Paula DeBoard - Here We Lie

“The heart,” I repeated, distracted by the efficient rotating motions of her wrists.

“You know, cardiology?” The last syllable rose to a question mark, as if to ask if I’d heard of it.

* * *

We didn’t have the chumminess that other girls had, but we didn’t have the volatile ups and downs, either. Ariana spent most of her time in the library, and during the day I caught rare glimpses of her crossing campus, bent forward beneath the weight of her backpack. Most days she couldn’t be bothered to go to the Commons for dinner, and crinkly foil Pop-Tart wrappers glimmered in our trashcan.

The other girls—women, I supposed—seemed to move in packs, united by shared characteristics. At first, I assumed that they all knew each other somehow, like they’d been fed into Keale from the same high school, and the same middle schools before that, all the way to the preschools where they’d first finger-painted their names. It took me a while to realize that their familiarity was based on loosely shared experiences from communities up and down the East Coast—prep schools and summer camps and tennis lessons, summers on the Cape. They didn’t need to know each other; they understood each other. They spoke the same language. In class, they raised their hands confidently, referencing books I’d never heard of, historical events that hadn’t been mentioned in my history classes at Woodstock High. I might have been one of the best and brightest of my graduating class, but the bar was much higher at Keale, the work more rigorous, the competition fierce. In high school, skimming the reading and turning in completed worksheets had earned me A’s and the occasional B, but at Keale the quizzes focused on obscure passages in the reading, and my papers were returned full of red ink.

On my weekly phone calls home, I told my mom that everything was fine, that Ariana and I were getting along well, that I was learning a lot in my classes. It was only to myself that I wondered if I’d made a huge mistake, if KSU wouldn’t have been a better choice after all.

* * *

At the end of September, sick of riding the Keale Kargo shuttle into town, I bought a bike from an upperclassman for ten dollars. Even though the green paint was chipped and the banana seat was in need of repair, it was a steal, with a giant wicker basket perfect for transporting the toiletries and snacks and other things that cost a fortune on campus. One afternoon, I was locking the bike outside the Common Ground, Scofield’s artsy coffee shop, when Joe Natolo walked up with his hands slouched into his pockets.

“A granny bike. Nice,” he said, running his hand over the seat I’d repaired with a few strips of duct tape.

“A cruiser,” I corrected. “It gets me around.”

Joe laughed. “Tell the truth. Too many female hormones on campus. You just had to get out of there.”

I rolled my eyes. “You know it’s nothing but constant talk about our periods.”

He gave me a grin that was already identifiable as his alone, a mismatched alignment of teeth, a dimple that appeared in the hollow of his cheek. “You headed in here?” He jerked his head in the direction of the coffeehouse, and I nodded. It had become my own little oasis on the lazy afternoons when I didn’t have class.

I didn’t tell Joe that part of the reason for wanting a bike was wanting this, the chance to bump into him again. In the weeks since I’d arrived in Scofield, he had begun to seem like a conjuring of my travel-addled brain, but here he was—floppy dark bangs, the long eyelashes that my mom would have said were wasted on a man. Joe Natolo, in the flesh.

Remembering the promise I’d made when he’d dropped me at Stanton Hall, I paid for his coffee. Joe took one sip and grimaced, reaching for a canister of sugar. He asked about Keale, and I told him about my classes, my work-study job at the switchboard, life with Ariana.

He stirred his coffee elaborately with a tiny spoon and sipped, testing its sweetness. “Have you been to any good parties?”

I laughed. “Um, no. I basically study all the time, and still, I’m hardly keeping up.” As proof, I unzipped my backpack and took out my notebook and dog-eared copy of The Awakening. My paper wasn’t due for four days, but I was already starting to panic about my thesis, and my ideas weren’t coming together. On my last essay, the professor had written “Remember, there are tutors available in the writing center.”

Joe reached for my notebook, spinning it around so that my scribbles were facing him. “‘In fact,’” he read, loud enough to get the attention of a frowning woman at the next table, “‘through penile penetration, she both finds and loses her identity.’ Writing an autobiography?”

“Very funny.” I slapped the notebook closed before he could read any of my other observations, such as the one about Edna Pontellier confusing orgasm with independence.

He sat back, arms folded across his chest. “Tell the truth, Midwest. The lack of men is killing you.”

I rolled my eyes. “I’m managing. Besides—” I took a careful sip of coffee and leaned forward “—you do know that everyone at Keale is a lesbian, right?”

The smile he gave me sent a rush down to my toes. “Not everyone, surely.”

No, not everyone. Just sitting across the table from Joe was enough to confirm my own sexuality, not that I’d ever been in doubt. I hadn’t come to Keale to find a boyfriend, but I had a sixth sense dedicated to Joe alone, marked by hairs that stood up on the back of my neck when he entered a room and sweat glands that seemed to sprout from nowhere. Through Joe, I could easily find and lose my own identity.

* * *

We started bumping into each other more regularly—at Common Ground, at the Stop & Shop, where I loaded up on off-brand crackers and jars of peanut butter, and once when he pulled up next to my bike at a stoplight, revving his engine. “Race you,” he’d called through the open window.

It was impossible not to laugh when he was around, impossible not to feel a thrill when his knees bumped against mine under a café table.

“We should get dinner sometime,” he said, and I didn’t overthink it.

“We should,” I agreed.

We made plans to meet during Parents’ Weekend, to get me away from campus while it was overrun with families. I hadn’t mentioned the event to my mom—it seemed too far to come for two days of scheduled activities that wouldn’t have interested her. Ariana’s parents had flown out, and I’d unsuccessfully dodged their presence on Friday, surprised when they burst into our room after sharing a meal in the Commons. I kept my nose in a book as Mrs. Kramer worried over Ariana’s chemistry grade—an A overall, although she’d received a B on a recent quiz—and turned a page noisily when Mr. Kramer wondered whether it would be beneficial for her to find a tutor.

By now I knew Ariana well enough to recognize her controlled fury, like a toy that had been wound too tight and was ready to spring loose. “I do not need a tutor,” she said, each word bearing staccato weight.

This was easily verified—several times Ariana had tutored me, making precise notations in the margins of my work—but I decided to stay out of it.

“Maybe this isn’t a conversation we should be having right now in front of Ariana’s friend,” her dad interjected, and I looked up from where I was sitting on my bed, as if I’d been summoned. Were we friends? I felt closer to the girls I saw twice a week in my American lit seminar.

Ariana’s mom looked at her watch. “Well, we can talk on the way to the lecture, I suppose.” She cast me the same pitying smile she’d given me in August, when she learned I’d taken the bus all the way from Kansas, alone. “Maybe you’d like to join us for dinner afterward?”