The Education of Alice Wells, Page 2

  “Oh, okay. Good luck.”

  “Luck has nothing to do with it. I worked hard for this position, and now I can speak at panels because of it. It was my hard work in college that led me here. You must strive for the same.”

  “O-Of course,” I stammer. Mom hangs up, the dial-tone cold against my ear. The conversation was short, but conversations with her always are. Being one of the country’s leading neurochemists leaves more time for scientific conferences and lab work, and less for idle chat and daughters. And when I chose Mountford University instead of her alumni, Princeton, our conversations only got shorter.

  But that’s why I chose it. Mom’s reputation hasn’t followed me to the West Coast. None of my professors compare me to her here. And she’s nearly five thousand miles away, so she can’t barge in on me unexpected. At Mountford I’m free – freer than I would be at Princeton, at least.

  I walk back inside and return to my usual table at the library. Though I try to buckle down, the textbooks just feel like dead paper and ink beneath my eyes, instead of living words and facts. I can’t absorb any information at all.

  My eyes wander to the fiction section, but I shake my head. I haven’t had time to read a fiction book since middle school, when studying suddenly became very important for my future. But I find myself in the fiction section anyway, my tempted fingers dancing over fantastic, familiar books I used to love so much – dragons, spaceships, warrior-princesses. I can almost hear my mother’s disdainful voice in my head.

  ‘Those will rot your brain, Alice. Here, War and Peace is a much more informative novel, and with more realistic characters.’

  Her voice makes me pause from pulling out a cheesy-looking romance book. My eyes burn with tears I didn’t know I had. Mathers’ every word still hangs an like oily ribbon in my head. Why am I crying over a simple grope? The man is old, and an idiot, but he’s a professor I trusted. I trusted the world of college, of academia, of learning. I placed my trust in it because it was pure, and easy, no human emotions or errors there to mess things up. But it’s more than that. I’m crying because I was afraid. Afraid of what could’ve happened if Ranik hadn’t walked in at the right time.

  “Alice?”

  I look up, hastily wiping the tears from my eyes on my sweater. Alice Wells does not cry. A handsome sophomore stands there, his gentle, puppy-like blue eyes shining at me. His golden hair is straight and graces his forehead like a kiss. His face is open and angelic, sweet and achingly kind. He’s tall, as tall as Ranik, with broad shoulders. He’s Theo Morrison – campus radio DJ and the highest honors student in his grade.

  “Are you alright?” He asks. The blush on my cheeks is instant, punching through my sadness.

  “Yes. I’m fine. Thanks for asking.”

  He grins. “I just wanted to make sure – I usually see you smiling in here, not crying.”

  I laugh, the sound fragile even to my own ears. “It’s been an…interesting day.”

  “Theo!” A girl whisper-shouts from a few aisles down. She’s stunning – her black hair shining like a raven’s wing and her eyes darker than velvet. A purple streak etches the hair over her ear. Her grin is infectious. “Come here! I found it!”

  Theo flashes a smile at her, then looks to me. “I’m sorry, I have to go. It’s for a project. But you can stop by the radio station whenever you want, and we can talk then. Feel better soon, okay?”

  “Thank you,” I say lamely as he leaves. I hear his voice mixing with the girl’s, their laughter soft and faint. Whoever she is, she isn’t the first to try to date Theo – many, many girls with good taste had their laser sights on him from day one. Myself included. He’s always turned them down, and I’ve only escaped that humiliation because I’ve never worked up the courage to ask him on a date. I barely know what a date is, let alone how to ask a boy on one. We’d been pleasant and engaging partners on a Biochem 301 project, but he’d never laughed like he did with the dark-haired girl when he was with me.

  Over the next few days I watch the girl – Grace. She’s a freshman like me, living one floor above me in the St. George dorm. Her door is decorated with foam letters that read GRACE AND BRENDA’S ROOM, GROSS PEOPLE KEEP OUT J. Her clothes are always vibrant – rainbow socks, a cute hoodie with ironed-on cartoon patches, ripped jeans. She likes foxes – she has a pendant with one on it and doodles them on her arms in red pen. She is a very good artist. She laughs with her massive group of friends and smiles at strangers and rolls on the lawn during breaks just to feel the grass beneath her skin. She is the exact opposite of me, and Theo is drawn to her like honey, seeking her out at lunch, ignoring me in the library in favor of her. Jealousy rises in my throat, but stark logic tamps it down – why would he choose me over a cheery, spontaneous, beautiful girl? I have nothing to offer save for robotic comments, boring conversation, and facts about the circumference of Jupiter’s moon Io. I do not roll on the grass. I do not laugh with a large group of friends who find me very funny. No one finds me funny. No one even finds me bearable. No one except Charlotte.

  I stare at myself in my full-length mirror one day after classes. I’m not ugly, but I’m not beautiful. Not in the way Grace is, not in the way that shines from the inside. I have faint purple circles under my blue eyes from studying long hours into the night. My hair is blonde, pale blonde, but without the healthy shine of Grace’s. My skin is pallid, no hint of Grace’s sun-kissed hue. Where her nose is button-like and adorable, mine is considerably less appealing –straight and long. Compared to her dark beauty I am a washed-out painting, faded and dull and wholly without any unique qualities to speak of.

  ‘Don’t concern yourself with the mirror, Alice,’ Mom’s voice lilts through my mind. ‘Girls with no future waste huge amounts of time looking in the mirror. You are passable, but not pretty. This is very good – you won’t attract any distractions. Your body will serve your mind well. That’s all it needs to do.’

  I rifle through my closet, getting ready for the absurd barbeque I promised Charlotte I’d go to. My jeans are perfectly pressed and folded, not ripped or doodled on. Clean and de-linted skirts the length of my knees, never shorter. T-shirts in plain, solid colors, no cartoon characters or witty phrases pasted on. Dad did send me a shirt one Christmas with a rainbow dolphin on it and I loved it, but Mom called it ridiculous and threw it in the trash the next morning. I had cried for days, and that was when I learned crying only upset her more.

  That was when I learned to stop crying, for good.

  I pull on a simple blue t-shirt and jeans, and top it off with a black blazer and ballet flats – the shoes absolutely dull compared to Grace’s lime-green converse with pink laces.

  “Oh my god,” Charlotte frowns when she pulls up in her red Nissan. “You look like you’re going for a job interview, Al.”

  “Is this not what people wear to sorority parties?” I ask. “I’ve never been to a sorority party. Or a party in general.”

  Charlotte slaps her forehead. My stomach sinks as I realize I disappointed her with my boringness, too. She shakes it off and motions for me to get in the car.

  “It’s fine, there’s no time to change, we’re gonna be late.”

  I hop in the passenger side and notice she brought a beach towel and her swimsuit. She eyes me again.

  “Did you bring your swimsuit?”

  “I don’t swim.”

  She sighs. “We both know you swim. You just don’t wear bikinis around people, is all.”

  “I’m amazed you do it.”

  Charlotte shrugs, and smiles at me. “When you look as fabulous as me, why wouldn’t you?”

  That tugs a smile from me. Her confidence always does. It infects me, sometimes, but not today. I’d never wear a swimsuit in front of a bunch of strangers so they could ridicule my lack of breasts. Especially not sorority girls and the frat boys who will inevitably be swarming the place.

  Charlotte parks and we work our way into the white-washed mansion. Girls in bright, colorful biki
nis and tankinis run around, squirting each other with water guns and jumping in and out of the pool. Other girls drink on the grass or dip their feet in the pool while sipping something fruity and talking merrily. Boys in swim shorts bellyflop off the diving board and tend to the multiple grills set around the lawn. A table laden with charred hot dogs and burgers and condiments is in complete disarray, ketchup smeared over the tablecloth and pieces of buns being picked at by birds.

  I’m completely overdressed for the occasion. Even the people who aren’t swimming wear laid-back summery clothes, shooting my blazer and flats odd looks. Charlotte quickly gets dragged off by Melissa to be introduced to a mysterious ‘Nick’. I sigh and pour myself a cup of too-sweet lemonade from the table, retreating to a shady spot under a tree to sip and watch the chaos. It’s painfully obvious I don’t belong here.

  It’s then I spot a familiar face – wild black hair sticking up, shaved on the sides, hazel eyes that dance with mirth, and a body that weaves between people with the grace of a cat. Ranik is here, in swim shorts and nothing else, his tattoos bared for all to see. A single angel wing adorns his left shoulderblade. The daggersnake on his neck’s side has the snake’s tail winding all the way down his left arm, stopping at his wrist. He’s lean and long, like an underfed wolf, with prominent pectoral and abdominal muscles. A redhead clings to his bicep, massive breasts engulfing his elbow. He laughs and jokes with her, and when she gets the chance, she pushes him in the pool and he comes up spluttering, pulling her into it with him good-naturedly.

  It almost looks fun. Almost. Not that it will ever happen to me. I would never be comfortable enough, or bold enough, to push someone in a pool like that. And I severely doubt anyone would like me enough to forgive me for it, and then pull me in with them.

  “Hey there,” I look to my right, where a brunette boy in a snapback and saggy jeans smiles at me. “Enjoying yourself?”

  The urge to drive him away overwhelms me – he looks as though he’s the type to only talk to a girl for sex. But I think of Grace, and how she would react.

  “Yes, thank you. The lemonade is good.” No, Grace would be more enthusiastic. I raise my voice and make it higher, sweeter, happier. “The lemonade is good!”

  The boy looks alarmed. “Uh, yeah, I heard you the first time.”

  “Sorry. I’m…I’m not used to these sorts of parties.”

  “Yeah, I noticed,” He chuckles. “You don’t really look like the type to be here. Are you here with a friend?”

  “Yes, she’s the one being dragged around by the wrist and shoved at random boys.”

  He cranes his neck and laughs. “Ah, Melissa’s friend. Yeah, Melissa kinda makes people do what she wants. By force.”

  “That sounds unpleasant.”

  His smile turns oily. “Not all the time, if you know what I mean.”

  Sex. Always the mention of sex. It permeates, sinks into every interaction. The rest of my peers are obsessed with it, chasing after it like mad dogs in heat. A disdainful retort rises up on my tongue, but I quash it down. What would Grace think of it? Grace is open, and cheerful. Sex is surely something she likes. She wouldn’t scorn it.

  “Haha,” I laugh stiffly. “I do know what you mean.”

  The boy rubs his neck. There’s an awkward silence that a robot like me doesn’t know how to fill at all.

  “I should go. Burgers might be burning. Let me know if you want one, okay?”

  “Yes.” No, too formal. “I mean, yeah! Thank you!”

  He leaves quickly, and I curse myself. If I was better at communicating, if I was less mundane, I’d be able to carry an interesting conversation. He wouldn’t have left so quickly. I could have made a new friend, potentially.

  If I was more like Grace, he wouldn’t have left at all.

  Chapter 2

  I sigh and go into the sorority house to find a bathroom. The only open one is messy, bits of toilet paper and god-knows-what liquid dotting the floor. I do my business quickly and walk out. I pass a door, faint moans coming out of it. Sex. Always with the damned sex. Doesn’t anyone in a fifteen-mile radius of the campus think about anything else? The crack is more than a little wide, and I recognize the tattoos instantly – Ranik, pinning the redhead girl to a bed and kissing her neck. His back muscles shift under the svelte ink of his tattoo and the golden afternoon light coming through the window. The redhead is enjoying it immensely, a smile on her pretty face and her body writhing happily. My foot creaks on the floorboards and Ranik’s head snaps up, green-streaked gaze on me. I’m a deer in the headlights, but I compose myself quickly and walk quickly outside to my shady spot.

  I know he’s a womanizing asshole, so seeing him in the process of womanizing isn’t exactly startling, but it did alarm me. I calm my heartbeat and text Charlotte, attempting to find out how long she intends to stay here. At this rate, there’s no reason for me to stay, since Charlotte seems fine without me. She has a friend with her, a new one. I’ll catch a bus back to campus. It’s not too late to get some last-minute studying in for the day. Since seeing Grace and Theo together for the first time, and after Mathers’ approach, I’ve been having trouble concentrating. I need to cram a few hours, straight and true, to clear my head of this nonsensical reluctance and get back into routine. I can’t let my grades slip over something as silly as an infatuation, or almost-sexual harassment. Mom would be furious.

  “Hey-o, Princess,”

  I look up. Ranik is standing in front of me and grinning. His hair is disheveled, stiff and chlorine dried. The sun paints his skin in bronze and sharp angles. I ignore him and stand up, fishing for bus change in my pockets as I walk away.

  “Oy, oy! Wait for me!”

  I don’t. I cross the street and head towards the nearest bus stop, pausing to read the map. The 16 will take me back, and it arrives in thirteen minutes. I seat myself on the bench and take out my phone and open my flashcard app for my Spanish class. I might as well attempt to study whenever I have time to kill.

  A breathless Ranik collapses on the bench next to me after several minutes. I glance at him out of the corner of my eye – he’s still in his swim shorts, with an added black shirt that reads QUEENS OF THE STONE AGE and scuffed red converse.

  “Thought you’d run farther than that,” He pants.

  “I don’t run,” I say.

  “Oh, I know. You just sort of float, not really touchin’ the same ground as any of us common mortals.”

  “We aren’t on speaking terms,” I attempt to drive him off with the cold quip. Most boys leave. He just laughs.

  “Well, considering you just saw me doin’ something pretty intimate, I’d say we’re on at least casual chatting terms.”

  “What - or who - you do on your own time is your own business. Congratulations.”

  “For what?”

  “The girl. She is very pretty and seems to like you very much. You will make a fine couple.”

  Ranik looks at me incredulously and laughs, long and loud and warm. It irritates me, and I snap at him.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Do you – do you even know – c’mon, even you ain’t that dense. We’re not gonna be a couple. She don’t like me. She just wants me.”

  “I wasn’t aware there was a difference.”

  His snort is laced with the barest hint of a profound bitterness.

  “Well, allow me to inform you; there’s a fuckin’ difference.” He pulls out a pack of cigarettes and lights one, blowing smoke. I wrinkle my nose.

  “Those will kill you.”

  “Life’s killing me, Princess.”

  It’s a very odd thing for him to say – too deep and dark for the boy who smiles even as he’s threatening a professor.

  “They smell foul,” I insist. “Your veritable horde of fangirls won’t appreciate it.”

  He chuckles. “I’ve got lots of evidence to the contrary.”

  “Amazing,” I deadpan.

  “What?”

  “Ranik
Mason used several words more than five letters long within one sentence. In most countries, this would be considered a miracle.”

  “Ha. Ha.” He stubs his cigarette out. “Look at me. Look at how hard I’m laughin’. Look at my single tear of laughter.”

  I smirk, realize I’m smirking at an interaction with Ranik Mason, and quickly quash it, focusing harder on my Spanish. He watches, leaning close to my shoulder.

  “Whoa, that’s pretty cool. Is that on the app store?”

  “No.”

  “Uh, then where’d you get it?”

  “I made it.”

  His eyes go wide. “Seriously?” I ignore him. He raises his voice. “Seriously, Princess? You made that?”

  “It’s not hard. Ruby is a very rudimentary coding language. It’s simple to write a study program with it.”

  “Uh, hate to break it to you, but for most people, shit like that ain’t simple.”

  “Most people are capable of learning things like this. They just don’t apply their focus, I believe.”

  “Princess, please, stop bein’ modest, you’re killing me here.”

  “Die faster, then.”

  He breezes on. “There’s this thing called an IQ and everybody’s got a different one. Just focusing don’t help most people. Lookit me – I focused real hard at the beginning of the year and tried but I’m still failin’ all my classes. I’m just dumb as nails, no ifs ands or buts about it.”

  “I believe you’ve discovered the one thing in this universe we can agree on.”

  It’s his turn to smirk. There’s a silence different than the one I encountered with the frat boy – it’s less tense, less obvious, more like the wind blowing through instead of a block of cold ice between us.

  “I should thank you,” I say.

  Ranik scratches his head. “For what?”

  “Mathers. If you hadn’t of walked in, I don’t know –” I swallow hard. Another pause, but this one is darker. Harder. “I don’t know what would’ve happened.”

  “You would’ve socked him in the gut and reported him,” Ranik says. I flinch and stare at the ground.