Chapter Twelve

“Now you're all gone got your make-up on and you're not coming back can’t you come back?” Broken Social Scene

For the first time since I knew them, things were awkward with us. It felt like some of my limbs were asleep, because I was so used to my actions being directly related to theirs. But we kept up appearances, mostly because we had all our mutual friends. It was like staying together for the kids, really. It was almost worse to have us being polite to each other, because we were never polite to begin with. I spent more time with Andrew, planning our summer and trying to secure an internship.
“Welcome to the Alumni Resource Center.” A horribly perky woman behind a desk greeted me.
“Uh, hello. I’m Jane Tyler. I have an appointment?” I was unsure of myself in this fluorescent environment, exposed, and dealing with the often bureaucratic community of adults who ran Wellesley.
“Yes, Ms. Tyler, Mrs. Kincaid will see you shortly.
I thumbed through a New Yorker from last year and watched the clock. A plump, aging hippie opened an office door.
“Jane Tyler?” she read from a clipboard. I rose, and she motioned me in.
“Let’s see..” She made a few clicks on her computer screen, peering through reading glasses. “English major? What do you intend to do with that?”
“I…uh…journalism or publishing?” I stammered, taken aback by her brusque tone.
“Ahmmm” She intoned, looking at me over her glasses. “here are a list of publications with Wellesley alumni working there in…. “ She looked down at her sheet, “New York City.”
I grabbed the sheet, saying a quick thank you. As I walked across campus to my car, I scanned the list. A few women’s magazines for the over fifty set, a trade journal, and then my eye caught a name. See You Next Tuesday, a feminist culture magazine from Brooklyn. It would be close to our apartment, and definitely Jane-friendly.
I sat at my laptop later, cursing my stupidity as I tried to write an essay on what I could bring to S.Y.N.T. I lit a cigarette, resting my fingers on my temples, massaging slightly.
“OK, what can I bring? Tequila shot-taking abilities. Uh, photocopying? Coffee pouring.”
Viv laughed from across the living room.
“Janey, you’re funny, you’re a great writer, you know facts about everything. You would make an excellent coffee pourer, though.”
“I quit, I’ll finish this later. Let’s go out somewhere. Isn’t that party, Deep Throat, tonight? I was referring to a monthly electro-dance party held at different venues.
“Fucking GOD, yes.” She put down her charcoal brush, and rubbed her face slightly, making a smudge under her eye. These were the moments when I liked her best, unassuming and wholly consumed with work. She was a talented artist, and I saw she had sketched a likeness of me that was startlingly accurate. The shadowing showed my thin arms and my eyes were animated the heavy bangs I had just cut in the bathroom earlier that week. I was hunched over the laptop, almost cartoonishly, looking up, like I was laughing at something. It looked happier that I felt. Andrew was playing a gig out in Western Massachusetts, so I had time to kill.
“Tequila shots.” I said.
“Your resume needs filling, I agree.” Viv said, mock seriously.
I was used to my new reckless buzzing, so I dressed accordingly. I wanted to feel like someone other than my frustrated self. I wore a pair of Viv’s knee high vintage suede boots, topped with one of my paisley mini dresses from the 1960s. I teased my hair into Bardot-like curls, offset by the unnatural whiteness of it. Viv looked her normal self in skin tight black jeans, leather jacket and smudgy black eyes. Her lips were stained red, and she was all legs and tousled hair. We took shots and turned up the volume on a band called MGMT. I felt back to normal with her, and it was lovely. Marie was studying at the library, and I was actually glad. It was easier with Viv, less tangled and less hurt feelings.
We poured ourselves onto the T and got off closer downtown. We breezed through the line, air kissing the doorman. The lights were dim, but there were neon lasers pointing everywhere. It was partly crowded, but I saw a bunch of friends interspersed. Waving to everyone, we made our way to the DJ booth. Our friend DJ Blatant was spinning tonight, so we air kissed some more.
“HEY!” Viv yelled.
“Hey guys!” He nodded to the beat and smiled, “Any requests?”
We shook our heads, and waved as we walked away. Viv linked arms with me and yelled into my ear.
“Let’s do some shenanigans!” That was Viv’s word for party, that week.
“And cause some havoc?” That was last weeks.
“Mhmm.” She nodded.

A half hour later, we were dancing on the bar, like old times. We had taken a few more shots, but I was drunk on Viv than anything. We screamed along to songs, and the bouncers ignored our wild dancing, I assume because they saw my underwear. Other girls looked at us with distaste, but our friends cheered us on. As I looked down on the crowd’s faces, I wondered why we had been so close to ruining all of this. We belonged together, these girls and I. Viv and I right that moment were whirling dervishes, tearing things up in a way I hadn’t in months. I threw my head back and crowed, a battle cry over the electro.
We stumbled home after last call, ignoring our suitors, and hold each other up. I was dizzy, and felt like I would vomit, as I had taken one too many shots, as usual. I fell, scraping my bear knee on the pavement, but I just laughed. I tried to get up and fell again, as Viv laughed.
“You’re like an anorexic beached whale.” She was hysterical.
“I…hate…you!” I laughed.
When we finally fell into the apartment we smoked cigarettes out the kitchen window, sitting on the sill, drunkenly talking about things I don’t really remember. I remember Viv saying she regretted her episode of the week before, but she obviously was still drinking heavily. I can see in my memory still frame images of her tottering over to make one more drink, just one more, about three times. Finally, we crawled into my bed and fell asleep, commas facing each other under a thick down comforter, our feet entwined.
The next morning, I sat again, and tried to write my essay. I started free-writing, stream of consciousness about my life. I talked about Andrew and the trip to LA. I found that most of my sentences started with “we”. The girls and I, or Andrew and I. I wondered why I couldn’t write about just me. Was I that unsure of myself? I tried to write things about my identity as a writer, and realized most of the accomplishments and experiences I had were not mine alone. I ended up finishing my essay, writing a few pages on how I wanted to work at See You Next Tuesday to create my own identity. I had been thinking about going to Brooklyn with Andrew so much I hadn’t thought about what I would be doing while he was in the recording studio. Without Viv and Marie to chat with during their gigs, what would I be doing? I began to panic.
I worked steadily all day on my homework, pushing my earlier thoughts away. What did I intend to do? The advisor’s question haunted me. I had vague journalistic ambitions, but I felt too Bell Jar voicing them. Honestly, I felt like I would be happy in my current state forever. The second my inner monologue voiced that, I realized how pathetic it sounded. What had I been doing during these college years? I was supposed to be finding myself, but I was downing shots and doing drugs to avoid doing just that. Honestly, I was afraid to know my own mind, to know its capabilities for insecurity and fear of failure. I knew I needed to stop, but isn’t that what everyone did? Forget themselves nightly with drinking; forget the future daily with menial tasks like dishes or midterms. When did I get a future? I wondered. Did, upon graduation, you just get some epiphany of your perfect career or future husband? Truth be told, I hated college, which is why I moved out of the dorm. Women’s college, especially, felt like a summer camp. I knew it was supposed to be this great experience you would remember all your life, but I didn’t really remember most of it, anyways.
I was going to drop out.