Our winter-term schedule was so chaotic that it was five days before Meredith and I found a free minute to sneak away from the Castle. James and Wren and Filippa were locked in their various rooms—likely learning lines; we hardly had enough time to do them justice—and Alexander had disappeared early in the evening (probably, I thought, with Colin, though I kept this hypothesis to myself). What with R and J and work to do on our midterm speeches, we were all unusually high-strung. The idea of a quiet drink was wonderfully appealing, but even as I held the door to the bar for Meredith to precede me, I wasn’t sure either one of us really had the time.
I had expected the place to be mostly empty, considering the day (Sunday) and the amount of work we all had to do before the twentieth (staggering). But the Bore’s Head was surprisingly crowded, our usual table commandeered by a gaggle of philosophy students who were arguing loudly about the significance of Euclid of Megara’s cross-dressing habit.
“What are they all doing out?” I asked, as Meredith led me to a small table on the opposite side of the room. “Don’t they have homework?”
“Yes, but they don’t also have half a play to memorize,” she said. “Our perspective’s a little skewed.”
“Must be,” I said. “Let me get us a drink.”
She sat and pretended to look at the cocktail card (as though we didn’t know it by heart) while I slid between chairs and stools to get to the bar. The guy to my left—a third-year dance student, I thought—gave me a dirty look when I asked for a pint and a vodka soda with lemon. He shook his head as I paid and lifted his glass to his mouth without a word.
“Thanks,” I muttered at the bartender, and carried both drinks across the room, careful not to spill anything on myself as I dodged outstretched ankles and chair legs and wet spots on the floor. Meredith accepted her vodka gratefully and sucked half of it down before we said another word to each other.
Our conversation was unexpectedly awkward. We made superficial, silly remarks about our speech assignments and the upcoming masque, all the while acutely aware that we weren’t really alone. Ours was the third of five tables in a row, and the small groups seated on either side of us had grown suspiciously quiet when we sat down. (They were almost all girls, I noticed, and all Dellecher students. Had girls always whispered so much? I couldn’t decide if it was a new development or something I simply hadn’t noticed. Admittedly I had never before been worth whispering about.) Meredith finished her drink and I jumped on the opportunity to get her another one. While I was waiting for it, I considered buying myself a shot. I couldn’t help wondering how differently the night might have been going if we actually had some privacy, and decided that if everything proceeded in the same dreadful way, I’d suggest we finish our drinks and head back to the Castle, where we could at least lock a door or escape to the garden and breathe a little more freely.
When I sat back down Meredith smiled at me with obvious relief.
“It’s weird, not being at our normal table,” I said. “I don’t think I’ve ever even sat on this side of the room.”
“We haven’t been in much,” she said. “I think we forfeited our claim.”
I glanced over my shoulder at the philosophers, still debating Euclid’s possibly homoerotic obsession with Socrates. (It sounded like wishful thinking to me.)
“We can probably win it back,” I said. “If we got everyone down here we could storm the beach.”
“We’ll have to arrange that.” She smiled again, but the smile was uncertain.
Her hand rested on the table, and in a moment of rare bravery, I reached out and set my own on top of it. Four of her fingers curled around two of mine.
“You all right?” I asked, in a stage whisper. “I mean, really all right.”
She stirred her drink around. “I’m trying. In spite of what everyone thinks, I’m sick of the staring, too.” I couldn’t keep my eyes from darting toward the other tables. “It sounds callous but I don’t care. I don’t want to just be the dead guy’s girlfriend anymore.”
I wanted, immediately, to let go of her hand. “And you want to be what?” I said, without thinking. “My girlfriend?”
She glared at me, surprise wiping every other emotion off her face. “What—”
“I’m not Richard’s understudy,” I said. “I’m not going to step in and play his part now that he’s left the stage. That’s not what I want.”
“I don’t want that either. That’s exactly what I don’t want. Jesus, Oliver.” Her eyes were hard—green bottle glass, sharp-edged and brittle. “Richard and I were done,” she said. “He was a bastard and a bully to me and everyone else and I was done with him. I know nobody wants to remember that now that he’s gone, but you should.”
I lowered my voice. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I just—maybe it’s because you’re you, and I mean, look at you—but I don’t understand. Why me? I’m nobody.”
She looked away, biting hard on her bottom lip, like she was trying not to cry, or maybe not to scream. Her hand was limp and cool under mine, as if it were no longer connected to the rest of her. The tables on either side of us had stopped talking altogether.
“You know, everyone calls you ‘nice,’” she said slowly, expression drawn and thoughtful. “But that’s not the word. You’re good. So good you have no idea how good you are.” She laughed—once—a sad, resigned sort of sound. “And you’re real. You’re the only one of us who isn’t acting all the time, who isn’t just playing whatever part Gwendolyn gave you three years ago.” Her eyes found mine again, the echo of that laugh lingering around her mouth. “I’m as bad as the rest of them. Treat a girl like a whore and she’ll learn to act like one.” Her shoulders inched up, barely a shrug. “But that’s not how you treat me. And that’s all I wanted.”
I squeezed my eyes shut, then looked up at the ceiling. It was the only safe place to look, the only place I knew I wouldn’t find five other sets of eyes staring back at me. “I’m sorry,” I said again, wishing I had never spoken, wishing I’d had the sense to sit there with her and marvel at the fact that she wanted to sit there with me, and not ask why. It should have been so easy, but nothing between us ever would be. If this was what we wanted, we’d played foully for it. We could leave the bar and escape the scrutiny of other students, but locked doors didn’t matter when it was Richard watching us.
Meredith seemed weary more than angry. “Yeah, well, I’m sorry, too.”
“So, where does that leave us?” I asked, afraid to put too much hope into the question. Courage, man, Romeo told me again, the lying bastard, the hurt cannot be much.
“I don’t know. Nowhere.” She pulled her hand away. “Let’s just go back to the Castle. Better there than here.”
I stood and gathered our empty glasses in bashful silence. I helped her into her coat, let one hand linger on her shoulder. She didn’t seem to feel it, but at the table next to ours, I heard one girl mutter to the others, “Fucking shameless.”
But shame burned hot on my face and neck as I followed Meredith out into the deep December darkness. The first flurries of snow danced against a black sky, and I found myself hoping they would tumble down in millions, stick fast, and bury everything.
