Free Higher Education by Lisa Pliscou Page B

“Don’t feel like it.”
    â€œMichael?”
    â€œYep.”
    â€œWhat are you doing tonight?”
    â€œOh, not a whole lot. Gotta make a few phone calls, I guess.”
    â€œYeah?”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œCan you be a little more specific?”
    â€œSure. Somethin’ like, No Ma, I don’t know anybody in the admissions office, but if you want, I’ll try sleepin’ with the Dean’s wife to see if it’ll get Daniel off the waitin’ list.”
    â€œMichael.”
    â€œYep?” His smile is unnaturally bright, and all at once I’m assailed by the feeling that I’m forgetting something. Shit. What is it ? Somebody over in one of the Yard dorms is playing “Stairway to Heaven” at full volume on his stereo. A couple passes by us, hand in hand, and then I realize that I’m supposed to be meeting Dean right about now. What time is it ? But I seem to have missed a beat or two; already Michael is turning away.
    â€œWell, so long, gal.”
    â€œMichael.”
    â€œWhat?”
    His skin looks pale and luminescent in the moonlight. The sockets of his eyes are flooded with blue-black shadow and I can’t make out his expression.
    â€œYou’re coming to the master’s tea tomorrow afternoon, aren’t you?”
    â€œHadn’t thought ’bout it.”
    â€œIt’ll be a gas,” I say, cajolingly. “I hear there’ll be brownies.”
    â€œI’ll think about it.”
    â€œGood. I’ll see you there.”
    â€œMaybe.”
    â€œOh, come on. Cucumber sandwiches, and we can see and be seen by the beautiful people.”
    â€œNow I’m changin’ my mind.”
    â€œDon’t.” I still can’t see his face clearly enough to read his intent. “So I’ll see you tomorrow, okay? And don’t forget you owe me a cappuccino.”
    â€œNo’m,” he says. “I won’t forget.”
    I tiptoe down the tiny cramped steps into the Ha’Penny and see Dean standing in front of the jukebox, looking at the song titles, his head bent over the arched glass panel.
    Softly I say: “Got a quarter, buddy?”
    â€œOh, hi.” He looks at me with his quick enigmatic smile.
    â€œPlay ‘Brass in Pocket,’ will you?”
    â€œI was just looking.”
    â€œOh.” A rush of childish disappointment floods my chest for a second. “Me too.”
    â€œSorry I’m late.”
    â€œAre you? I thought I was.” I look at my watch and laugh airily.
    Dean glances down too, and then he bends closer. “How come your watch says twelve-thirty?”
    â€œIt’s broken.”
    â€œThose real sapphires?”
    â€œI guess so.”
    â€œNice. Birthday present from your parents?”
    I keep the smile fixed on my face. “No, my grandmother gave it to me. She said she liked her Timex better.”
    â€œOh. Can’t you get it repaired?”
    â€œI don’t know. I never tried.”
    â€œOh.”
    We take a table in the very back. “God, I love this place,” I say, slipping into my chair. “The cute little tables, the candles.” The convenient amnesia of the cocktail waitresses . “The ambience.”
    â€œYeah.” Dean takes a pack of Camels from his blazer pocket, taps one free, places it between his lips and lights it, accomplishing this all in one graceful motion. He takes a deep drag, and coughs. “Shit, my bronchitis.” He inhales again, more delicately.
    â€œWhat can I get you?” Our waitress, a ponytailed brunette wearing pink-trimmed Tretorns, stands before us with her tray poised.
    Dean looks at me. “You go ahead,” I say, unable to make up my mind.
    â€œDewar’s and water,” he says. “Twist. Three cubes.” Then they both look at me again. Dean’s knees, I note, are touching mine under the table.
    â€œI—I—oh, well.” I smile