The Trouble with Lexie Read online

  “Can I stay there with you?”

  “No. Ruxton might buy condoms for the students, but there’s no way they’d let two people who aren’t married sleep in the dorm together.”

  “We should move to Amsterdam. You could work at a private school there and we’d sleep together and smoke pot at night and I’d sit out on the quad and play guitar.”

  Lexie actually laughed. “Yeah, all those quads on the canals in Amsterdam. And I looove pot, don’t I?”

  “We could live on a houseboat. I’d play guitar on the boat deck.”

  “And smoke pot on the boat.” Lexie surreptitiously wrapped a sweater around her wooden jewelry box, placed it in the big bag, and then zipped everything up. “Okay, this is it.” Was she actually going to do it this way? Was she so conflict avoidant that she would break up and then drive off? Say it, Lexie thought. Do the right thing and tell him now. In the bedroom. Lexie looked at Peter. She opened her mouth to speak but before a word came out, Peter got off the bed, hoisted up the giant bag, and held it against his chest. He walked out of the room and carried it down the stairs. Lexie slipped the engagement ring off her finger and then placed it on the nightstand next to Peter’s side of the bed. She grabbed the rolling bag and hurriedly bumped it down the stairs to catch up with Peter.

  “I don’t understand why you have to take all this stuff. This is crazy.”

  He hasn’t seen crazy yet, Lexie thought. Crazy was minutes away if she didn’t sit him down in the living room and explain as well as she could what was going on. Without context, this breakup would feel as random and unexpected as a bomb deployed on Western Massachussetts.

  Peter let the big bag drop on the landing by the front door. He stood straight and took a few deep breaths.

  “Peter,” Lexie said.

  “Yeah?” Peter leaned down and picked up the bag again—it looked like he was carrying a coffin. Lexie opened the front door for him and stepped aside. She waited a couple minutes before following him out as she tried to figure out how to start. Nothing sounded right in her head. It would be so much easier if they’d been fighting and miserable for weeks on end. Maybe she’d lie and tell him she was afraid of marriage.

  Lexie stepped out of the house pulling the roller bag behind her. Peter stood at the open trunk staring down at the big bag that filled the space.

  “Let’s put that one in the backseat.” Peter shut the trunk. He took the roller bag from Lexie and put it in the middle of the backseat where it sat like a squat child. “I’ll follow you down to help you get the big one out of the car.”

  Lexie felt a bolt of shame run through her. How could she do this to a guy who was nice enough to follow her twenty minutes to school to help her schlep a suitcase out of the trunk? “There are a hundred able-bodied boys there who can get it for me.”

  “If you prefer the young boys, that’s fine by me.” Peter pulled Lexie in and hugged her, hard. Lexie was unable to formulate the breakup sentence. Words were backed up in her throat like train cars stuck in a tunnel. “It’ll only be a few days, babe. Don’t worry.” Peter squeezed her tighter. Lexie wished she could burst into flames and burn up instantaneously. Disintegration would be easier than conversation.

  “I have to tell you something.” Lexie spoke into Peter’s chest. Hairless. It felt hard as a piece of plywood.

  “Hmm?” Peter didn’t loosen his grip.

  “I have to say something.” Lexie pulled away and looked at Peter. Tears released from her eyes and streamed down her face.

  “About Dot?” Peter wiped Lexie’s face with his index finger. Lexie shook her head no. Yes. No. She was almost choking from the softball in her throat.

  “I—” Again, the words didn’t come. Lexie inhaled, sniffed, and then pulled away from Peter and got in the car. She turned the key so she could roll down the electric window. “I’m sorry.” She cried in a sniffy, little way—her head rocking against the back of the seat. “I’m sorry.” Lexie said again.

  “What are you sorry about? I’m sorry your friend died. I’m sorry you have to live in her musty old-lady apartment until they find someone to move in there. I’m sorry I won’t get to sleep with you tonight.” Peter leaned in through the window and kissed Lexie on the lips.

  “I’m sorry.” Lexie was making squeaky hamster noises as she tried not to cry. She knew she should get out of the car, go in the house, and talk to Peter, but it felt as if her body was working against her, her hands were working against her. She started up the engine. “I—” Lexie’s head shook and the hamster noises increased.

  “It’s gonna be okay.” Peter’s forearms were folded on the open window ledge. He was so gentle, so patient. Lexie thought of llamas—their soulful faces, their human eyelashes.

  “But . . .” Lexie squeaked out. “I want to cancel the wedding.”

  “You do?” Peter looked surprised, but not crushed.

  “Yes.” Lexie’s voice was so high, she barely recognized it as belonging to her. The shaky-head, twittering cry continued.

  “That’s fine, babe. You know we were always doing it for you. I never needed a wedding.” Peter reached in and rubbed Lexie’s forearm.

  “We’re going to lose a lot of money. All those deposits!” A choky wail came out.

  “It’s only money. I want you to be happy.” Peter leaned through the window again and kissed Lexie once more.

  “I’m breaking up with you.” Lexie pushed out the words and instantly felt herself zoom away from her body so that she was floating on the ceiling of the car. It was an art she had practiced all her life—floating on the living room ceiling as her parents threw half-full cans of beer at each other; floating on the locker room ceiling when the girls teased her about her underwear; floating above her bed at night when she realized her father had abandoned her and she might never see him again.

  “What?” Peter’s face went through a series of emotions that was almost cartoon-like in its rapidity. Lexie focused on how boneless his flesh was and not on what he was feeling. She looked down at herself and could see that she was crying, but she could no longer feel the crying.

  “I’m permanently moving into Dot’s apartment.” Yes, she had used the word permanently. Lexie had heard it all as if it had been spoken by a stranger sitting beside her.

  “Wait.” Peter flashed a smile of confusion. “You’re really breaking up with me?”

  “Yes.” Lexie checked on herself and was glad to see the crying persisted.

  “I don’t understand. You’re leaving me? Why?” Peter’s face continued to flip from one expression to the next, like someone flicking through channels with a remote control. Lexie stayed afloat and watched. She knew she wasn’t going to turn off the motor. She knew she was about to do the supreme asshole move and simply drive away.

  “I’m sorry.” Lexie sniffed. There was nothing on which she could wipe her nose and she didn’t want to use the sleeve of her blouse or the back of her hand, at this age, at this time. She sniffed again. “I’ll come back soon to get the rest of my stuff.” She let down the emergency break.

  “WAIT!” Peter’s voice screeched. “What happened? I don’t understand what happened!” He started sobbing, his face a wild-eyed, rubbery mess of emotion.

  Lexie watched herself as she put the car in neutral and let it roll back down the driveway. She hoped that of everything she ever did in her life, this would be the cruelest act. In that case her worst self would soon be behind her.

  “Turn off the car. Come inside! I don’t understand what happened?” Peter walked along with his hands on the window. Lexie checked in on herself again. Was she still crying? No, she wasn’t. That was the thing about detachment. When you did it right, you became emotionally novacained.

  “I don’t love you anymore.” Lexie hadn’t wanted to say it, and she wasn’t even sure it was true (she had no idea how she felt, other than numb), but it was the sharpest knife she could use: a swift, metallic cut, rather than sawing through Peter with a pla
stic utensil.

  “Do you love someone else?”

  “No.” As promised, she wouldn’t tell Peter about Daniel until Ethan knew about his parents’ breakup. Lexie put the car in reverse and stepped lightly on the gas. Peter ran along with her, crying in hiccupping gulps. Lexie gunned the car to break free of him. She backed to the bottom of the driveway, shifted into gear, and zoomed away.

  Once she had turned the corner, Lexie landed back in her body and a hysterical wailing poured out of her. It felt more like vomiting than crying. She pulled the car over and put her face onto the steering wheel, delirious with guilt, shame, and grief. Sick with it.

  Lexie’s cell phone rang. She looked at Peter’s face on the screen. “I’m sorry,” she said aloud. She shut the phone off, shoved it to the bottom of her purse, and then wiped her nose with the back of her hand.

  TWO SENIOR GIRLS FROM THE LACROSSE TEAM WERE WALKING across the parking lot when Lexie pulled in.

  “Can you two help me get this bag to Rilke?” Though she’d had them in her Health and Human Sexuality class, Lexie didn’t know these girls well. One had already been recruited to play lacrosse for Hopkins, the other had been recruited for Dartmouth.

  Orange-haired Megan Haliday reached into the trunk and pulled out the big bag with two hands. “Is there a body in here?” she asked.

  Lexie laughed and wiped the tears from her eyes.

  “You okay, Miss James?” the other girl, Toni Bell, asked. Her black skin was so shiny in the lamplight she looked like she’d been polished.

  “Oh you know, it was a hard day today.”

  “I’m sorry about Mrs. Harrison,” Toni said. “She was your friend, right?”

  “Yeah, she was a great friend.” Lexie held back from crying. It unbalanced students’ sense of things when they witnessed their teachers being too human. Crying was as bad as being drunk or half-dressed.

  “I had her for English three times. She was hilarious,” Toni said. She and Megan held each side of the giant bag and walked with Lexie toward Dot’s old apartment. Lexie pulled the roller bag.

  “I only had her for English freshman year,” Megan said.

  “She sang all the time in AP English. She even made us sing once.”

  “Oh my god, I would have died if I had to sing.”

  “At least she had a good long life,” Toni said.

  They were at the door to Rilke. Lexie swiped her faculty ID. At the end of the hallway, she used the key Don had given her to open the apartment. She stepped back so the girls could walk in with the big bag.

  “Should we put it in the bedroom?” Megan asked.

  “Yes. Please.” Lexie stood in the center of the living room and stared at the old, stuffed furniture. The floral couch was so overused it sank in on one end; next to it a side table was stacked with books.

  The girls returned from the bedroom and stood near Lexie.

  “Doesn’t it look like someone’s sitting there?” Lexie pointed to where the cushion dipped in the shape of a bottom.

  “Totally spooky,” Megan said.

  “Her bedroom’s going to freak you out,” Toni said. “The bed’s unmade, there are clothes everywhere, and there’s a cup of tea on the nightstand.”

  “It’s totally freaky,” Megan said.

  “Do you want us to help you change the sheets?” Toni asked.

  “Mr. McClear said he’d send in housekeeping to change them.” Lexie looked from one girl to the other. She wanted someone else to be in charge, someone else to take care of everything.

  “Well, obviously they didn’t get that message,” Megan said.

  “Do you have to sleep here tonight?” Toni asked.

  “Yeah.” Lexie looked down the hall to the bedroom. Dust balls bobbed in the corners like the empty fur sacks of dead mice.

  “I have an air mattress from when my friend from home stayed the weekend,” Toni said.

  “Do you have sheets?” Lexie asked. In her rapid, anxious pack session she had failed to grab any linens. She wasn’t ready to enshroud herself with Dot’s linens, no matter how clean they were.

  “Yeah,” Toni said. “I’ll give you one of my pillows, too.”

  “I’d love it if you let me borrow all that.” Relief swooshed through Lexie’s body. One less thing to think about. “Do you girls know who the proctor is here? Mr. McClear told me but . . .” Lexie tapped on her forehead. This must be what it’s like to get old, she thought. Information slip-slides away.

  “Cole Hanna,” Megan said. She appeared to be blushing.

  “He’s Megan’s boyfriend,” Toni said.

  “Ah.” Lexie nodded. Surely Megan had snuck into his room sometime after seven thirty when boys weren’t allowed in the girls’ dorms and girls weren’t allowed in the boys’ dorms. Before then, if you were entertaining the opposite sex the door had to be open and at least three shod feet were required to rest on the ground. Lexie had laughed when she first learned this. Did the person who’d thought up that rule honestly think sex couldn’t occur if kids wore shoes and kept three of four feet on the floor?

  “Do you mind texting Cole for me and asking him to round up everyone for a meeting in the Kafka room in ten minutes?”

  “No problem.” Megan was texting before she even finished speaking.

  IT WAS AFTER ELEVEN. LEXIE LAY ON THE AIR MATTRESS IN THE center of the living room. Sleep felt so far away it was like a forgotten skill: handstands, biking with no hands, or a backbend started from standing. Lexie got up, went to the kitchen and opened the cupboard where Dot kept her liquor. She unscrewed the gin bottle and took three giant slugs before returning to the air mattress. Immediately she felt like she was spinning. It was anxiety. Motherfucking anxiety. She couldn’t take a Klonopin because she’d had the gin, and the Irish coffee earlier in the night.

  Using an old trick from college, Lexie placed one foot on the floor and focused on a single spot on the ceiling. The spinning didn’t stop. Peter was inside Lexie churning and kicking with hobnailed boots. And where was Dot? Lexie wished she felt Dot inside herself instead.

  “Accept . . .” Lexie started. “Ah, fuck that. Change the channel!” Lexie knocked on her head as if that would shift her thoughts. She focused on the residents’ meeting in the Kafka room. While the other boys had been rustling around, talking, eating chips from snack bags, or tussling over seats on the couch, Ethan had sat settled as a grown man in the blue-and-gray-chintz chair near the fireplace. His legs were open in a confident V and one cheek rested on the back of his hand, his elbow on the arm of the chair.

  Lexie had stared at Ethan, a beat too long, perhaps, so that he pointed at himself and tipped his head forward as if to ask if she wanted something from him. Lexie had nodded no, and then looked around the stately, elegant room (giant wrought-iron chandeliers, two massive stone fireplaces, framed portraits of the long-dead founders of the school), pretending she was in the act of accounting for everyone when she was simply covering up the too-long stare. She remembered exactly what she had been thinking when Ethan caught her eye: I’m in love with your father; I broke a man’s heart for him.

  During the meeting Lexie read off a sheet of rules Don had given her (more for Lexie’s sake; the kids had been living with the rules for years): no drinking, no smoking, no drugs, and no sex in the rooms. Each boy had to be in his own room by ten, although because these boys were seniors, there was no lights-out time. No leaving campus unless you had permission from your campus advisor. If you left for the night, you had to give Lexie a copy of your leave form, signed by your advisor. Even if your parents were picking you up. The dorm proctor, Cole Hanna, was to walk each floor every night at ten to check that all eighteen Rilke residents were where they were supposed to be. Afterward, he would fill out a report and slip it under Lexie’s door. Lexie had to log this report each night, noting who had been off campus, who had been in the infirmary, who had been tardy for curfew, etc. Every Monday and Friday after breakfast there would be a meeting where th
e residents worked out any problems or conflicts, as well as make announcements, etc.

  When Lexie had finished her dry recitation, the Rilke boys informed her that Dot’s meetings included donuts, coffee, and, often, dancing. When Dot put on show tunes, she’d roll back the carpet and tap on the wood floor. Several boys liked to mock-tap with her, although two Rilke residents—Aaron Gotleib and Boston Connors—actually knew how to tap. When she put on rock music, Dot performed her signature move: The Funky Itching Chicken. Most boys danced with her. Asher Sherman often took over the floor to do full flips in the air and break-dance spins on his back.

  Lexie pulled up the sheet and rolled to her side. “No donuts,” she said aloud. It already took her too long to get ready in the morning (showering, where she shaved her fuzzy bits and sanded down her heels with a pumice stone; blow-drying her hair; putting on makeup including several coats of mascara; picking out the right clothes; making the bed; and drinking half a pot of Green Mountain coffee since the stuff in the dining hall tasted like the warm runoff from a rain gutter). Dancing she could allow, but one of the boys would have to be in charge of music. (Lexie wondered if teenaged boys danced by themselves the way girls did. Doubtful. The prior dance sessions had to have been a unique set of experiences brought out by the presence of Dot.)

  Lexie flipped the pillow over to feel the cool cotton against her cheek. She saw faces: Daniel, Peter, Ethan. And then Peter leaning through the car window, his eyes wild with pain. Lexie didn’t want to see him; she didn’t want to feel the appropriate emotions. How could she take care of these boys, assorted like dolls in drawers in the rooms above her, if she was folding in from guilt and shame? She better keep things together: focus on work, eat well, exercise, be productive. She had to release Peter, let him float off like a flower on a stream. Someone would pluck him up soon enough. In Western Massachusetts, a guy like Peter was as rare and lovely as a wild orchid.