Talk soon,
Em
27
I don’t bother with my preppy Oxford uniform after that last, awful class with Professor Elliot and Carrie. There’s no point — everyone knows who I really am, so why should I be universally loathed and unfashionable? But even though I figured I’d switch right back to my old Uggs and miniskirts, I find I’m holding back from the full-on look. It all seems kind of . . . obvious now. So, instead, I mix it up: working the Hitchcock skirts with casual layers; blending crisp shirts with my distressed denim. It’s not like the other kids here, but it’s not like Tasha either, and when I look in the mirror every day, I feel like what Emily says is true. The girl I’ve been here is part of me too. She’s not just this character I’ve been pretending to play; she’s another side of me — as real as the girl who tears up the clubs and can find every sample sale in Southern California.
Maybe I need to find a way to be both.
Once the dust settles, the last days of my stay creep by pretty much how they started: on my own. Holly hangs out when she can, but her schedule is manic as hell, so most of my final week passes quietly, in libraries or tucked away in my old corner of Starbucks with a book. But instead of being lonely or frustrated like before, I’m weirdly at peace. I have just one more paper due for Elliot, and as another way to make me feel bad, she’s assigned a discussion of modern feminism and an essay question that asks: “Can submitting to male-created standards of sexuality ever be compatible with feminist values?” There’s no way I’m letting her take me down again, so I’m clocking up some serious reading time in my quest to make this my best paper yet — which is why I’m back in an armchair in Borders past nine on Wednesday night, iPod plugged in and a triple-shot macchiato at my side.
Despite the peppy pop soundtrack I’ve got playing, it’s tough going. The reading list is full of books like her own: passing judgment on girls who sleep around and undermine the feminist cause. But the more I read, the more I realize that there’s this gaping void in Elliot’s thesis, in what Carrie and the girls all say. They may be right about the whole “raunch culture” thing being kind of sleazy, all that stripping and soft p**n , but there’s one thing they’re not talking about. Desire. It’s like their view of the world is totally sexless, like they’ve never felt that pull of lust low in their stomach or longed for the feeling of somebody’s body hard against theirs.
Sure, I might make mistakes trying to figure that side of myself out, but at least I’m trying, instead of feeling like it’s sinful and wrong. Isn’t that a good thing? And their stupid superiority kick . . . Is it any wonder none of my friends back home would ever look into feminism, when people like Carrie do nothing but look down on us, like we’re somehow less than them? Maybe if they stopped being so damn judgmental, we’d start realizing it’s not just a straight choice between waving placards and making out with five guys a night on a dare.
I know, it’s not rocket science, but finding another way that Carrie and Co. don’t have it all figured out only makes me feel stronger. And gives me more material for this paper.
I’m deep in my notes when I become aware of somebody standing over me. At first I just ignore them, figuring it’s someone hovering to try and take my comfy seat, but when they don’t move, I finally look up.
It’s Will.
I feel that blade in my chest again. He’s looming awkwardly, striped scarf thrown around his neck and hair falling in his eyes the way it always does. Slowly, I reach up and take out my earphones.
“Can we talk?”
His voice is low and uncertain, but just the sound of it takes me back to the club bathroom and all the awful things he said. I swallow.
“Do I want to hear what you’ve got to say?” I fold my arms carefully and try to glare.
He hunches his shoulders. “I really just want to —”
“So you’re talking to me again?”
“Please.” His eyes meet mine, and they’re forlorn enough to make me soften.
“Whatever. Talk.”
“Here?” He looks around. The corner is full: a large old man in glasses is reading the paper, and on my other side a thin-faced woman sneaks cookies from her bag and sips a cup of tea. I don’t care what they hear.
“It’s all you’re getting.”
Will moves to the chair next to me, stumbling past a low table and the stacks of books littering the space. I don’t move to help him. I feel stiff with anger, but part of me can’t help wishing he’ll say something to make this right.
“So?” I ask when he’s sitting down. I’ve got my book still in my lap, like I could ignore him whenever I want. I grip it to hide the fact that my hands are shaking like crazy.
Will swallows. He toys nervously with the cuff of his jacket. “I’m sorry,” he says at last. “And, ah, I didn’t mean it — what I said. I’m sorry.” He looks at me and I see he means it. He knows he’s wrong, he’s sorry, and it’s everything I wanted to hear, but . . .
But it doesn’t matter.
I blink.
“I was awful, I know, but I was just so angry.” He’s still talking, still looking at me with those dark brown eyes, but the metal in my chest doesn’t melt away. I don’t hurt any less. “I know you hate me. I’m just . . . sorry,” he finishes, miserable, and stays there, watching me hopefully.
“I don’t hate you,” I say, closing the book. My hands aren’t shaking anymore. I know how this is going to end.
“You don’t?” His expression picks up.
“No,” I say, just damn tired of it all. “I’m disappointed. You let me down.”
He nods quickly. “I know I did.”
“No, you don’t get it.” He thinks all it takes is some apologetic words and we’ll be cool again, but I know now it’s not enough. “You bailed. You made this about you — everything was falling apart, and all you cared about was what? The fact I didn’t f**k you?” My voice is low but ice. He flinches.
“Tasha —”
“My name is Natasha,” I interrupt coolly. “And the things you said to me, you totally meant them.” I sit up straight. Proud. “So this won’t work, OK? I can’t have people in my life who are too weak to step up and deal with who I am.”
He doesn’t argue. He just sags back in his seat, and I know I’m right. If he really wanted me, he’d fight. If he really didn’t care about Tyler and the video, he’d show some damn backbone, instead of just watching while I grab my stuff and walk away.