Love And Other Things I'm Bad At Part 45

I don't know if I can handle transferring again. Feel like a Ping-Pong ball. Live here, no, live there. Live at home. No! Live next to Grant. Move in with W. No, don't. Move back to Cornwall Falls.

I think I should at least talk it over with him, but since I can't seem to reach him, I talked about it with Mary Jo instead. Mary Jo = voice of reason, except for that brief but all-too-long period when she was seeing that loser Joe.

"Have you seen Wittenauer lately? I keep calling him but all I get is voice mail," I said.

"Um, not really. How are things?"

We talked about cla.s.ses, finals, Mom's wedding, et cetera, and then I told her about Dean S.'s call last night.

"Wow. What a tough decision," she said.

"Yeah," I said. "It is. I mean, three months ago-you know, I'd have jumped at it. Maybe even two months ago. But now?"

She was quiet for a minute, then she said, "I miss you like crazy, and things would be a lot more fun if you came back, but in a way, I don't think you should transfer."

"Why?" I asked.

"Um. Lots of reasons. Because you'd have to retransfer. Because if I were you, I'd be mad at the school. Plus, there's a good chance they'd screw up the finance package again, you know?"

All those things were very true. But were they the reasons I wasn't calling Dean S. back immediately and saying, "Yes, see you in January"? Probably not.

12/9.

All spare time being spent on project-we're doing this on Friday, no time to waste.

Ha-ha. Pun. No time to waste. Maybe I can use that somehow on posters.

Mom just called with umpteenth wedding update and schedule. Reported that it may be a tad uncomfortable at the ceremony because her parents are getting a divorce. Then she brought up the seating chart.

"Again, Mom? Again with the seating chart?"

"What?" she asked innocently.

"Mom, there are other things going on besides your wedding, OK?"

"What's going on?" she asked.

"Only everything," I said. "Only my entire future!"

"Again?" she said. "Again with your future?"

Touche. I guess.

12/10.

Working on project. Want to put all personal-life c.r.a.p out of my mind and just focus on getting an A.

You know how in September they put a wrecked car outside, on the plaza, to show everyone how drinking and driving kills? Which it does. And which is a much worse problem, heartbreaking, serious problem, than what we're doing.

But we're using a similar theme: drinking and dis-

carding.

Everyone who takes a plastic or paper cup out of Lory Student Center will get a sticker on their back (or backpack): neon orange, but made with recycled stuff: The sticker says: I (GOT) WASTED TODAY!

Naturally, we're too late to order stickers, so we're writing and/or printing them all out ourselves. We each have hundreds of sheets of neon stickers to prepare.

Unfortunately, our printer is out of ink. Fortunately, Shawna and Dara are helping me.

12/11.

Today we staged our Env. Activism protest in front of Lory.

Anyone who used a reusable coffee tumbler or water bottle got a gold star.

Anyone who didn't got the I (GOT) WASTED TODAY sticker on their shirt, back, or cup.

All the disposable cups were tossed into a giant Dumpster that we rented, and by the end of the day the Dumpster was nearly full. We took pictures to post online to increase awareness-I just put up some on my blog, actually. A reporter from the Coloradoan was on campus for another reason and snapped some photos, too. (Naturally, I kept out of them, hiding behind Dumpster.) The event was a major success, in that some people got really insulted and yelled at us. Which means our message was getting through.

Dr. Bigelow congratulated us many times, said he is giving the cla.s.s an A for final project. Said he's excited about working with me on my thesis when the time comes.

Afterward, I called Dean S. and told him I'm not coming back. He wasn't in the office. I took the easy way out and left a message.

That is so like me.

Feel strangely calm about my decision.

That is so unlike me.

Time to make some more decisions.

12/12.

Just when we had given up all hope, DeathKitty is back!

And guess what? She's not alone.

Her so-called weight gain from eating Oscar's food? A myth. She was pregnant and has returned to the house with 3 kittens.

DeathKitten 1, DeathKitten 2, and the runt of the litter, DeathCutie.

Dara swears she will give up those temporary names and let us help name them. So far she calls one Sylvia, short for Sylvia Plath, one of her fave poets.

She's so wrapped up in those adorable kittens that I had the window of opportunity to sneak out and put a note in Grant's car.

Yes, I could call him (but I am 100 percent chicken, remember), and yes, I have texted him, but he hasn't gotten back to me. Decided to do something old-fashionedly romantic.

The old note was still above the visor, which made me think he had never used the visor. So, I put my note on the driver's seat.

Dear G, Thanks for the Oscar tags and thanks for making me laugh in Bigelow's cla.s.s that day, and giving me confidence to do project. Did you see it yesterday? What did you think? Please call me, or come by, I really need to talk to you!

-C.

When I went back inside, kittens were all crawling on Oscar and he was licking them like a good mom cat would, while DeathKitty ate.

12/13.

No call from Grant. He has to have seen the note. He has to. So what is the deal?

Finally tracked him down, via info from his housemates, at the vet science library. Walking in, I thought I saw the ferret owner from the cla.s.s Oscar and I went to. He gave me the evil eye. Also, I thought I saw Kelli. Kept walking. Finally found Grant sitting at a desk by a window. When he looked up at me, I saw sheer panic in his face.

Tell me about it.

I pulled up a chair and sat down. "I really have to talk to you. Why are you avoiding me?"

"Look, I really need to study. Don't you?"

"Yeah, but . . . this is important. Potentially life changing."

"Sorry. So are my grades."

"I know, I know. I really have to talk to you, though."

"OK." He sighed. "So talk."

"So, um." And all of a sudden I had no idea how to begin, or what to say. I b.u.mbled into some explanation of what happened at Thanksgiving. How I didn't tell him because I didn't know what to say, how I'd been trying to figure out what to do.

"I didn't know what to say-I was so surprised-but I don't want Wittenauer to move out here, much less live together. I mean, I think we're kind of, well . . . I just don't think we should."

"Why not?"

"Because of you." I'm back in love with you. I couldn't say that, though.

"Me? And what did you say to him about . . . me?" Grant asked.

"Well, nothing, yet," I admitted. "I wanted to talk to you first."

He seemed to be getting more aggravated by the minute. "Listen, Courtney. Don't hedge your bets."

"What?"

"It means-"

"I know what it means!" I cried.

"Shhh!" somebody said.

"But I'm not doing that," I said in a whisper. "I'm not hedging anything."

"Aren't you?" He raised his eyebrow in this attractive arch that I seriously don't think any human female could resist. "I mean, why are you even telling me about this? What are you asking me, exactly?"

I felt like I was in the glare of a police detective's light. This was it. My moment to confess. And I couldn't.

"I don't know. I-I have to go." I grabbed my book bag and bolted for home. By the time I got there, I was freezing cold and wet. It wasn't raining or snowing. I'd been crying the whole way.

I blubbered the story to Shawna, who is, like, ALWAYS there for me and also for Dara, and never brings any of her own drama to the table, which is so d.a.m.ned likable. Anyway.

"Hold it, hold it," she said. "Why would you have one of the most important conversations of your life at the library? Like he's going to talk there."

"And he probably loves Dara anyway, and he doesn't want to tell me," I sobbed.

"He doesn't. She asked him out and he said no."

"Oh? Really?"

Suddenly, my phone chimed with a message.

U drive me insane.

It was Grant.

Me: Sounds intriguing. Do tell.

Grant: Y would u have such a big convo @ library? Not the place.

Me: So name the place.

Grant: Not now. Not finals week! Anyway, it's your decision to make first, not mine.

Me: Y me?

Grant: You're with someone. I'm not.

When he's right, he's right. How come I never get to be right?

12/14 FIRST DAY OF FINALS WEEK.

Finals finals finals . . .

Good-bye for the next few days, journal.

On second thought. Don't leave me. Stick around. I will need a place to vent after I fail my exams.

Oh c.r.a.p, someone's knocking at my window.