeny an awesome father or father figure. He totally knew the vitamin tricks to put a girl at ease. He’d probably let his kids chew Flintstones for their daily vitamins.

  “The Grid,” Very said. “All me. Blame me. Sorry. Won’t do it again.”

  “Here’s my problem with these flash mobs organized on The Grid.”

  Very clasped her hands together and tilted her head to the side, adopting a sincerely Sincere face. “I’m listening,” she said.

  “This disorderly conduct. What’s it about? Nothing. You’re not even protesting anything meaningful. I mean, this particular university was the beacon of student protest in the sixties. For better or worse, to the university administration, student protest is one of Columbia’s proudest legacies. But these flash mobs? They’re merely disruption for the sake of disruption, emptily occupying time and space, with no viable social or political message.”

  “So you’re saying if The Grid can swing some protests against, like, racism or homophobia or war-mongering or something, then it would be all right with you?”

  “No, that’s not what I’m saying. I’m saying, Find a meaningful path for yourself at this university, and stick to it. Stop blocking others’ paths here for no reason other than your own amusement.”

  Very nodded. Still sincere. “Got it. Cool. Okay.”

  Daddy-O Dean, I won’t let you down. Flash mobs. So over. Fan fiction: Will save for the online Hogwarts covens only.

  “That’s too easy a response. I don’t think you’re getting it. Your academic career is in jeopardy. You’re at risk of expulsion. We haven’t even addressed the concerns from your resident advisor. Let me ask you something, Veronica. I want you to think about this seriously. Do you even want to go to this university? Because your academic performance and social antics would indicate otherwise.”

  Did Aladdin Sane Dean Dean just say “expulsion”? Harsh judgment for a few minor indiscretions!

  But because he’d offered her a bottle of vitamin-rich water, and so unconditionally, and a really tasty flavor it turned out, too, Very pondered his question seriously.

  Did she want to go to this university?

  Because, Very had to admit, she spent more class time sending memes, texts, and e-mails than paying attention to lectures. It wasn’t like Very cared about Columbia’s esteemed Core Curriculum schooling students in the classics of Art, Literature, and Humanities. She spent more time Googling speculation about Plato’s sodomite tendencies than trying to break down the dude’s thoughts on life. (Obviously, the D-marked paper winked at her.) She couldn’t sit through an easy class of Art History slides without losing focus to her stylus pen instead, doodling onto her laptop nasty cartoons of the Great Thinkers in various states of … thought. Naked thought.

  “I don’t know why I’m bothering,” Very said to Dean Dean quietly. “You’re right.”

  “‘Bothering’? That’s how you think of the privilege of an Ivy League education?”

  “No. Yes. No. I mean, I don’t know what I’m doing here.”

  “Then I’d suggest that you figure it out, and quickly. You’ve got until finals to get your act together. If you expect to return here next year, I’ll need evidence of rapidly improved academic attendance and performance, and a recommendation from your resident advisor. Who is expecting you in her dorm suite immediately after you are excused from this meeting. I’ll be calling the RA to let her know you’re on your way.”

  Very placed her half-consumed water bottle on the dean’s desk. She wouldn’t finish the drink, as a form of silent protest. It was one thing to drop the word “expulsion” on her. Totally another to send her into the vulture’s lair of Dreabbie’s dorm suite.

  So not cool, Dean Dean. And just when she was getting comfortable with him, opening up to him.

  That’s what dads did. Let daughters down.

  Flintstones vitamins were essentially sugar cubes. Nothing healthy about them. Everyone knew that.

  Very hadn’t missed anything not having one of those bothersome creatures.

  CHAPTER 11

  Die, Grid, Die Die

  Very should have known when she entered Dreabbie’s suite and was ushered to a tattered couch in the communal living room area rather than summoned directly into Dreabbie’s bedroom for a private talk that she was being set up for something. But Very had been so pleased that if she was being forced by Dean Dean to have this discussion in the first place, then in the second place, mercifully, there was a TV on the table behind where Dreabbie sat. The TV had been left on, muted, but Very didn’t mind. Dreabbie could talk all she wanted while Very watched QVC behind Dreabbie’s head.

  Was Dreabbie accusing Very of piloting a keg of beer into the freshman dorm at a recent party, even if she had no tangible proof that Very was the organizer? Check.

  Did Very want that thigh-buster machine behind Dreabbie’s head Fed Ex’d to her stat? Check to the hells yeah.

  Dreabbie whined, “I need to know that you won’t be giving me any more cause for suspicion the rest of the school year, Very. Or I’m afraid I’ll have to recommend that you not be allowed back into student housing next year. Do you realize what the cost of rent would be in Manhattan if you had to get housing on your own? Do you realize the gravity of this situation?”

  “Exercise is very important,” Very said. Stay on message. That was Dreabbie’s message, right? Freshman Ten. Blah blah blah. Dreabbie should be pleased by Very’s acknowledgment of the importance of exercise. She needed more of it, needed that natural high. Those endorphins that Lavinia lived off so wholesomely—yes, Very would like some of those, please. Check. She’d start by taking a run as soon as she could escape this Dreabbie session. She’d perhaps start by bolting out of this room any second.

  Except.

  Lavinia, Bryan, and Jean-Wayne arrived in the common area in Dreabbie’s suite. Bryan took a guard post at the door, like he anticipated Very’s sudden need to colt-bolt, while Lavinia and Jean-Wayne sat down on either side of Very on the couch.

  “What the …?” Very said.

  Something was extremely not right.

  Lavinia started with “We love you very much, Very. But we’re worried about you.”

  Jean-Wayne picked up with “Debbie asked us to join her today so we could talk about our concerns together.”

  No fucking way. Very said, “Is this an …”

  “… intervention,” Bryan finished. “Yes, it is.” He didn’t sound concerned. He sounded triumphant. Certainly there’d be nothing coming his way involving the letters B or J from VLeF ever again.

  This. Was. Outrageous. This had to be an April Fool’s Day joke. A flash-mob intervention that would spontaneously disperse within seconds.

  But Very could see by the serious look on her friends’ faces that this meeting was no joke and that they intended it to last longer than a flash.

  Very wanted to explode in anger at the intrusion into her privacy, but felt even more frustration about her inability to completely combust. Dean Dean had specifically sent her into this situation by instructing her to talk with Dreabbie. He was keeping tabs on her. Clearly, this was an intervention not just among “friends,” but one with a direct antenna to the dean’s office, that unfortunate higher power that could control her scholarship and her destiny, too. Very couldn’t squirm her way out of this one. (Yet.) She had no choice but to sit through this treasonous bullshit.

  Indignantly, Very proclaimed, “I don’t have substance-abuse issues. A little weed here and there does not an addict mak
e.” She looked in Bryan’s direction. “I bet your parents smoke more weed than me!”

  “They know how to maintain,” Bryan said. “You don’t.”

  Lavinia said, “And it’s not your substance abuse we’re worried about.”

  This was perhaps the worst slap of all—that they’d recruited Lavinia to this hateful cause. Very didn’t know if she could sleep next to this girl for the rest of the semester, knowing Lavinia could so easily swing against her.

  Dreabbie clicked off the TV and snatched the vibrating iPhone right out of Very’s hand. “It’s sort of the general consensus in John Jay Hall, as well as, apparently, among all of your professors and peers, that you have a technology problem.”

  “That’s bullshit,” Very said. “A technology problem? Give me a break. That’s not even a real problem.”

  Dreabbie shook her head sadly. “Denial. The first wave. My advisor said you might respond that way.”

  Lavinia said, “Very, for real? I think it is a real problem. You can’t make it through an hour without being online or attached to your phone or playing a video game.”

  Bryan added, “Your relationships are suffering.”

  Jean-Wayne said, “Your school performance is at risk.” He sounded scripted, but unconvinced. He had to be the weak link in the consortium. Very would remember that.

  Betrayal. Very said, “I thought we were comrades! The Grid! Stolichnaya and whatever!”

  Bryan said, “Stolichnaya? That’s a vodka, not a propaganda slogan. And for your information, most of the people who come to this school had to work their asses off to get here. So you test well and did well in high school. But since then, have you truly earned your place here? We’re comrades only so long as you earn your place within the collective.”

  Lavinia took on a good-cop tone. “Of course Very deserves to be here. We wouldn’t want to be here without her, right? She’s our girl. But, girl”—Lavinia turned to Very—“you are seriously worrying me. Something’s got to change. We don’t want to lose you.”