Lessons in Love Read Free Page B

to, “Dalton?”
    Chili looks satisfied. “That’s his name?”
    “Him,” I clarify. “People call him Him. Or Himmel. Or Man.”
    “But not Dalton?”
    “No, that, too,” I say. “He’s one of those many named guys — Dalton Himmelman.”
    “And he’s…” Chili looks at them again but this time they notice.
    “He’s Jacob’s best friend and he’s…”
    Chili bushes and for some reason I do the same. “…Coming over here.”

Chapter Three
    I manage to get through most of the crush of “welcome events” — registration, dorm meeting, boarders’ tea (not to be confused with the picnic, which is just starting), without giving much pause to all of the knowledge that’s been dished out to us.
    “So,” Chris asks when we’re near the statue of the ugly fish behind the science center. He sticks his arm out like he’s interviewing me. “Quick — tell me your thoughts about senior year thusfar.”
    “I don’t know, you know?”
    “With language like that you’re hoping to get into Chaucer’s class?”
    This provokes a smirk from me. “It’s just — I wanted a normal year.”
    “Look, you’re talking to a guy who came out to the whole school, whose first boyfriend wound up at some ashram in India and who is currently chasing the unattainable Haverford. I don’t know much about normal.”
    I put my hand on the metal of the fish statue, thinking back to all the times I’ve jogged past before, or stood here talking, or walked by wishing for something — someone — I didn’t have. “Normal. You know, like with a regular boyfriend and going to pep rallies.”
    “So you wanted to be a senior in a movie.”
    “Yeah.” I look at the swell of people all milling about in picnic form. “At least — I want to feel like things were more tied up from the summer. A clean break. But with Charlie and the sort of leftover weirdness between me and Jacob…”
    Chris leans on the statue’s fin and nods. “Like how Harriet Walters came back as a hippy, all leggings and dreads and crunchy fabrics.”
    “Right. But she’s still Harriet. I wanted to be me, but more. Or less. Or different. Because I feel it.”
    Chris points to my hair. “You look it, too.” Then he watches some people walk by, nodding at us, everything very familiar. “It’s a repeat — this year — even though it’s new. So I think it’s our job to make it what we want.” He glances to the crowds, knowing Chili’s brother Haverford is in there, along with his steady Ben.
    I breathe in the hot air, the smell of cut grass, the grounds crew’s hard labors of the past week to get the campus ready. “What if you don’t know what you want?”
    Chris twists his mouth and runs his hands through his hair. “Then you’re pretty much screwed until you do.”
    “Thanks,” I say and mime kicking him. “Thanks a lot.” I think about being in the ocean with Charlie, about fooling around with him and where it could have led, where he thinks it might still. And maybe it will — but there’s just the smallest part of me that isn’t sure about any of it. How we met up at this formal gala, the Silver and White, on the Vineyard and how we were dressed up and it felt so glamorous, but so not me. And while I like trying on new hats, so to speak, I just wonder if Arabella was right. She said at the beginning of the summer that summer flings never turn into more, and if they do, they’re always tainted with the knowledge that the waves, the beach, the pier, Paris, wherever you first met and kissed and seamed yourselves together, will always be better than the year-round environment.
    Chris flicks the metal statue so it pings and pongs and then flicks my shoulder so I stop thinking. “Change of subject. Which of the new rules is the worst?”
    “I don’t even know,” I say, looking out at the sun-kissed masses. “I remember my first day here — at this picnic, and how everyone looked like golden retrievers.” As if on cue, Malty,