Diana Peterfreund - Rites of Spring (Break)

“Note to self,” he said. “Pre-emptively, I’m not trying to offend you right now. If I do, it’s accidental.”

“So ‘Brace yourself’?” I translated.

“I was just wondering, how much of this—” he gestured to the handkerchief and my tear-streaked face, “—is a result of losing this…guy, and how much of it is just losing?”

“What!” I hadn’t braced for that .

Poe, being in for the penny, decided to go for the pound. “Maybe your heart is really broken. That’s possible. Or maybe it’s February, and you haven’t seen the sun in weeks, and it’s cold and icy every day, and you are trying to write a thesis and look your future in the face, all while hiding from a bunch of assholes who are turning this campus into a war zone for you. And now they’ve won.”

The lump in my throat got so huge I could barely breathe. I definitely couldn’t speak, couldn’t respond to Poe’s outlandish…accusation. How could he be saying that my feelings weren’t my feelings? How could he be saying that Brandon and I…that it wasn’t…

“I just find it surprising that you are in the midst of a huge romantic crisis but, as far as I can tell, it came out of nowhere.”

“Out of nowhere!” I shouted past the lump. “What do you know about it?”

“Nothing.” His voice was perfectly calm.

“Exactly,” I agreed, then ran out of things to argue. “You have no idea what I’m dealing with.”

“You’re right.” The pause that followed his words seemed full of unspoken thoughts, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear any more of this patriarch’s advice.

Slowly, it dawned on me that I was sitting in the dark, with Poe, discussing my love life. How weird would it look if another Digger were suddenly to walk by here, looking for me, and discover this little tête-à-tête?

“I should go,” I said.

“Do you want me to walk you back to Prescott?” He obviously didn’t disagree with me. Guess “sharing time” was over.

“It’s out of your way,” I said. Poe lived off-campus in the opposite direction.

“It’s not a problem.”

“It’s pouring rain. You don’t even need to be out here.”

“I vastly prefer a society plot to hanging out in my dump of an apartment.”

One word remained unspoken—“alone.” I blinked at him. I don’t think I’d ever heard him speak like that before. The standard Poe qualities of bitterness and sarcasm were there, but this was casual and matter-of-fact. It’s like he had nothing to hide, as if he’d figured: I’d seen his apartment (maybe I was the only one who had), I knew what it looked like, so why bother putting up a front? Or maybe he was hoping I’d disagree with him, defend the “dump”? Or maybe he decided that letting me glimpse his feelings was only fair payback for my big revelation of the evening. Who knew? But he did have my sympathies. How many nights had I been glad that I had Lydia waiting for me, fun and funny and not at all like Poe’s pet snake?

“Do you…want to grab a slice of pizza or something?” I blurted out.

He hesitated. “You want to be seen in public with…” a microsecond pause, “…your face looking like that?”

I cocked my head to the side. “The real question is, do you want to be seen in public with a face like this?”

“I’d consider it.” He stood, his expression still wary.

I pasted on a weak smile. “Are you sure they don’t do deliveries to the law library?”

“Yes, but I think I have a bag of stale Doritos in my study carrel.”

“Pass.”

So I had pizza with Poe. (Er, Jamie. But really, I have a hard time reminding myself of that.) And we didn’t talk much at all. Just ate. It’s surprising how ravenous heartbreak makes you. Also surprising is how long I’d been at Eli without discovering some of the truly bizarre items on the menu at one of our most classic restaurants. White clam pizza. Who knew? Total revelation.

When he dropped me off in front of Prescott College, he said. “Are you going to Cavador?”

“Yeah,” I swiped my card at the gate. “There are nine from my club going. You?”

He nodded. “Cheapest vacation ever. And some of my club will be there, too. It’ll be nice to see them again.” He took another deep breath. “Amy, I know you don’t want to hear this right now, but I think that when you come back from Spring Break, everything will be different.”

“So I just need to make it through another few days and all my troubles will be over?” Yeah, right. Cavador Key was a retreat, not a miracle cure.

“It’s possible.”

Oh, Poe. If only he knew how impossible it would be.

Two days later (two days!), Brandon finally grew the cojones to e-mail me.

From: Brandon.Weare@eli.edu

To: Amy.Haskel@eli.edu

Subject: Things

Dear Amy,

Even after deciding that it had to be via e-mail, I still went through a dozen drafts of this letter. I apologize in advance for anything I fail to say, but I eventually realized that it was a far worse sin to not contact you than it would be to send you an imperfect version.

I can’t imagine what you think of me right now, or what you have been imagining this past week. I am so sorry for the silence, and for everything I’m about to say.

We can’t see each other anymore. (But you already knew that, didn’t you?) I allowed myself to go to a bad place this month—why, I can’t say—and I dragged you into it. I don’t know what is to blame: the horrific winter weather? The nostalgia prompted by our imminent graduation? The fact that our “anniversary” (if you can call it that) was passing? I don’t know. But I know that it’s my fault. You and I have been over for a long time. I understand that now. And I do want to thank you for being there for me these past few weeks and for humoring me while I worked out my issues.

I wish you the best of luck with your applications. I know you’ll do great.

Your friend,

Brandon

“He’s so full of shit” was Lydia’s pronouncement upon viewing.

“Agreed,” Jenny said, digging into the family-sized pack of gumdrops on the bed. “Now explain again how the Gumdrop Drops work?” Lydia came over with a shot glass and perched near my pillow to show the Diggers’ newest twenty-one-year-old our suite’s signature drinking game.

Demetria, stomach squashing my corduroy husband, slammed back her third shot of vodka and rolled her eyes. (She’d decided to forgo the candy chasers.) “This is five classes of rhetoric and as many ounces of Absolut speaking, but that is one fine piece of work there. The way he seems to take all the blame upon himself while simultaneously practically calling you a slut? And ‘your friend.’ Unbelievable! Pièce de résistance, girl. Be glad you didn’t fuck him this time around.”

Jenny jabbed her in the ribs. “You’re not helping.”

“Are we even sure he wrote it himself?” Odile asked, swooping in. The tips of her red hair brushed the keyboard as she bent over the computer screen and scrutinized the letter. “Maybe that bitch did it.”

“She’s not a bitch,” Clarissa said from her position on the windowsill. Everyone else shot her eye-daggers and she put up her hands. “Hey! I said I was Team Haskel here, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to commit character assassination. I can put Amy above all others without demonizing my barb—other friends.”

Lydia rolled her eyes, handed Jenny a shot, and took off for points common room. “Gotta pack,” she called back by means of an excuse. Rose & Grave was once again the elephant that lived, unremarked-upon, in our suite.