Long May She Reign

  Which she wouldn’t have time to do before her political science class started, so she would just have to take care of it later.

  After her classes were over, she was going to go into Paresky, and grab something to eat, but she saw Jack crossing the Chapin Lawn, apparently about to do the same thing, so she retreated to the library, instead. Did a little more research for her political science rewrite, skimmed and took notes on a couple of the articles her English professor had put on reserve, as supplementary reading material, and got through twenty-five more pages of Aristotle.

  By then, she was so tired that she was starting to get dizzy again, and it was obviously time to go back to her room, and take a nap. A long nap.

  Although, considering how truly wretched and miserable she felt, she just might spend some time crying, first.

  When she got off the elevator, she could have sworn that she heard a very familiar voice, but decided that it had to be her imagination. Wishful thinking. She started down the hall towards her room—and saw Beth, sitting in the chair by the security desk, talking to Dave.

  Meg stopped short, and stared at her. “Hey. What are you doing here?”

  Beth shrugged. “Took the bus up.”

  Oh. It was a somewhat dislocating surprise, but also, a good surprise. An excellent surprise. “Okay,” Meg said. “I mean, hi.”

  Beth nodded, looking her over slowly, and then frowning.

  Which was—weird. Unfriendly. Something else seemed different, and it took her a minute to figure out what it was. That is, other than the fact that she was wearing old jeans—torn jeans—and a black turtleneck, instead of something fun. “Your hair’s brown,” she said.

  “Dyed it back last night,” Beth said.

  They had never been inclined towards demonstrative greetings, but there was a strange energy in the air, and—hmmm. “Well—it looks good,” Meg said, warily.

  Beth shrugged again.

  Now, she was a lot wary. “I’m sorry I hadn’t gotten a chance to call you back yet,” Meg said. Since she definitely would have made sure to head her off, before she came up here, if she had. “But, I was working on a paper, and—I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah.” Beth stood up, carrying a faded orange Newton South Lions bag from their old high school. “See you later, Dave, it was nice talking to you.”

  Afraid that she might look too frail and unsteady, Meg tried to unlock her door without fumbling around or dropping the keys.

  “What’s wrong with your arm?” Beth asked.

  Which she still couldn’t really straighten, but she hadn’t realized that it was obvious. “It’s fine,” Meg said. “Just post-surgical junk.” She pushed the door open. “It’s really good to see you, but I wish you had—” Called first. “I mean, don’t you have a midterm or something tomorrow?”

  “Yeah, whatever,” Beth said.

  Christ, was she really so pissed off about not having been called back, that she thought it was worth coming all the way up here? Except, maybe something was wrong with her, like another pregnancy scare. “Are you okay?” Meg asked. “Did something bad happen?”

  Beth shook her head and put her bag on the floor next to the bed, then looked around the room. “So, this is it, hunh?”

  Meg shrugged, knowing full well that she could have made more of an effort to decorate. Or, any effort at all, beyond the few photos she’d set out the very first day she’d arrived.

  “What happened with Jack?” Beth asked.

  If she’d dropped everything and rushed up here because of a stupid breakup with a jerk of a guy, it had been a complete waste of time. “No big deal.” Meg eased herself down onto the bed. “He just—he turned out to be a schmuck.”

  Beth frowned.

  “He didn’t do anything awful—” exactly— “We just—I don’t know,” Meg said. “I don’t really feel like dating anyone right now, anyway. Too much other stuff going on.”

  Beth folded her arms. “So, you’re not upset at all.”

  “No,” Meg said. “But, I’m sorry if I made it seem that way.” Time to change the subject. “Um, how’s Nigel?”

  Beth looked annoyed and shook her head, which Meg interpreted to mean that he was still a schmuck in his own right.

  So, maybe she had just wanted to get out of town for a couple of days, and had, therefore, manufactured an excuse to do it. And, after all, they hadn’t seen each other since right after New Year’s. Although that didn’t explain why this all felt so horribly strained. Or what the hell it was that was simmering below the surface.

  “You look awful,” Beth said.

  Nice. Meg nodded. “Thank you. It took some effort, to look this bad, but—”

  “I’m not kidding,” Beth said.

  “Well.” Meg touched the bridge of her nose, feeling the crooked part. “I—”

  Beth shook her head. “You know that’s not what I mean. I mean, you look awful.”

  Oh. Not anything she wanted to hear—although she pretty much always looked awful now, so it didn’t fall into the category of new information. “I didn’t sleep very well last night,” Meg said, “and I guess maybe—”

  “Christ, don’t be an idiot,” Beth said. “Okay?”

  Great. Now she was an idiot, in addition to looking ugly.

  “And what the hell’s the matter with your parents?” Beth asked. “Why did they let you come back here, looking like this?”

  Now, she was starting in on her family? What the hell was going on here?

  Beth leaned over, unzipped her bag, and took out a few magazines. “You’re a lollipop girl, Meg,” she said.

  What? Now she was really confused.

  Beth pointed at the glossy tabloid on the top of the pile. “I saw this on a newsstand last night, and then you didn’t answer your phone, or your email, and—” She tossed the magazine onto Meg’s lap. “So, I went down to Port Authority this morning, and got on the fucking bus.”

  The cover showed all of the usual—predominantly too blond and too thin—celebrity types, plus a photo of her in the top right corner, with the headline “Wasting Away.” Meg shoved the magazines aside. “So what? They just want people to cough up a few dollars and buy the damn thing, so they try to create news.”

  “Look at the picture,” Beth said.

  It wasn’t worth a second glance, but Meg humored her, and gave it one. Sunglasses, purple cap with a gold W, gripping her cane—because God forbid they not print a photo with her looking as crippled as possible. It was hard to be sure, but it might have been taken the previous Monday, when she was on her way to PT.

  “You look like one of those skeletal, fucked-up starlets,” Beth said.

  Albeit lacking a wildly overpriced designer bag—or a jittery, equally expensive, little dog of some kind.

  Or the smug satisfaction of having had a whopping opening weekend at the box office.

  But Beth was staring at her, accusingly.

  This was ridiculous. “You know they go out of their way to find the worst possible pictures,” Meg said. “And then, they Photoshop the hell out of them, or whatever, until the person doesn’t even look human anymore.”

  “You do look like that, Meg,” Beth said.

  Maybe, maybe not. And, frankly, she didn’t care much.

  Beth reached over and yanked her left sweatshirt sleeve up partway. “Is that what a normal wrist looks like?”

  Jesus Christ, but she was getting tired of hearing this from everyone. And, so what if her wrist was a little skinny? Since it was her good hand, she couldn’t pull her sleeve back down, and had to press her arm against her headboard, and hook the cuff to the corner, to do it.

  Beth sighed. “Meg, all I’m saying is—”

  “If you just came up here to yell at me,” Meg said, “I really don’t feel like hearing it.”

  “Tough,” Beth said. “You have to start hearing it.”

  Well, no, as a matter of fact, she didn’t. She could hear any damn thing she pleased—or not, whe
never she pleased—or not. She folded her good arm across her chest, and they glared at each other. During their entire friendship, they had never done more than a little minor snapping at each other, and Meg was afraid to push it any further than that—because it suddenly seemed as though one of them might go too far. Irrevocably so.

  Beth was usually as good at stare-downs as she was—maybe even better, but she was the first one to sigh, and look away this time.

  Good. Maybe this wasn’t going to get worse, after all. Maybe they could relax now, and slip back into their normal—

  “You’re letting him win,” Beth said quietly.

  Oh, she was not. “Jesus, Beth, I only went out with the guy for about twenty seconds,” Meg said. “I’m already over it.” Sort of. “Hell, I wasn’t even that into it.” Sort of.

  “Not Jack,” Beth said.

  Oh. And no, she wasn’t letting him win. No way in hell. And fuck her for even thinking such a thing.

  “You are, Meg,” Beth said. “Every time the guy sees a new picture of you, he must laugh his head off. Maybe he didn’t have the guts to do it himself, but he’s getting to watch you do the job for him.”

  She didn’t believe that for a second—except that, the very idea made her feel as though she couldn’t move, or breathe—or think.

  Beth put the magazines back on her lap. “Look at the pictures,” she said, her voice very gentle. “Really look at them. Objectively. And then, tell me what you think.”

  Meg shook her head, feeling very panicky. “I don’t want to look at the pictures.”

  “Look at them anyway,” Beth said.

  Except, the truth was, she didn’t have to look at the pictures. Because—she already knew.

  But, she wasn’t going to cry. Not a chance.

  Or, anyway, not much.

  Beth sat down on the bed next to her. “Look. I didn’t come up here to upset you, I just—Jesus, Meg. I’m worried about you.”

  And probably should be. “It’s not anorexia,” Meg said. “It really isn’t.”

  Beth nodded. “I know. I think it’s mostly depression.”

  Yeah. And fear. And shame. And embarrassment. And shattered confidence, and all of the other garbage that ruled her life now.

  Christ, she was tired. It was hard to believe that there had ever been a time in her life when she wasn’t tired.

  Beth sighed. “And yeah, you’re right, I do have an exam tomorrow.”

  What, and now that was her fault, too? “So, go back,” Meg said. “I don’t want you to screw up your classes.”

  Beth shook her head. “No, it’s okay. I emailed my professor and told him I had a family emergency.”

  Which was stupid, because if she got caught lying, she would get in trouble. “It’s not an emergency,” Meg said.

  “Well, I actually think it is,” Beth said, “but either way, it’s definitely family, for me.”

  Oh.

  “You want to know something else?” Beth asked.

  Jesus, after the last twenty minutes or so? She’d heard just about as much as she could handle. “Nothing personal,” Meg said, “but, no, not really.”

  Beth laughed, and luckily, it was a normal laugh. A friendly laugh. “I think there isn’t a single chance in the world that you’re actually going to let the son of a bitch win.”

  God, she hoped that was true.

  “And even if it didn’t work out, the fact that you dated Jack at all means you’re a million times better than you were the last time I saw you,” Beth said.

  Then, considering how she felt now, she must have been in indescribably bad shape back at Christmas. “I liked Jack,” Meg said. “I really liked him a lot.”

  Beth shrugged, and moved to sit at the bottom of the bed, so they were facing each other, the way they had always sat together—since they were five damn years old. “So, tell me about it.”

  Hmmm. “Only if you tell me all of your dirt, too,” Meg said.

  Beth laughed again. “Deal,” she said.

  After that, they both relaxed enough to talk about regular, everyday things which—other than Jack or Nigel—weren’t stressful, or upsetting.

  Depending, that is, upon how one felt about Boston’s current four-game losing streak.

  “So,” Beth said finally. “Are we going to eat here, or do you want to take off somewhere?”

  The possibility of doing anything other than trudging over to one of the dining halls hadn’t occurred to her. And, okay, she wasn’t actually hungry, even though she wouldn’t dare admit it right now. “Take off?” Meg said uncertainly.

  Beth nodded. “Yeah. Someplace where we don’t know anyone, full of cranky New Englanders who won’t give a damn even if they do recognize you.”

  Which sounded enticing enough for her to call Garth, and ask if her agents knew of any places like that, and if so, could they go there. The answer to both questions was, of course, yes, and they ended up being driven to some diner in a little town off Route 7A, up well past Bennington. She had tucked most of her hair under a Patriots cap, and put on one of her pairs of clear glasses, but, as it turned out, there were only about half a dozen other customers, none of whom gave them a second glance, and as a further recommendation for the place, the television in the corner was tuned to the Red Sox game.

  Paula and Larry had come in ahead of them, and were sitting in a nearby booth, giving no indication that they knew her, looking like an ordinary couple going out for a quick supper. Of course, they had their earpieces on, but, surprisingly often, civilians assumed that they were wearing hearing aids, and would go out of their way not to stare. The rest of her security was outside, although Garth came in and got a couple of cups of coffee to go.

  “I think the pastrami might be frightening here,” Beth said, looking at the menu.

  Safe bet. “Ask for it with mayonnaise,” Meg said, “and you might be able to pass.”

  “What’s scary,” Beth said, “is that I think you people actually like it that way.”

  She would never admit it—or order it with anything other than mustard—but, yeah, she kind of did. The same way that, if left entirely to her own devices, she could thoroughly enjoy a large wedge of iceberg lettuce covered with bottled Thousand Island dressing as a salad course.

  When the waitress meandered over, Meg asked for a grilled cheese sandwich, a large order of french fries, and coffee, while Beth looked around to see what all of the locals were eating, and then ordered the chicken croquettes special, which came with rolls, peas and carrots, mashed potatoes and gravy, and either Jell-O or chocolate pudding with whipped cream for dessert.

  They talked some more about Nigel—who, alas, was a terrible schmuck, and then, about Jack briefly, but for most of the meal, they were pretty quiet, Meg leaning back to check the game every so often, having to lower the tortoiseshell-frame glasses to read the score clearly. It was one of those grinding, lead-changing affairs, moving from 2–1, to 3–2, to 5–3, to 6–5, in a matter of a couple of innings.

  “Should we have tried to go to the same school?” she asked, shaking pepper onto her fries.

  “I don’t know,” Beth said. “Sometimes, I think yes, and sometimes I think we’d get in each other’s way, and should wait and go to the same law school together, instead.”

  Meg tucked the ketchup bottle under her right arm and unscrewed the cap with her good hand. “I’m not going to law school.”

  Beth laughed.

  Why did everyone always do that? Meg poured some of the ketchup onto her plate. “Okay, fine, maybe I am. But, you’re not going to law school.”

  Beth looked embarrassed. “Don’t tell anyone, but I love my constitutional law class. I sit in the library sometimes, and read case law on my own, even.”

  Had she ever heard Beth, despite being a top student, say something positive about academia? Going all the way back to elementary school? “Seriously?” Meg said.

  “Hey, you’re writing an extra-credit paper,” Beth said.
“I don’t want to hear anything from you.”

  She should never have told anyone—not even Beth—about that moment of weakness. Or competitiveness. Or whatever the hell it was. “Well, I have to do well in political science,” she said. “It would look terrible, otherwise.”

  Beth laughed again.

  The diner wasn’t very busy, so the two waitresses hung out at the front counter, flipping through magazines and newspapers, and talking to a stocky man with grey stubble who was wearing an ancient Red Sox cap, eating chicken croquettes, and kept covering his face whenever Toronto scored another run. Every so often, someone else they all seemed to know would come in, and sit down on one of the green stools, or maybe just get takeout, and there would be some conversation, which managed to be both animated and desultory.

  Their waitress drifted over every so often to see how they were doing, refill Meg’s coffee, and ultimately bring Beth a thick white mug, too, along with her dish of chocolate pudding. And, for the hell of it, Meg ordered some apple pie. Jose and Kyle came in and were seated in a booth, and Paula and Larry paid their check and went outside, to take over their posts, Meg assumed. If she and Beth were still in here an hour or so from now, Garth and Ed would probably take the next turn.

  “I’m supposed to be dead,” Meg said, once they were just sitting there with coffee.

  Beth nodded. “I know.”

  Yeah. Ten thousand times over, she knew. “So, how come I’m here?” Meg asked.

  “Because that’s what happened,” Beth said.

  It couldn’t be that simple, but maybe it was. But it seemed so—random. Arbitrary. Terrifying.

  “Do you think God is just an artificial construct created to help nervous people make it through the day?” she asked.