Part 2 (1/2)
Freddie raised her martini gla.s.s, swirled the gin around in it, and then knocked it back.
Mary blinked. Her mother was more nervous than she'd thought. They'd come here many times, Savannah being relatively close to home, but Freddie had never pounded her c.o.c.ktail.
Her mother lifted a finger and the waiter nodded, jumping into motion.
Materializing in the spotlight, a pony-tailed sound engineer counted out, ”One, two, three . . . testing . . . testing . . . one, two,” then vanished into the darkness surrounding the stage as the band members strolled on. A fat man in a tank top descended onto a stool behind the drums while, beside the microphone, a man so vascular as to inspire stage-side gossip tore his guitar from its resting spot against a speaker. He tossed the guitar strap over his shoulder. They paused, waiting until a tall, thin man made his way into the light, a ba.s.s guitar across his chest. His baldness, waxy in the glare, was glazed with sweat. He slid a pair of sungla.s.ses on and nodded at the man behind the Baldwin. The ba.s.s hummed a line beneath the bright, crisp chords of the piano, and the front man bent his knees, fixing his mouth under the metal ball, and time seemed to freeze a moment, and then the man began an old Leonard Cohen song.
After her late night of jazz and gin, Freddie McDylan slept through Georgia and South Carolina, leaving Mary to nervously pilot the van. Although Mary had flown in to check out the campus last year, seeing the geographical transformation from the ground left her with a tangible sense of her life's change. For the first time she admitted to herself that she was frightened.
Leaving Charlotte behind, they veered onto Interstate Eighty-One. Freddie finally stirred, holding her head in her hands. She was silent until they took the steep incline of the off-ramp, then spoke only to mention her hangover.
It was a beautiful Sunday morning at Carmichael University. They entered through the main gates, Freddie commenting on the huge oak, whose branches shouldered the sky. She hadn't yet seen the campus, and she went on and on about the old style Southern architecture. Each building, with the exception of the dorms, looked as if it belonged on a plantation: marble steps led to porticoes enclosed by ornate trim; ivory columns held up nothing but parents's hopes. Mary guessed the north end of campus existed to justify the tuition.
Freddie helped her up with her things, then burst into tears before leaving. Only after several long embraces did she finally find the strength to get back on the road.
Once her mother had been gone a while, the room began to register. It consisted of approximately the dimensions of her shoe closet back home. Two beds lined the outer walls, separated by a desk. Between the second bed and the outside wall, a mini-fridge held the smallest television she'd ever seen. Dazed and hungry, she began to unpack, and had nearly finished when her roommate burst in.
”Well, hey!” the girl exclaimed, waving as if she were seeing Mary off instead of greeting her.
”Hi. I'm Mary,” she answered, instinctively backing up.
”Grady. I didn't think you'd get in 'till later. s.h.i.+t, I could've helped you up.”
”I got in a couple of hours ago,” Mary murmured, dazed.
Grady was a spiky platinum blonde. Her ears were cl.u.s.tered in pendants, and a cross dangled from her right lobe. Her cut-offs displayed ankle tattoos and her half-s.h.i.+rt bulged with b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Mary self-consciously glanced down at her own.
”Do you have anything casual but s.l.u.ttish?” asked Grady, sliding the wooden closet door back. She began rifling through Mary's clothes.
”For you?”
Grady gave her a gap-toothed grin. ”No, for you.”
”For what?”
”A frat party. 'Sides,” she continued, striking a Madonna-esque vogue. ”You think I need a s.l.u.t-fit?”
”Guess not.”
”As for you,” Grady said, sizing up Mary's Gap jeans and white polo. ”You couldn't show less skin if you put a paper bag over your head.”
”Wouldn't hurt.”
Grady tossed her head back and laughed. ”Whatever. You're gorgeous.”
Mary smiled.
Grady didn't notice. She yanked a t-s.h.i.+rt out of the closet and lifted it up for an inspection that turned out to be perfunctory. ”We'll slay the boys,” she announced.
Mary would remember those words, and later she would wonder if they weren't some sort of ironic prophecy.
Having grown up in Florida, the North Carolina fall was something of a shock for Mary. Grady led her by the hand as she gazed around, admiring the way summer died here. Leaves dangled from withered branches while the gloom stabbed through the balding tree tops. Everything glowed.
Decked out, they crossed campus sluggishly because Grady shouted to anyone within distance of her high-pitched voice. She and her t.i.ts make friends quickly, thought Mary, dazed with a list of names, potential majors, and Grady's seemingly boundless charisma.
”It's gorgeous here,” said Mary, looking back at the forestry surrounding the south end of campus. She like this area better than the campus proper, which smelled of money decadently spent.
Grady shrugged. ”Florida girls fall in love with this s.h.i.+t. The turning leaves, the oaks, the three-story view. But the only sight I can't wait to see is Mike Randall's beautiful c.o.c.k.”
Mary cupped a hand over her mouth.
”Please,” said Grady, smirking. ”You've sucked a little d.i.c.k in your day.”
”Not a little one,” Mary retorted. She was surprised by how quickly it came out.
Grady threw her head back and bellowed laughter.
Mary took stock of her acquaintance. Back in high school, she'd always chosen the artsy crowd, kids who might show their art in the local lesbian pub, or, after a quick shot of whatever was handy, shout out a few lines of bad verse from the back of the bar. She'd never had a friend like Grady, a girl who if she hadn't grown up in a trailer should have. Did this make Mary a sn.o.b? ”I had a boyfriend,” she said, taking a deep breath, reminding herself that she'd wanted to go away to college because she'd been sick of the sameness of high school life. College was about getting out from under what you knew.
”A boyfriend? Listen, don't ever date a guy under twenty-five. Most couldn't satisfy a farm goat with a cattle prod. Other than the ill.u.s.trious Mister Randall, that is, who just happens to have the eighth wonder of the world attached to his pelvis. But Mike doesn't have a manual for it, he's just blessed.”
Mary laughed, caught Grady's eye and smiled at her.
Ba.s.s greeted them as they trudged the ravine. At the crest, it changed from a deep sensation to a bright sound. Then Mary caught sight of the two-story dump of the frat house. She hesitated. In high school, frat house was an exotic, enticing image: dusky corners where boys hovered over girls, beers held like labels for their amorphous personalities; dark rooms where couples groped for the parts they'd longed to touch in the light; whispered refrains, half-poems, and boozy dreams. But here, with the romance of the old campus behind them, the house caught her off guard. She'd never actually seen one.
Grady grabbed her by the arm. ”You okay?”
”Yeah,” said Mary, but she couldn't take her eyes off it. On the porch, a crowd fought for the limited s.p.a.ce. There were so many that she found it hard to make out individuals: pale ovals twisted on fleshy sticks, some framed by clumps of oily wire, others by blonde helmets; arms that ended in claws or k.n.o.bs flashed out, ownerless; t-s.h.i.+rts advertised personalities while others were bold enough to emblazon their ideals and demons in streaks of ink on their flesh.
”Chicken?” asked Grady.
”After you,” said Mary, and they started down the hill together.
The kids parted without a word from Grady and Mary trailed behind her, amazed at the magic of it. She jumped when Grady screamed, ”Mike!” and ran into a muscular set of arms. She hopped onto him, curling her legs around his hips. Mike Randall's hair bounced stiffly.
Mary smiled nervously, averting her eyes as the dark boy flanking Mike took her in. He leaned over, whispered something into Mike's ear and Mike pried Grady from him. His grin was feral. ”Who's your girlfriend?” he asked Grady, running his eyes up and down Mary's body.
”Mary,” she offered, although she had the feeling he had only wanted to hear her voice, not her name.