Writing / Andy Warhol's Sister / 1989 / Deep & Savage Way / Helen of Santa Zita / Moscow Film World / Guide

Helen of Santa Zita: Part I Everything was fucked and she had nowhere to go. She couldn't drop out of school. She couldn't get back together with Todd. Helen Zachary took a deep breath and ran her tongue around the inside of her mouth. She was so full of anger. Anger at Todd. Anger at the world. Anger at herself. Anger she could taste on her tongue. Like she had thrown up an entire stomach full of Milwaukee's Best. She hated the whole ordeal of ending a relationship and it had been going on for far too long. It had been nearly two weeks since her boyfriend Todd had dumped her. Not only did she not have a boyfriend now, but she was flunking a class and running out of money. Helen wanted to run away-she never wanted to hear the name Santa Zita or stay there another minute; she hated it so much and was so tired of classes, her house and everything else. Another spasm of tears. Through her smeared vision Helen tried to see how Jessica and Roxy were reacting to this. Were they already dialing the men in white coats to come and drag her away? She couldn't see them, though. Just as well. She squeezed her eyes shut, so tight she started to see stars inside her brain. She sniffed and wiped her eyes for the tenth time with the same tissue. She wadded the tissue up and tossed it to her right, where it landed along with the other tissues she had used that night. She rubbed her eyes with the forefingers of her right and left hands. When she opened them, she could see again. They were not looking at her with disgust, gathering up their things to escape this house of madness-just looking at her with smiles-worry in their eyes, but smiling nonetheless. —God, I feel so lame about this, Helen said to them. Jessica and Roxy were her two best friends in Santa Zita, and the worst part of all of this was the thought of them seeing her in this incapacitated, disintegrated state. —Don't worry, Helen. We understand, said Jessica. —Yeah, totally, we do, said Roxy. Jessica took another tissue out of the box and offered it to Helen. She shook her head no. She felt better now. She could talk and not sound so broken up. She couldn't stand hearing herself sound that way; so grief-stricken and incoherent. Helen ran her finger under her lower eyelid, feeling the moist, slimy guck that had accumulated there. She took another tissue from the box Jessica was holding and wiped off her fingers. Her eyes burned, her head throbbed, her stomach ached, and her throat was sore. Her whole body was falling apart. Her contact lenses were too old-they scratchy resting on her eyeball and needed to be replaced. —I need some water, Helen said. She rose and walked to her kitchen. She passed the answering machine. Its red light flashed maddeningly, reminding Helen of everything she had stopped dealing with because of the breakup. Everywhere around her were reminders of disintegration. On the coffee table, hidden from Roxy and Jessica's eyes under a Victoria's Secret catalog, was the mid-term she had just gotten back in Latin American Women Writers. She had gotten an incomplete, which was the PC Santa Zita way of saying "F". As in flunked. And underneath that was an unexpectedly large credit card statement-the result of an ill-advised trip to Standford Shopping Center she had taken with Gretchen on New Year's Eve. Helen had already given up on the notion of paying off the balance; but now she realized she probably couldn't even afford the interest payments. When she had drunk some water, Helen felt much better. Her mouth wasn't so dry and her headache lessened. She heard Jessica and Roxy start talking to each other about their respective internships they were doing that quarter. Jessica was counseling children in Bakersville who had been displaced by the Yaçoan quake the previous October, while Roxy was a teacher's aid at an elementary school. —It's been six months since the quake, Jessica was saying. And they're still living in tents. —That's fucked, Roxy said. Yes, it was fucked. The whole world was fucked. How had she ended up in this state? That night had started out well enough. Despite her depression, Helen was eager to reconnect with her friends. She had been neglecting them, she knew, and she missed their company, and advice. The excuse for getting together had been to study and then watch Thirtysomething, but before and after there had been much opportunity for gossip and chit-chat. To Helen's relief, Roxy and Jessica were sensitive enough to not interrogate her about the break-up-Roxy's sole comment had been "you seem to be doing pretty well, all things considered". It had been wonderful to sit, drink the Bloody Marys Roxy made, and listen to gossip about what was going on in Dead Oak-Tina and Stravinsky, partying with Peter and the two Jakes; but every time Helen relaxed, a voice inside her reminded her of what had happened, that Todd had rejected her and that, superficial circumstances aside, everything was not okay and she was, ultimately, fucked. Drinking more Bloody Marys seemed to be a good way to quiet that voice, but it had proved ineffective-instead, the voice seemed to be getting louder and more insistent, the pang of loss more sharp, the inner voice of criticism louder than the voices of her two friends. Helen had started drinking faster and more frequently, hoping that if she drank enough, she would pass into the zone of not caring, but that hasn't happened-instead, she was just thinking about him more, and it was getting harder and harder to hold back the raging storm of grief pouring out of the black hole within her-the fear that anything good in her life could be taken away at any time. As Helen was starting on her fourth Bloody Mary, Jessica had decided some music would help cheer Helen up. Unfortunately, the tape she had selected was the Steely Dan greatest hits tape they had made at the end of the previous summer. Unfortunately, the music of Steely Dan was the one artist that could have reminded Helen of the two serious boyfriends in her life, and consequently the absence of them both and the improbability that she would ever fall in love again and that she was destined to die alone. Her first serious boyfriend, David Stone, had been a musician, and Steely Dan had been just about his favorite band in the world. Todd had been no musician, and in Helen's humble opinion had very questionable tastes in music that tended towards the pretentious, but there was one particular Steely Dan song that was inextricably linked with their relationship, with the one single moment when they their hearts and minds had been in accord, when their commitment to each other had been complete and total. She should have vetoed the selection, but somehow she didn't want to let Jessica and Roxy know how much the music affected her, that her emotions were not under her control, but subject to the whim of fate. Relentlessly the tape had marched on as she gulped her Bloody Mary, from Hey Nineteen to Do It Again, Peg and then Rikki Don't Lose That Number. She should have turned the tape off, put in something else, but she didn't. She just listened to the songs, feeling the memories that erupted in her brain, helplessly. Jessica and Roxy had been chattering on and on, their conversation about classes and internships seeming more and more at odds with the way the world truly was, which was a cold unfeeling place where everyone was ultimately alone. Finally, when that song, their song, had come on, the floodgates opened, all self-control was lost. Helen remembered their union, the feeling of closeness, that victory over masculine reserve and fear of commitment, when they had held each other during song, stroking each other's hair, and at the ultimate moment, Todd had confessed he loved her and only her, that his life was better with her in it. On X the guitar solo had seemed to last forever, circling around and around, into itself, cycling over and over into itself-the perfect sound for the perfect moment. Now, though, the melancholy lyrics seemed to say more to her than the sound. Your ever-lastin' summer is fadin' fast. The song reminded her of summer, too-in Alta Lara when she worked part-time and spent the rest hanging out, and the year before with Tim, Jessica and Roxy. How many more summers like that? Time was passing, and there was going to be more to worry about in the future, not less-graduation, career, marriage, where to live, supporting herself. Even before she realized, tears were pouring out of her eyes, drenching her cheeks, and her breaths became audibly ragged. Jessica stopped in mid-sentence and looked at her, then Helen had collapsed against her, her chest quaking with sobs. Trying to apologize between sobs and cries of anguish, Jessica and Roxy endlessly repeating words of comfort. It had been quite the scene; just about the biggest cry-fest in Santa Zita history; with Helen as the star attraction. Now that the storm had passed, Helen contemplated what was going to come next. But what was she going to do? What could she do? Anything? Helen felt her eyes sting, as if her eyes were trying to water up again but the tear ducts were dry. She clamped her eyes shut, placed her hands on the side of the sink and inhaled again, trying to fill her lungs without her breath catching in her throat. The glass she was refilling with water overflowed. Helen jammed the tap off. It leaked. No matter how hard she pushed it, a trickle of water seeped out and plopped into the mottled metallic sink. Helen lifted the glass, drank several swallows, and refilled it again. She turned around and went back to the living room. —The teacher said she would write a recommendation for me for grad school, Jessica said to Roxy. When Helen reentered, they both looked up at her, but said nothing, as if she were so fragile a single unexpected sound might cause her to shatter into a million little pieces. Helen smiled wanly, to show them she was stronger than they thought. Before she sat, Helen gathered the damp, snotty tissues lying on the reddish-pink couch, crumpled them up in a ball and carried them to the bathroom. Helen dropped the wad of tissue onto the top of the Zambiggini's grocery bag they used as a garbage can. They hadn't had a real garbage can in there since Lana moved out the previous fall. It just rested on top of all the other junk inside. She rinsed off her hands and rejoined Jessica and Roxy. When she sat, Jessica reached over to her and gave her a quick hug. —Okay, Helen said. Okay. This is so ridiculous, she said, and shook her head. You know, I never told you the story of how Todd and I finally broke up. —We were wondering, Roxy said, but... well, you know. I thought you'd tell us when you were ready. —Tell us now, Jessica said gently, but insistently. —Well, Helen said, and took a deep breath. We hadn't hung out for several days. I don't know why, I guess I was tired of him, and I had been thinking that we should end it for several weeks. Ever since I got back from San Diego, it hadn't been the same. It hadn't been the same since last December. Both Jessica and Roxy nodded soberly. —The last time we had been together, the weekend before, had been an absolute disaster. We went to a party at his friend Willoughby's house. —That guy, Roxy said, and rolled her eyes. —Before we went, I told Todd I would drive so he could drink as much as he wanted. So, we were at the party, and I only drank two beers and he knew it-while he had at least three, and probably four, by the time I told him I wanted to go. He wanted to stay, but I had a headache and there was no one there for me to talk to-just surfers and their slutty girlfriends, who all looked like they were still in high school. And knowing Willoughby, they probably were. As soon as she said that, though, she wished she hadn't. She had meant merely to underscore to Roxy and Jessica that she knew how lame Todd and his friends were, but in doing so she had inadvertently reminded Jessica of their friend Tim, and the argument they had had when Jessica found out he had slept with a girl who was still in high school. —Willoughby, Roxy said, shaking her head. He's going to end up in jail, one of these days. —Why are guys like that? Jessica asked. Don't they understand how much damage they cause? The wounds between Jessica and Tim over that had only recently healed. Jessica had told Helen that she had talked to Tim when she got back to school in January, and that the matter was resolved, but Helen wasn't so sure it would be that easy. Not that Helen on very good terms with Tim, either. His experience with April seemed to have propelled him on a downward spiral that he wasn't able to pull out of. —I know. And so I really wanted to leave. I dragged Todd out of there and when we got to my car, he demanded that I give him my keys. He didn't think I was sober enough to drive! I started screaming at him, telling him he was an asshole, and that I had only drank two beers, and he'd had five, and there was no way he was going to drive my car, no way in hell. —Good, Roxy said. That put him in his place. —Well, except that I ended up letting him drive. I guess I just couldn't stand fighting about it; I already had the most horrible headache, and I just didn't have enough energy to care. The whole way home, I was wishing we would get stopped by the cops, so he'd get totally busted. We came back here, had really lame sex for a while, during which I fell asleep. When he left in the morning, I pretended to be asleep and he didn't try to wake me. After that episode, I didn't feel like seeing him ever again for the rest of my life. On Monday, he called me and left a message. I was screening my calls and I didn't pick the phone up. I just didn't want to. Instead, I said really mean things to him while he talked to the answering service. Helen smiled at the memory, then continued: —I told him he sucked in bed and that he had terrible taste in music. That week, he called me every day and left these silly messages, trying to sound all nice and apologetic. Quite frankly, it turned my stomach. Then, Friday afternoon, I came home from school and found a note on the answering machine from Ellery, telling me there was a message from Todd on the machine that I should listen to. I was like "oh, another message from Todd, what a bore" but I pressed the button and listened to it anyway. It said: "Helen, I've been trying to call you all week. You haven't paid me the common courtesy of returning my calls, so I'm going to tell you what I have to tell you now, because I don't know any other way to communicate with you. I think we should break up. Don't call me, and I won't try to call you. Have a nice life, bye." Jessica looked at Helen sadly for a moment, then her lips cracked and a giggle escaped. She laughed out loud. —Jessica, Roxy said, but then she started giggling, too. —I'm sorry, Helen, Jessica said, that's terrible, but it's also funny. It's really funny, tragically funny. —I know, Helen said, half-laughing, half-crying. It is. But I felt so humiliated. I had been planning to call him that evening, too. What was his problem? I went four days without calling him, and for that, he dumped me. And he didn't break up with me because we always fought, or that I wouldn't suck his cock, or that we had completely different values. He broke up with me because I wouldn't return his fucking phone calls. There were so many reasons I could have broken up with him that were more legitimate, more real. I never thought he would be the one to break up with me. I thought I would be the one who would pull the plug. —I think there was more to it than that, Helen, Roxy said. Of course there was. Helen knew that they knew the battle of not returning phone calls had merely been an absurd denouement to a long, drawn-out ordeal. —I know, but it's still ridiculous. It just makes me laugh, now. I'm not even that angry anymore. Helen tried to laugh, because it was funny and she wanted Roxy and Jessica to know that she thought it was funny, too, but it seemed so likely to turn into more tears that she cut it off halfway through. Instead what came out was a sort of strangled half-cough that made her sound like a tuberculoid heroine-victim in a Dickens novel. —You should forget about him, Jessica said. You and Todd had your time together, and now it's over. You have to move on. You have a lot more going on in your life than just him. —I'm trying, Helen said. I'm trying, but her voice broke, which made her sound as if the attempt had failed even before it began. I know I got back together with him once before, but I just can't see that happening this time. Helen hoped that was true. An hour ago, would she have taken Todd back if he had shown up on her doorstep, because it seemed like the only thing that could have ended her pain. That was one thing Helen admired about Jessica, was how she had dealt with Charles. He had been her first serious boyfriend, the one she had lost her virginity to, and he had summarily dumped her spring quarter. Jessica been broken-hearted; devastated, but she had never tried to get back together with him. She just cut him out of her life. He had called her a month later. From his recalcitrant tone when he asked Helen if Jessica was there, Helen definitely thought he was having second thoughts, that he might be willing to give it another try. Jessica wouldn't even come to the phone. Helen had admired, but was also wary of, such strength of spirit. —I have too many other things to worry about, Helen said. Like my section. —How's that going? Roxy asked. —Shitty. It's becoming a major thorn in my side. —I thought you liked being a section leader, Jessica said. —I think I liked the idea. It's just not turning out anything like I imagined it, and my students annoy me. I mean, most of them are okay but there are several hard-core lit geeks who know more than I do, the lesbians hate me because I'm blonde, and Peak, of course, is, well, Peak. Peak and all that he entailed was well known to both Roxy and Jessica, who had been in Spanish class with him. —I have thirty papers to grade that my students are all going to want on Friday and I've run out of things to say. I just can't think of an original comment for each one. And most of them are really boring, I have nothing to say about them, so I make stuff up. Or give everyone a good grade, because it's all bullshit in the end. —Now you know how our professors feel, Roxy said. —I feel sorry for them, drowning in a mountain of crap. On top of which, I'm not even getting paid for it. —I thought your TAship was a paid one, said Roxy. —No... it's really lame. The funding only came through for half of the TAs. Of course, Gretchen and I are only juniors, so we lost out. —That's fucked, said Roxy. That's majorly fucked. —That's terrible, said Jessica. Can you complain to someone? —No, not really, Helen responded Joseph told us at the beginning of the quarter, and asked if we still wanted to do it. I thought I could scrape by without getting a job, but... I need money. After a pause, she continued: —And I haven't even mentioned my Latin American Writers class. —How's that going? Jessica asked. —Terrible. It's too early in the morning and I never go. I never read the books. I failed the first mid-term and if I fail the second, I'm up shit's creek with no paddle. I'll fail the class and my financial aid will be cut off. —Helen... that's really serious, Jessica said. Will you be able to stay in school? —No. I'll have to drop out and get a job. I might have to move back to Montana. —What? Roxy said, aghast. Jessica said nothing, but she looked at Roxy and nodded slightly, as if their worst fears had been confirmed. —That's terrible, Jessica said. You can't go back to Montana. Even if you drop out, you can still stay here. —You can crash here with Tina and I, Roxy said almost at the same time. We can't lose you, Helen. We need you here. —I know, but... Helen let her cheeks fall and looked at Jessica. She smiled and squeezed Helen's hand, while Roxy thin, strong fingers did the same to her shoulder. In spite of herself, Helen found their reactions reassuring-at least someone cared where she ended up. —You can still pass the class, Roxy said. There's still time. —I really loved that class when I took it last year, Jessica said. Maybe we could study together. —That would be great, Helen said. I could really use the help. —How about Saturday night? —Okay, cool, Helen said. She was amused at herself-as recently as last fall, she would have regarded studying on a Saturday night as a catastrophic failure of her social life, but now it seemed plausible-possibly even a good idea. It was certainly a relief not to have to come up with a plan, because there really wasn't anything she wanted to do. Jessica smiled, then yawned quickly and quietly. —You guys, I need to go to bed. What about you, Roxy? —Yeah, I need to get home, too. Read some stuff, try and get to bed early for once. Hopefully Jake won't be making too much noise. Jessica and Roxy both stood. Helen walked with them to the front door. —Hey, Helen, you want to meet for coffee tomorrow at Fremont? Roxy asked. —Totally, Helen said. I'll be there between noon and one. Helen hugged both of them, said good-bye and watched as they walked down the staircase to the ground. She looked up and saw the low clouds overhead, their gray rumbled bottoms lit burnt orange by the city lights. There were no stars to look at, so Helen started to shut the door. Just as it was almost closed, a small beige creature shot in and disappeared into the kitchen. Helen closed the door and sighed. In the kitchen, she heard a sequence of pathetic mews. Her almost full-grown kitten, Bristle, was hungry. She went in the kitchen, where Bristle was pacing in front of her empty food and water dishes, her tail sticking straight up as she meowed desperately. She had been outside all day. —Okay, you silly creature. Here's some food. I can't believe how much you eat. Helen went to the pantry and got out the catfood bag. She poured Bristle's bowl full of the little red-brown stars that smelled like over-ripe cardboard. As soon as she placed it back on the floor, Bristle began purring and ravenously inhaling her food. Helen filled her water bowl with tap water and set it down next to the food. She stroked the cream-colored patch on Bristle's back and felt her lithe body buzzing. As she returned to the living room, she glanced at the red lights of Gretchen's clock radio in the darkness of her room. She was amazed to see that it was past one in the morning. She had to go to sleep. She had to meet with Joseph Harkes at 11am, and teach section at 2pm. She had promised Joseph that she would have her section's papers to return to them after CAF lecture. That was one of the things she was supposed to get done tonight which had been pre-empted by her emotional collapse. It was going to be very hard to explain that to Joseph, though, without making her seem more vulnerable in his eyes than she really wanted. Helen went in the living room and sat back on the couch, staring at the front door. Neither Gretchen nor Ellery showed any sign of returning. It was just as well. Even though she felt weird being alone in the house, she didn't really want to see her housemates either. She thought about trying to read, but her eyes felt too worn out and she gave up after several sentences. Now that the tears had dried and stopped lubricating her contact lenses, she could feel them resting uncomfortably on her eyeball. Add that to the list of things she had to deal with-new contacts. While she was at it, she could also add it to the list of things she couldn't possibly afford. A few minutes later, Bristle joined Helen in the living room. Bristle walked up to her, tensed her haunches like she were going to jump on Helen's lap, but then snapped her head around and began biting her lower back. She did this several times, then scratched with her hind legs repeatedly. —Oh, Bristle. You've been outside all day and you're covered with fleas. Helen got down on her knees and studied Bristle's coat. She saw the tiny blood-sucking creatures, jumping maniacally among her short hairs. —Poor thing. I'll buy you a flea collar tomorrow, I promise. Helen got up and went to her bedroom, preparing to sleep alone. *      *      * The squeak of the door opening woke Helen. Her roommate Ellery was home. One of the peculiarities of her living situation was that, during this quarter at least, she shared a room with a guy. Even by Santa Zita standards, this was unusual, but Helen hadn't found anyone else she felt she and Gretchen could live with more compatibly than Ellery at the end of the summer. Unfortunately, he couldn't afford to occupy the single room for the entire year, so the three of them had adopted the same rotation that Helen, Jessica and Lana had used their sophomore year. They all paid the same monthly rent, with each person having the single room for a quarter, and sharing the double for the other two. Helen remembered her first fall quarter in that situation with pleasure-so much romping with Todd, the pleasure of doing it at her place with no inconvenience. The second hadn't been quite as thrilling-sex with Todd had come to seem more like a chore than a pleasure, but she liked the nights alone with no Todd and no worries about when to go to bed, and whether she would wake Jessica up. Helen heard the quick whispered "shit" as Ellery's foot hit the corner of her bed. Helen rolled over, put her covers over her head. Ellery certainly wasn't a bad roommate. But he did have a habit of coming home late in an inebriated state. No matter how conscientious a guy was, it was very difficult for one of them to put himself to bed without a certain amount of chaos after downing endless pints at the Cyclops Eye, which was undoubtedly where Ellery had been. During this quarter, Gretchen had the single room, which created another problem-frequent visits from her weasel-faced and snake-hearted boyfriend, Bill. Helen lived in dread of his visits, of having to hear his snide, derisive tone directed at their house, UC Santa Zita and especially Gretchen, and worse, having to endure his friend Frank who occasionally tagged along with him-a tremendous, brutish oaf who had conceived an infatuation with Helen that would have been amusingly ludicrous if he wasn't so terrifyingly large and lacking in self-control. When she had told her mother about how she was sharing a room with a guy, her mother had been against it. Helen had hoped her resistance might translate into an offer of greater financial assistance, but it had instead somehow been used against her, as if this were one more sign of Helen's inability to manage her life competently. Helen had not spoken to her mother since right after the quarter started. Her mother had troubles of her own, an alcoholic ex-boyfriend whom she had been trying to get the local police to enforce a restraining order against him-difficult since the ex-boyfriend and the sheriff were drinking buddies. There was also lingering resentment over Helen's having spent Christmas with her father. Her mom had been pissy about that, which always drove Helen crazy. One Christmas with her father; the first one with him since she had been a small girl. Helen knew that her father was making an effort; and a free trip to San Diego was a free trip to San Diego. The weather there sure beat Hamilton, Montana. The bitterness that remained between her parents amazed Helen, and she hoped she never saw anything like it in her or any of her friends. A soft wheezing from the direction of Ellery's bed told Helen he was already asleep. Even when he was drunk, Ellery didn't snore-thank goodness for small favors. Jealous that Ellery had already reached the oblivion she was desperate for, Helen searched her mind for something pleasant to think about it, something to look forward to. Drawing a blank, Helen turned over again and tried to think of nothing at all. Nothing at all. Just like the characters in that vapid novel by Brad Eastman Aaronson, sports cars, coke and too much money. Santa Zita was like the LA in Nothing At All, only with redwoods instead of palm trees and Milwaukee's Best instead of cocaine. Helen felt herself smile. That was such a Tim idea. She missed him. They needed to hang out. She was going to have to make the first move with him. She had been pissed at him for not calling her back when she called him the day after Todd dumped her, to tell him the news and get the sympathy she was entitled to. Maybe she should apologize to him, though he didn't really deserve it. She had to do something. *      *      * As Helen walked down the Humphrey College colonnade, she saw a flyer with several red hearts advertising a dance at Redwood College. Seeing the flyer reminded her that Valentine's Day was exactly a week away. How fucking typical that she had broken up with Todd right before that oh-so-wonderful day. To Helen, Valentine's Day was cursed-she had never really had a good one. Freshman year she had expected to get something from David (a card, flowers, a phone call-she wasn't sure what, but something), but received nothing. After some tears in Roxy's room, her friend went and "borrowed" a bottle of Jack Daniels from Davey and Pete, inspired by some man troubles of her own. That night had ended with her in the moat, yakking her brains out-Jake on one side of her and Mick on the other, holding her up so she wouldn't pass out in a puddle of her own vomit. Thank God Jake had been there-she wasn't sure she would have trusted Mick alone in that situation. Not that she actually remembered any of this, of course. It had been retold (and recreated) enough times in the next two years that Helen knew she would never be allowed to forget it. A year ago she had boycotted Valentine's Day, since she was still officially broken up with Todd (if not unofficially sleeping with him, and even more unofficially wishing they were back together); and Tim had made her dinner at his place in the Kane-King Apartments (chicken stir-fry, rice and some good white wine he had inexplicably acquired). Here it was a year later, and she was broken up with Todd again, this time without the comforting thought that if she had really wanted to, she could have him back, and in the meantime have Tim treat her nicely and make her feel special, like someone actually cared whether she was happy or not. Helen wondered if she should call Tim and ask him to do something that night. Would it be too obvious if she called him and suggested doing something on Wednesday? During the last year, Tim had suddenly become sensitive about serving as a substitute boyfriend, even though that was so obviously what he was good at. Helen didn't have much patience with Tim on that point. Sure, he would probably rather be with the love of his life-wouldn't they all? But if you weren't, shouldn't you do something fun, instead of sitting around brooding, which seemed to be Tim's preferred alternative to a lot of things-his preferred alternative to actually living. Life was short, wasn't it? Why not make the most of it? There was also the possibility of doing something with Gretchen. Gretchen, though, was utterly unreliable in these matters; prone to agreeing to do something and then flaking at the last minute at the behest of her evil and reprehensible boyfriend, Bill. Jessica and Roxy were more reliable, but they were sufficiently PC and, Helen sighed to herself, empowered, that they probably would have considered actually doing something special on Valentine's Day an embarrassing sign of weakness. She could imagine asking them about it, hearing them sniff and say they were going to study together and "oh is it Valentine's Day that night? I had no idea". Tim seemed like her best bet. The only question was how to broach the subject. She had better just hang out with him first, and bring it up at the right moment-it wouldn't work if she just called him out of the blue and proposed it. As Helen passed Natural Sciences, a huge yawn split her face and nearly made her collide with a pack of giggling freshpeople. She had not gotten nearly enough sleep the night before. This walk, which she had done a thousand times before, was just not stimulating enough to keep her awake. When Helen had first come to UCSZ, she had loved the long paths through the woods, meandering through the towering redwoods, crossing each other at random, making it seem more like a nature park or Disneyland than a university. Sometimes it had been more fun to walk, drunk and stoned, to other colleges for mythical three-keg ragers, through the mists and the endless drip drip drip of the mosses, the smells of moist growing, brief glimpses of dark yellow from a banana slug, the UC Santa Zita mascot, than actually going to the parties themselves. Now it just seemed tiresome, like someone had intentionally inflicted it on her just to waste her time, to make even the simple act of getting from one obligation to another a massive chore. Someone had told her the government had designed UC Santa Zita this way, to make it hard for students to gather in one place and protest. She believed it. The path finished its meandering and Helen stepped onto the second bridge of her journey. Something caught her eye, and for a moment she thought she saw Todd. It wasn't him, though, just another six-foot guy with short black hair. This was wasn't as good-looking as Todd, though. Helen was dreading the possibility of running into Todd, either on campus or worse, at some party. They still had enough mutual friends that it was likely she would see him at some point. Their groups were pretty separate, but there were connections. Torrance, for one. The prospect of running into Todd randomly was sufficiently stressful that Helen wondered if she should pre-emptily hang out with him, just to get it out of the way. Maybe they could go get coffee at Cafe Nightingale. That might be okay. They could just talk and clear the air. Helen saw them in her mind, at a table in one of the back rooms, where no one was likely to see them. He was telling her that he was wrong to make her go through what she did alone. He should have gone with her, he wished with all his heart he had. He just hadn't been ready to deal with the reality of the situation. But he knew there could be no forgiveness for what he had done. He told her what she wanted to hear, and she felt herself forgiving him. They walked out of Cafe Nightingale and he offered to walk her home. When they got there, both Gretchen and Ellery were gone. Realizing that her thoughts of Todd were starting to turn into a fantasy of them getting back together was almost enough to make Helen hurl herself off the bridge. Todd was like some awful venereal disease, which you could treat but never actually cure, like herpes. She could cover him up in her brain, but he was always there lurking under the surface. Helen had no idea what it would be like if she saw Todd. It was going to happen, she knew. UC Santa Zita was sufficiently spread out that, unless it was freshmen year and you were all living in one dorm, you weren't going to see people every day, but you would run into them eventually. She hoped, no, she resolved, that it would be adult encounter, that they would both be mature, civil, but not friendly. Or she could just kill him. That might be better. There was a finality about it that pleased Helen. When you got right down to it, Todd just didn't deserve to live. If they listened to her story, no court could possibly convict her. Helen smiled to herself. The only question was how, and when. She stared down through a hole in the bridge's paneling; a brief reminder that were not on safe pavement, but actually a hundred feet above the floor of the little ravine. Drifting up, she heard the chatter of some students on bikes. *      *      * Stepping onto the third bridge forced Helen to think about her meeting with Joseph. She was not looking forward to it. Partly because she hadn't finished grading the papers yet, which was something she had promised would be done the last time they had met. But mainly because her meetings with Joseph were exhausting-trying to follow his interminable monologues, and obsessing over every single word and gesture he made. Helen was always on her guard with Joseph. He had a reputation around campus as a womanizer who wasn't averse to fooling around with his own students and TAs. Before she left for Spain, Jessica had told Helen she shouldn't even consider working for a professor capable of such monstrous errors in judgment. Helen agreed with Jessica that Joseph's conduct was inappropriate. It wasn't just that he was so much older. Professors were part of a different world-they were teachers, and should be role models as well. Joseph had crossed a line he shouldn't have crossed, just like Tim had crossed a line he shouldn't have crossed when he went after April. It had been the summer of authority figures abusing their power. So what else was new? The world was a fucked up place. But she had never thought of Tim as someone who was going to add to that-it wasn't like him, and it made her sad to think that he had betrayed what he stood for. During fall quarter she had seriously considered telling Joseph she didn't want to do be his TA after all, but she hadn't. She was just too reluctant to let a plum like that fall through her hand. She still had hopes (growing fainter by the day, of course) of attending graduate school, and teaching a section in an upper-division class; usually the job of graduate students, would be invaluable experience to have when applying. She had other reasons as well. She had been eager to teach the section, to prove her intelligence matched her physical beauty. She had started to wonder if her life was becoming too much about her looks. But now that she was a month into it, she wondered if she had gotten in over her head. It had seemed easy to think of things to say when she was just one of thirty voices, and it didn't really matter if she spoke up or not. She had done well in Contemporary American Fiction, but she was forced to admit that a lot of it was due to Tim and Jessica. They had studied together, written papers together, filled each other in on what they hadn't read. Jessica let Helen read her notes, and Tim offered his, but his were written in an indecipherable scrawl that he cheerfully admitted not even he could read. They had gotten in the habit of pulling outrageous all-nighters, fueled by beer, coffee and herbal tea. Tim seemed to delight in waiting until the last possible moment, then writing his entire paper in one burst on Helen's typewriter, even though he had a perfectly good computer and printer in his room at the Kane-King apartments. Then he would get excellents on them, which irritated Helen to no end. Nobody who wrote a paper in one burst of bullshit should be allowed to do so well on it. Once he finished his, he would type or retype hers, often rewriting it in the process. Her best paper had been based on an idea he had randomly tossed out at Golden West when they had gone there to study. His idea was about California and what it represented in China Men, Nothing At All and Crazy For Love, three novels that superficially had nothing to do with each other. Tim said California represented the end of dreams-the place where people had to confront themselves and who they really were. He had already decided what he was going to write on, so when Helen asked if she could steal his idea, he shrugged and said yes. It had ended up being the best paper she had written at UCSZ. Although Tim procrastinated (rhymes with masturbated, Helen thought to herself with a smile) on his papers, he always did the reading. Helen sometimes wondered why Theresa hadn't recommended Tim to be a section leader. She thought maybe it was because Tim, though he always had something interesting to say, could be obnoxious and intolerant of ideas that he disagreed with. Most of the time he restrained himself, but every so often he would lose it and crush someone else's idea with a sarcastic remark. Theresa liked Tim, but she also had to reign him in every so often, remind him that he was just one student of thirty, not the second coming of Joseph Harkes. Tim seemed amenable to that-he was always responsive to female authority, and seemed to want and expect to be put in his place every so often. Helen had to admit that despite her trepidation and paranoia, Joseph had behaved himself so far. In deed, at least, if not in thought. There was a gleam of hunger in his eyes that she thought she recognized. He was quite subtle about it, as he would have to be in a place where the wrong word at the wrong time could bring an outcry of sexual harassment and the end of his career, at least at UC Santa Zita. In fact, he was so subtle that even for someone with radar as finely tuned as Helen's, it might have just been her paranoia-fueled imagination. Helen placed her foot on the first step of the staircase that led up from the bridge into Krupke College. As she passed the Krupke Town Hall, where had she had seen Taj Mahal freshman year and she, Jessica and Tim had taken Philosophy 101 the year before, she checked her watch. She was late; but acceptably late. *      *      * —It has been suggested, Joseph was saying, that the male figures in China Men are feminist straw men, meant to primarily represent the false authority of patriarchy, against which Kingston contrasts the genuine thread of discourse and connection that the women create, and in that way maintain, strengthen and affirm the continuity of their culture. Helen stared at the empty page of her notebook as she struggled to keep listening. Depressed by the straight blue lines with only white emptiness between them, she looked in Joseph's direction. He wasn't looking at her. His face was tilted upwards, towards the window, talking to the air in classic academic fashion, as if what was being said were so profound it was more for the benefit of the entire universe than any particular person. Joseph had a habit of using expressions like "one might say", "it has been suggested", "some authorities assert", "implicit in the text" or "another way of looking at that is" that made it hard to figure out what he actually thought about anything. Half the time, the hypothetical statements were spoken with an ironic tone that meant, Helen was sure, that anyone who actually thought that was the biggest idiot in the world, if only you were allowed to say such things at UC Santa Zita. Listening to Joseph, Helen sometimes found herself lost in a maze of hypothetical speakers, feeling as if he expected her to sift through all of his various personas and carefully crafted ironies in order to divine what he really wanted her to know. Which, quite frankly, she just didn't have time for. Some of his irony was accompanied by a thin smile so bitter it almost seemed self-hating. Joseph didn't seem like the happiest person in the world to Helen. Did he miss Theresa? Wish he were married? Guilt over not having been part of his daughter's life? Helen hoped it was the last. She tried to connect the middle-aged intellectual in front of her with her dim memories of April, but failed. Then again, Helen's father, who was compulsively neat and organized, punctual to the second and liked everything run with military efficiency, wasn't much like her. Just another one of God's sick jokes. Helen frequently found it hard to concentrate in meetings with Joseph, knowing so much about his life that he wasn't aware she knew. His child, the fruit of his loins, had engaged in carnal relations with one of her best friends. It was all just too weird. Joseph had slept with Theresa. Tim had slept with April. Such a complicated web of circumstance might be amusing on a yuppie soap opera like Thirtysomething, but it was creepy in real life. Couldn't things just be what they were supposed to be? Why did everything in life always get so tangled up? —But what we may be ignoring, Joseph continued, is the sense in which the novel's theme is not the explicit exegesis of those dualities, but rather our need to assemble these dualities in our own act of reading-and interpretation. With no warning, Joseph turned and looked straight at her. Their eyes locked for a moment, and his gaze was as piercing and direct, as his words were subtle and roundabout. His pale blue eyes regarded her with skepticism, a ghost of a smile on his lips, as if inviting her to share in his private joke. His thought flashed in his mind, as clear as if he had said them out loud: "Although I enjoy forcing you to listen to me pontificate, what would be even better is if you allowed me to fuck your brains out." After a second of eye contact, Helen turned her eyes towards the window, hoping to see blue. No luck, grey-white fog still covered the campus. It was going to be one of those days, when the fog never lifts, or finally starts lifting in the evening, just in time for the sun to go down. Helen heard Joseph clear his throat, a short, sharp grunt. —But that is neither here nor there, he said. Unfortunately, in the academic life we can not only concern ourselves with ideas. There is also, it has to be said, a regrettable amount of the quotidian as well. For me, but also for you. Helen nodded, realizing where this was going. She realized how nervous she was about it, that she was perspiring and her lower back ached. —You said you thought you would be able to return your students' most recent round of papers to them tomorrow? —Well, Helen said, I really wanted to be able to. Joseph gravely nodded, but said nothing. Helen swallowed, and the excuses she had fabricated earlier vanished from her mind. Her mouth dry, she swallowed several times more, and her heart pounded. —It's just that the past week has been really busy. Some unexpected stuff came up, and... you know, Helen said, mortified to hear herself making such a pathetic excuse. She might as well tell Joseph the dog ate her homework. She found herself smiling at Joseph-lips parted flirtatiously. He smiled back, an upwards twitching of the corners of his mouth. —Timely return of the papers is important, Helen. But I know you have many other duties in your life to attend to. The slight emphasis Joseph put on the word "duties" made Helen think of sex for some reason, as if he were aware and sympathetic that the reason she hadn't finished grading the papers was her grueling schedule of frequent and varied copulation. Helen couldn't figure out if it was her derangement or his that made her read so much into his words. —There is another set of papers due... tomorrow? Helen nodded. —Indeed, Joseph said. Indeed. Their eyes met again, and Helen, unable to think of anything else to do, smiled at him. He smiled beneficently back. —Well, I had better get back to my own version of the quotidian. See you at one o'clock. Filled with sudden irritation at all this absurd subtext, Helen stood and slung her backpack around her left shoulder. She muttered a quick "bye" and hurried out of the office. Every time she thought she couldn't sink any lower, she did. She felt unclean, as if she and Joseph had just been intimate. As Helen passed by the ground-floor apartments she kept her head down, as if she were afraid she might be recognized. *      *      * —Oh, fuck this! Helen tossed her book aside on the couch and folded her arms. She had just made her one-hundred and seventy-ninth attempt to get past the first page of Las Mujeres de las Nubes, and failed. She wished she were PMSing so she could blame that for her irritation, instead of her life, but her period was still at least a week away, and she was forced instead of contemplate lack of Todd, her ineptitude as section leader and imminent academic meltdown as the source of her grouchiness. Not having Todd in her life irritated her. Being sad because of it made her even more irritated. The novel was written in language so pretentious, flowery and hard to follow that it might as well have been in the original Spanish it had been translated from for all the sense Helen could make out of it. Helen knew that she would never get through the book left to her own devices. Like working out, some things had to be done with another person or it would never happen. Only the threat of losing face could compel her to continue on. She remembered Tim, and her plan for Valentine's Day. To set the stage for that, maybe they could go study at Golden West. They had done that many times the year before. Time to kill two birds with one stone. Actually three-since studying together might be a good way to improve the situation between she and Tim. She knew he was still pissed about what she had said to him at Peter's birthday party. It was the first Friday night of the quarter, at Jake and Peter's apartment in Dead Oak. Tim had showed up, and everyone had been really psyched since he had been so MIA the previous quarter, and hadn't even showed up to the epic beginning of the decade New Year's party at Sarah Wolfe's house in Alta Lara. Despite the fact that he showed up, he had seemed moody and out of sorts, almost angry with everyone and everything. Helen had been irked at him, since everyone was being so nice to him and he seemed only able to be grumpy and irritable in return. She just wanted him to get over it, so they could hang out and he could listen to her problems, instead of caring only about his. In general, the whole night has irritated her-it wasn't just Tim, but also Jake, Peter and Perse way too wired on speed, watching George being nice to Sophie when Todd Forrest was around, and mean to her when he wasn't, Jamie cling to Peter like a blood-sucking parasite, and avoiding Sarah Wolfe because she wanted to find out what was going on with Todd Fox, and Helen just didn't want to say. All in all, it was bad vibes all around, and Tim had been the one unlucky enough to push her over the edge. When it happened, Helen had been drinking beers with he and Jake out on the deck. Tim had, in his best Morrissey-esque moping voice, proclaimed that love was for everyone except him. Jake has asked why he was bumming, and Tim had, instead of saying anything, just looked darkly out into the parking lot as if whatever he was going through was so intense that no words could communicate it. This was more manufactured melodrama than even Helen could stand. —Oh, it's just too many Kane College cardiac injuries, Helen had blurted out. She had intended it to be teasing; sharp enough to snap him out of his self-absorption, yet still funny, but it had come out too loud, too cutting-the cruel strike of a harpy's claw. Plus she had said it right in the middle of a pause in the music booming from inside the apartment, so everyone on the deck heard it. Tim had flinched, like he had just been kicked in the stomach, but then he just fixed her with an icy, defiant stare. They didn't said anything more to each other, and Tim left soon after. Jessica, who had been on the deck with Lana and Roxy at the time, had accused her of being mean in the car ride home. Helen knew it was true, but she didn't like hearing it. And why was Jessica, of all people, defending him? After the way Tim had treated her over the whole April thing, Tim had no right to have Jessica on his side. So maybe their estrangement was partly her fault. Didn't her breakup with Todd take priority over their stupid tiff? Didn't he understand how hard it was for her? She needed support and all he could do was be pissy. Helen started to get so irritated by Tim that she almost abandoned her plan, but she pushed those thoughts aside. She just had to do it. She had to take the first step. Helen reached for the phone, trying not to think about all the other people she owed phone calls to. She realized that Tim's number had slipped from her memory. She remembered the first three numbers, but the rest were vague in her mind. She thought there was a seven in there, maybe a two. She had to look at the tattered phone list taped to the wall above the milk crate where the put the beige Princess phone (the same one that she and her mom had used back in Montana, then in Alta Lara) and Gretchen's answering machine. After two rings, Helen was amazed to hear the phone actually being picked up by a human being. —Uh, hello? —Hey, Tim, Helen said. What's shakin'? —Oh, well... and Tim paused, as if Helen's question were not merely a routine pleasantry, but demanded serious consideration. Not much, I guess, he finally said. Helen gritted her teeth and reminded herself that even at the best of times, Tim had never been one much for telephone conversation. —Do you want to come over and study? she asked. —Um... sure, he said. Helen waited, but Tim said no more. The unnatural pause continued for several seconds before Helen realized she was going to have to take responsibility for arranging the logistics. —Okay, well, just come on down. In your car, she added, in case that detail escaped Tim's attention. —Right, Tim said. I'll be down soon. Helen hung up the phone and took a deep breath. Any doubts she'd had about the evening ahead had not been allayed by their conversation. She glanced back at the phone list. She had blacked out Todd's number with an indelible marker, but the numbers could still be seen, ghost-like. She thought about tearing up the phone list and just making a new one, but it seemed like too much work. Instead, she rose and went back to the kitchen, wondering if there was anything that she could scrape together to make a filling meal with. *      *      * While Helen waited for Tim to arrive, she sat at her kitchen table and idly leafed through the latest Victoria's Secret catalog. They were now getting five copies a month-two to Helen, one to Helen's old housemate Lana and two to mysterious people who had lived in the house previously. She thought about how silly most of the models looked, wearing garters and low-cut translucent bras, but also hair tied primly back and black horn-rim glasses, as if they were lawyers and doctors who dressed up as high-priced call girls in their spare time. In an attempt to get herself in a positive frame of mind, Helen made herself recall the good times with Tim-their freshman year, when they used to go for walks together, to Natural Bridges, or downtown. She had been missing David and was lonely for company. She had been confused because of the whatever state they had left their relationship when they separated to go off to college-not officially broken up, but neither had they made a commitment to be faithful to each other. Somehow it just hadn't come up. Helen had wanted to bring it up, but it felt weird to just do it without any reason, and she could just imagine David's response: well, I'll probably be too busy to date, but if you want to, go ahead. As if she were some hopeless slut who couldn't survive a week without a guy. Given the lack of a decision one way or the other, Helen had not felt entirely comfortable participating in the incessant scamming that was occurring all around her in Dorm I-but at the same time, she felt the need for companionship and physical fulfillment and wondered why she was denying herself the pleasure of that when for all she knew, David was breaking hearts left and right at BU. Tim had been a safe harbor; masculine company that wouldn't threaten her relationship with David. Helen had known Tim had a crush on her, but there was nothing she could do about it, other than gently guide him towards the notion of friendship, and transferring his romantic attentions to other women, of which there were more than a few who might have been receptive. She had encouraged him to show some interest in Lana, since she thought they might be good together (and Helen hated the way that Dorm II guy had used her for sex), but he seemed to resist. He seemed to be afraid of something; afraid of anything actually happening. During spring quarter, when Tim had suddenly distanced himself from her and refused to hang out with them, Helen had wondered if she should just forget about him, but something made her not write him off entirely. His kindness towards her, and his insights into her life, and their group of friends. He never tired of hearing stories about high school, and drew connections and parallels after hearing them, which always amazed Helen because they were so acute. He had an astonishing ability to predict what people would do. He seemed to want more out of life than just drinking beer and taking bong hits, and told her stories about making movies with his friend Shek back in Alta Lara, and how he wanted to be a screenwriter. She and Tim had a bond that couldn't easily be broken. There was something she had with him that wasn't present in her crazed partying with the Alta Lara folks or Todd's friends from Dorm II. It was the same thing she felt with Jessica and Roxy, that closeness and security-what she hoped she would have felt with her siblings if she'd had brothers and sisters. With her group of friends in Alta Lara she had always felt like a newcomer, whose status was slightly lower than the rest-and a large part of her role in the group had come to be defined by her status as David's girlfriend. Helen remembered when Tim had gradually re-emerged from his dark, skanky room on the first floor, near the end of that fateful spring quarter. He had hesitantly approached her after dinner. It was awkward. Gradually he had re-entered their group. Tim had never ever really had a group of close friends before them-he had admitted as much. They never really spoken about what had happened, though Helen knew they both were aware that Tim's desire for her had overwhelmed his urge to hang out with all of them. She had no solution to that-because there was none. Just pain to be endured until it went away. Everyone falls in love with someone they can't have, even Jake. Eventually, one day you would wake up and it would just hurt a little when you happened to think about it, instead of being the overwhelming ache that can't be deadened. Like the ache after she broke up with Todd. Gut-wrenching, like the time she had eaten bad Chinese food in Montana and spent the whole night puking her guts out. Even when there had been nothing left in her stomach, it had still heaved, like nothing turned inside out, so intent on expelling what was inside it was destroying itself. Like a worm that, having consumed all of the food in her stomach, started eating away the lining, determined to gorge itself until there was nothing left. But in the end, their friendship had survived. It had survived the previous fall, when Tim had worked at that depraved movie theater and, apparently, lost his much-obsessed-over virginity to Joseph Harkes's daughter. Small world, though that term didn't seem comforting to her-more like claustrophobic and suffocating, like being shut in a closet by an evil step-mother. Someday she was going to live in a place like New York City where no one knew anybody else and you could just live your life without feeling like a character in some demented soap opera. What a fucked-up, tangled web Santa Zita could be. Helen still wasn't sure if Tim's time with April had been a really good thing, or really bad. Tim needed that experience, but it had happened in such a bizarre way (trust Tim to be the kind of guy that took a 7.1 earthquake to get him laid) that it made it hard to build on. If Tim had just been psyched that he had gotten the monkey off his back and moved on, he would have been okay. Unfortunately, it seemed like he'd gotten all of these absurdly romantic fantasies in his head. Helen remembered talking to him at a fall quarter party at Yalta street, and Tim was going on about living with her while going to graduate school, like some kind of SNAGgy version of Humbert Humbert. It had all seemed like a mad delusion to Helen. April was never going to be in a real relationship with Tim, given the different worlds they came from. She was a sixteen year old punk rock chick who had grown up too fast, hanging out with movie theater people, whom Helen knew from personal experience in Alta Lara, could be some of the most disreputable people around. Helen wondered if she should have warned him off April the previous summer, when he had been coming to her for encouragement. At the time, she had been so happy he was showing enough interest in a girl to actually do something about it, that she had been willing to overlook the circumstances. Not that trying to dissuade Tim would have helped, anyway. Tim was determined to have his walk on the wild side, and so he had. For most of their friendship, Tim had not been judgmental of her, and she felt owed him the same. He had gotten enough shit from Jessica for the both of them, anyway. Helen missed Tim. She missed his sense of humor. She missed his insight. She missed having him in her life. He was one of those people that Helen needed to have her in her life-not all of the time, but a lot. He helped keep her sane. *      *      * Twenty minutes later, Helen heard a series of knocks on her door. Helen opened it and there stood Tim. He stood on her porch, holding his backpack in front of him, wearing faded black jeans and a black turtleneck. He shrugged, as if he expecting Helen would be disappointed to see him, but he was going to force her to endure his company anyway. Helen had a sinking feeling. Already this night looked it might be an interminable chore, yet another reminder of how much her life had come to suck. —Hi, Tim. Come in. —Hey. Tim entered and walked stiffly past her, darting his head around her house, appearing to study every detail, as if he were a detective at a murder scene, as he went in the kitchen. Helen shut her front door and followed. When she entered the kitchen, Tim was standing in front of the table, opening his backpack and taking books out. Bristle, who had been curled up on the stack of newspapers next to the backdoor, got up when she saw Tim and started meowing. Tim instantly went over to Helen's cat, baby-talking to her as he did, in the same awful way Sophie talked to her cats at her parents' place in Napa. —Meow meow, Bristle, Tim squawked. Meow meow. Helen went in the bathroom and peed. While she was seated on the toilet and waiting for the last drops to escape, she heard her front door open and close. Helen expected to hear Gretchen or Ellery say something, but heard nothing. Helen wiped, then got up to go to the bathroom and wash her face. When she exited the bathroom, Bristle was in the living room, meowing plaintively. Tim was nowhere to be seen. Helen looked in the kitchen, and saw that his backpack still lay on the chair. Bristle followed her, still meowing and brushing against her legs. Helen stroked Bristle's back, feeling the sharp bumps of her shoulder blades and spine. Bristle meowed even louder, and started to hop up and down on her front legs. —What's wrong, Bristle? Do you want to go outside? Helen opened the front door and felt the cool, fresh evening air waft lightly across her face and chest. She breathed in the sea-smelling air. Bristle, though, had no interest in going outside. Instead, she continued to meow and go in and out of Helen's legs. —You silly girl, Helen said. She closed the door and returned to her seat. She wondered what had gotten into Tim. Maybe he had gone to get something from his car. She looked out the front window, where his blue Mazda was across the street. No sign of him anywhere. Was he ever going to get back to normal? He was acting like a mummy, the way Tim always did when he was depressed. He seemed to act it out, like he had decided he needed to be depressed and then performed the role to such an exaggerated degree that it was almost a joke, except that it wasn't. As if he wanted attention, but if you gave it to him, he pushed you away. As if whatever you thought he wanted, he would act like he wanted something else. Reaching for China Men, Helen shoved Tim's scarecrow-like black-clad figure of gloom out of her mind and started to refresh her memory of the book. After a few minutes, Helen heard paw pads on the floor. Bristle came in and looked up at Helen with her blue-white, crossed eyes, mewling and looking extremely retarded. She went over to her food dish. Helen saw the reason for her cat's distress-she was completely out of food. She remembered that she needed to buy cat food, which she had forgotten to do on her way home from school. —I'm sorry, Bristle. I'll buy you some food, later. You can't be that hungry-you eat all the time. After reading a few more pages, Helen heard her front door open and shut. Tim appeared, carrying a white and orange 7-Eleven bag. —I'm back, he said. —Oh, Helen said. I didn't realize you were gone. Helen returned her attention to China Men. She heard the sound of cat food being poured into a bowl. Bristle, meowing ecstatically, began devouring it. Tim placed the cat food box on the table between them, then sat. —I got Bristle some food, he said. —I see. Thanks. —She seemed hungry. —She eats too much, Helen said. I just filled her food dish this morning. She needs to be put on a diet. —Helen, that's ridiculous. She's so scrawny. —She is not. Helen stared at him, challenging Tim to argue further. He looked back at her with a pseudo-superior expression, then opened the blue volume in front of him. —What are you reading? he asked a moment later. —China Men. —I remember that book. That's for Contemporary American Fiction, right? —Yeah. I'm re-reading it, or, Helen grimaced, reading the stuff I skipped the first time. —How do you like being a section leader, so far? —Oh, it's all right. It's too much work. Helen paused. She felt restless. They were never going to get any work done here. —Hey, do you want to go study at Golden West? Tim looked at her, but said nothing. He looked to the side, then to the window they left open a crack to air the kitchen out. He let out his breath. Helen rolled her eyes at him. Did a simple trip to a 24-hour pancake house really present Tim with such a monumental decision? She bit her tongue and waited, forcing him to answer. —Sure, he said slowly. That would be fun. Just like last year... if not last summer, he added in a lower tone. —Cool, Helen said. I'll drive. Helen gathered up her stuff and held the door open for Tim. They exited and walked down the staircase; Bristle shooting past them, then dodging left when she reached the bottom of the stairs, disappearing into the overgrown shrubbery. One of the things Helen liked about Holly street was that it was unusually wide for a side-street, which meant you didn't have to waste a lot of time parking neatly. Her sat in front of her house, two feet away from the curb and not strictly parallel with it, either. What could she say? She had been tired yesterday evening. —Ah, the scarlet Volvo, Tim said to her car. It's been a long time, he said, and patted it on the hood right in front of the passenger seat. Helen noted that unlike his indifferent "hey" when he had first seen her, his greeting of both her cat and her car were far more affectionate and enthusiastic, as if the accessories of her life were more important to him than she was. —It's red, Helen said, trying not to sound too exasperated. —It's not red, it's scarlet, Tim said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. Faded scarlet, he added, as if that would clear up any lingering confusion. —It's red. Cars aren't scarlet. —This one is, Tim said in an irritating complacent tone, as if God Himself had awarded him sole dominion over the naming of car colors. Helen wondered if Tim, in his over-literary way, was trying to draw some connection between her and that stupid book she had been forced to read in high school, The Scarlet Letter. If she ever found out that was what he was really thinking, she promised herself she would kick his ass. *      *      * Golden West was its usual quiet self when they arrived, looking exactly the same as it has the year before, and, Helen was sure, the same as it had every year since around 1960. The waitress, an older woman in a pink dress and white apron, just like Alice, seated them at one of the booths along the front wall. Helen sat facing the entrance, while Tim took the other side. As he sat, Helen saw his eyes darting all over the restaurant, as if there might be hidden gunmen sent to assassinate him hiding behind the counter and potted plants. Even for Tim, he seemed nervous and ill at ease, and he had never been the most comfortable person to begin with. Even once he was seated, he still kept looking around, as if he were looking for someone, or there someone looking for him that he didn't want to be seen by. When the waitress brought them coffee, though, Tim stopped his nervous glancing long enough to tear open five packets of sugar and deposit them in his coffee. He gulped the resulting beige sludge, then took out his unbelievably battered blue binder from his backpack. Helen swore it must have been the same binder he had been using since his freshman year of high school. It had a faded black and yellow diamond KUMM sticker on the back, and beneath it, a Van Halen logo drawn in black ink. The back cover was only held on by the smallest fragment of cardboard. Helen briefly fantasized about grabbing it from him and tearing the cover completely off to force him to get a new one, but decided not to. Instead, she took out Las Mujeres de las Nubes and looked with dread at the cover, a mosaic of three women created out of red, green and white triangles. —What book is that? Tim asked, snatching for it like a greedy child grabbing at some candy. —Here, look, Helen said, handing to him before he could rip it out of his hands. He ripped it out of her hands and stared at the cover, then opened it and looked at the table of contents. He read the names of the novel's three sections, his voice growing louder and more derisive with each one: —"The Women of the Clouds? "The Men of the Iron Streets"? "The Children of the Rainbow"? What the hell is this crap? Sounds like a bunch of Iron Maiden or Ronny James Dio songs. As if to prove his point, Tim began singing in a strangulated howl, his attempt, she guessed, at mimicking the high-pitched wail of a heavy metal singer. —The children of the rainbow... escape the darkness below... run away, run away... Look out! Tim's singing degenerated into a combination of laughter and coughing. —I know, I know, Helen said, laughing, but also glancing around Golden West to make sure no one she knew or was even remotely associated with UCSZ, was in a position to hear them. The hostess in the pink dress and white shoes regarded them with skepticism, and Helen decided they'd better leave an sizeable tip. —I don't know why I took this class, Helen said. Jessica said she really liked it. Tim turned the page and read for about thirty seconds with ferocious concentration, his brow growing more and more furrowed with each passing second. He closed the book with a snap. —Wannabe Faulkner, he announced. Lesbian Faulkner, he corrected himself. —I don't think she's a lesbian, Tim. —How do you know? —She has three children. The only part of the book Helen had been able to read was the author's profile on the inside back cover. —Well, then she's a wannabe lesbian writing wannabe Faulkner. So UC Santa Zita. It's not really anything, just something that wants to be something else, written by someone who wants to be someone else. It's someone who wants to be something that they're not writing about something they don't know, in a style they're not talented enough to imitate, he concluded, then gasped for breath. His voice had been rising higher and higher during his diatribe until Helen was afraid he might burst a blood vessel. —Can you tell me what it's about? Helen asked while Tim was catching his breath, wondering if she could somehow steer his avalanche of derision in a useful direction. —No idea, Tim said. I think they're doing laundry. In a river. There are soldiers, but they can't see them. I think the women are actually ghosts, or something. —Really? Helen quickly scribbled down a note. —Tell me more, she said. Tim looked at her skeptically. —If I wanted to read something complicated, I would find something worthwhile, like Tristram Shandy. I don't even like real Faulkner that much. He's over-rated. Tim held up the book he was reading and shook it in front of Helen's face, as if she were at fault. —You used to help me with my papers, she said. —I used to do a lot of things, Tim replied in a voice lowered for dramatic affect, his eyes flicking back and forth like a rattlesnake's. —If you don't want to help me, then don't, Helen said. Tim shrugged and resumed his nervous scanning of their surroundings. Helen decided that she might as well ask Tim now, before they got too deep into their work. Maybe it would even distract him from his constant surveillance. —Hey, do you want to do something next Wednesday night? —Wednesday night? Tim asked. Ah, he said, and smiled archly. Valentine's Day. Helen nodded. Tim was reacting just like she was afraid he was. —Just like last year, Tim said. You don't have Todd to hang out with. After a pause, Helen said: —So I guess you know we broke up? —Yeah, I know. Mick told me about it. He said you had. Broken up, I mean. —Yes. Two weeks ago, now. —Yeah. Tim looked away. He fiddled with the papers in front of him. —It's been really shitty, Helen said. I'm taking it hard, I don't know why. —Oh. Why has it been so hard? —I don't know. —Well... Tim let his breath out. He continued: —I guess that's good... that you finally decided it wasn't worth it. —Actually, he broke up with me. He dumped me. Tim looked up, eyes wide and focused on her. Helen was pleased to see that he was genuinely surprised by the revelation. —Oh. I didn't know. Tim seemed perplexed. Helen could almost see the gears whirring in his head. —Why? he finally asked. —Ask him, Helen said flatly. She let out her breath. She needed to talk about it. Who knows, Tim might even have something useful to say, like he used to. —No, I know why, Helen continued. It was a lot of things. We weren't communicating any more. I think he knew it was basically over. He just wanted to be the one who ended it. If he hadn't, though, I would have. —Good, Tim said, as if she were a recalcitrant child who had finally seen the error of her ways. —What's that supposed to mean? Helen asked. She scowled. She didn't need to be criticized, right now, especially by Tim. —You and Todd never worked out, and he always ended up hurting you. It took you a year and a half to realize that. If I hadn't been around last year to console you, you probably would never have been able to stay with him as long as you did. —That's not true, Helen said. That's now how it works. I'm glad you were there for me when Todd and I were broken up, but I could still deal. —Really? Tim said, and shook his head as if he didn't believe Helen was a reliable authority on the subject. So... then how does it work? Tell me. —Talking to you might have helped me, but it wasn't all or nothing. It's all... mixed up... You wouldn't understand, Helen finally said, infuriated by Tim's impassive mien, like a cruel teacher enjoying the humiliation of a student who'd been called on and didn't know the answer. —Why? —You know why... Helen smiled maliciously. Tim was going to get what he had coming to him. —You're not exactly an expert on real relationships. Tim, who had been bending forward, boring his eyes on her, sat back and looked away. He looked to his right, down the line of booths to the circular one in the corner. he fiddled with the ceramic sugar packet holder. —Maybe I am, he said in a quieter voice. Only in a different way-I have an objective viewpoint. As if Tim were an independent observer sent by aliens to study her. His tendency to think of himself as a watcher and not a participant in life maddened her. —Give me a break, Helen said. I stayed with Todd for my own reasons and it's my business, she said flatly. Tim made a triangle out of his hands, touching his fingertips together. —Okay, okay. But now you're single. Maybe you'll be happier that way. —Maybe. I want to start dating again. —So soon? Tim asked, seeming crestfallen at the news. —Why not? —I don't know. Why are you in such a hurry? —I'm not, I just want to go on a date, that's all. And meet new people. Get out the rut. —Yeah, I'd like to do that, too. But I don't think I can. It wouldn't be a good idea. I need to figure out some stuff in my life, before I start really living it again. As if living one's life were optional-just something you only had to do when you felt like it. Well, if you had a trust fund, and were as smart as Tim, maybe that was true. —Okay, Helen said. Call me when you do. She looked down at China Men. She had to keep reading. Had to think of interesting things to say for tomorrow, to fill the gaps in conversation before Peak took over. But it was no use. She felt Tim's hurt, glowering presence across the table. Any mention by her of his lack of romantic experience, no matter how true or deserved, inevitably made him retreat into this sullen shell. She shouldn't have brought that up-but his comment that it was only because of him that she was able to stay with Todd had really irritated her. She closed the paperback with an emphatic slap. —Look, I'm sorry. Behind his over-sized spectacles, Tim blinked furiously. He regarded her with trepidation. —It's okay, it's okay, he said quickly. I'm sorry, too. Very sorry. —About? —You and Todd. You guys. Everything, he said, and shrugged. I'm sorry about everything, he said, in a quiet tone that sounded like the last words of a dying man. —What is up with you? she asked. Is there something bothering you? Like specifically? Helen asked. For only the second time since they had gotten to Golden West, Tim looked her straight in the eye, his small brown pupils boring in on her through the warped curvature of his glasses. — Being here, Tim said. It's weird. I used to come here with April. It reminds me of her, that's all. We came here a few times-her, August, Caleb-that whole group. Last summer, Tim said, after another ridiculously long pause. The summer of '89, he said, as it were a movie or a Bryan Adams song. —Was the summer of '89 really all that great? Helen asked. She remembered fighting with Todd, shitty jobs, having no money, too many men in her bed. Anyway, if you miss them, so much, why don't you still hang out with them? —I've been cast out, Tim said, then got a faraway look in his eyes peering through the windows, into the misty night. Helen looked at their reflections in the high glass window that extended from table level to the ceiling, studying Tim's gaunt visage superimposed on the view of Marr Street, his face's reflection superimposed on a motel with a flashing red VACANCY sign. He could be maddeningly vague sometimes, like he wanted someone to have to make a big effort to get what he was saying out of him. Sometimes Helen was willing to play that game, but sometimes she wasn't. Life was hard enough as it was without intentionally making it harder. —Please, Helen said. —I know, I know, Tim said. Too many Kane College cardiac injuries, he said bitterly. —I'm sorry about that, Tim, Helen said quietly. I know you really liked that girl. —Girls, Tim said. —Couldn't you just pick one? Helen asked. —I thought I had, Tim said. But I lost them both. Or all three. Not that I ever really had a chance with any of them, he said. During Tim's previous sentences, his voice had grown so quiet it was as if he was just talking to himself. Helen hated that feeling, like she was just a prop in Tim's mind, and that he could have just as well been holding the conversation in his mind. —I don't think you and April ever had a future, Helen said. I don't know about the others. Tim nodded, a barely perceptible movement of his chin. —I know. But for a while, it seemed like maybe we did. And I didn't go for Robin, the way I should have. So now I'm being punished. We're all being punished. —No, we're not, Helen said, with asperity. Tim's words were like a personification of the self-pity she heard in herself and was trying to get away from. Tim shrugged. He didn't argue with her, but Helen knew he still felt that way. Both looked at each other, as if the other should say something, but neither did. Finally, they both looked down and resumed reading. *      *      * The rest of the night passed quietly. Helen actually managed to finish grading her papers, which was a major relief. She saw Tim maniacally scribbling little notes in the margins of the novel he was reading (Tristram Shandy, which Helen had never heard of), so she guessed Tim's night was a success, as well; at least, academically. They paid the bill, left a 25% tip and exited Golden West. Helen knew she should ask him about Valentine's Day again. She hoped her apology would smooth things over enough that Tim would be willing to hang out; if that indeed was what was standing in the way of them being friends again. Otherwise, she didn't know what she was going to do-she was starting to feel abandoned by everyone who professed to care about her. She opened Tim's door for him, then circled around the back of her car and got in the driver's seat. Once she had pulled out of the parking lot and back onto Marr Street, she broached the topic again. —So, did you want to do something on Wednesday? Helen asked. —Mmm... I might be busy, Tim said. —Doing what? Helen asked, and it came out sounding half-angry, half-desperate. Despite herself, she felt her eyes moistening at this absurd rejection. She needed someone to give a shit about her right now. —I'm sorry, Tim burbled. I mean I guess I could do something. —It's okay. It's not like I don't have work to do, too, Helen said. She felt her face redden with shame and embarrassment. She vision temporarily blurred, she nearly drove through a stop sign after she crossed the river. Her car shuddered to a halt with the brakes screeching like the suffering of the damned. Tim said nothing. Despite his tendency to be critical, Tim never criticized her driving, for which she was profoundly grateful. It was one of the many small things about Tim that added up to why he had become one of her closest friends. Helen wiped her eyes, then glanced to her right. To her surprise, he was looking at her with concern, almost tenderness-for the first time that evening, really looking at her. —Sorry, he said again. We can hang out. Helen's Volvo approached the San Christobal. The River street bridge arced over it. The pause in their conversation grew-not awkward, but definitely not natural either. Helen switched the radio on to her favorite station, KTNT. Part of her rebellion against Alta Lara was she rarely listened to KUMM, which broadcast out of San Jose, preferring instead Terra Nueva's KTNT or even KDAN. At this moment, though, KTNT let her down and was playing something that Helen didn't recognize but sounded dumb. —Sweet, Tim exclaimed, and started singing along with it in his off-key way. —That's a terrible song, Helen said. —Come on, it's the new Robert Plant, Tim said. It rocks. —Please, Helen said. He's like fifty years old. He should be gardening, or bee-keeping. Much to Helen's relief, the song quickly faded. The road in front of them sloped upwards as it ascended the bridge across the San Christobal, lined by dull orange lights on both sides. A single pedestrian trudged upwards, hands in both his pockets, alone. It only took Helen a second to recognize the next song, though. The guitar riff was so distinctive. Helen couldn't remember the song's name, of course, but it didn't matter, because she was sure Tim did. Anyway, she knew all the words. Helen and Tim smiled at each other. Tim rolled down his window and Helen turned up the volume. —Those crazy nights, Tim and Helen both sang lustily, perfectly on cue with the singer, if not exactly in key. Helen's red Volvo sped up the incline, past the single pedestrian and they briefly had a view of downtown Santa Zita, the large box-like structure with the words Del Rio dominating the skyline, the gaping holes in the mall where the buildings had been torn down, giving it an unnaturally uneven appearance, like a boxer smiling after a fight where he lost half his teeth. For the next few minutes, Helen and Tim sang along with the song, and with each other. Helen speeding along the river, Tim alternating between playing air guitar and air drums so frenetically Helen thought he might snap his seatbelt or break the windshield. They passed the movie theater where Tim had engaged in so much disreputability, but Tim was so transported by the song he didn't seem to have time to engage in any more obsessive nostalgia. —That totally reminds me of freshman year, Tim said. Do you remember? When we drove to the city? —Totally, Helen said. Totally. The song began to fade out, as Tim finger wiggled on an invisible fret-board and Helen sped through a yellow light that turned red the second after she decided they could make it. They zoomed through, Helen quickly scanning right and left to make sure there were no cops had seen her. A right turn onto Laurel, then a left onto Holly just in front of a Santa Zita County Transit bus. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw some teenagers hanging out in front of the 7-Eleven, and a memory flashed in her mind of pimping alcohol there while Jake and Dave Stone waited in her car. Helen roared down Holly Street, parking just as the guitar solo faded out. With a satisfying click, Helen switched her car off. Tim bounced out of the car and stretched out his arms. —That felt good, he said. Helen and Tim said good night, and Helen was pleased to see Tim reaching out to give her a quick hug. —You'll call me about Wednesday night, Helen said. —Yeah, totally, Tim said, and rushed across the street to his blue Mazda. Helen waited on the sidewalk until the Mazda started and sped away towards Redwood. Helen smiled to herself. Listening to the song was the most alive she's felt in weeks. Kind of sad that it took a Journey song to make her feel inspired. Worse, a Journey song from high school. What was her life coming to? As she stood on the sidewalk, she heard some piteous mewling. Bristle appeared from underneath a parked car and brushed herself against Helen's legs. —Oh, Bristle, Helen said, half-worried, half exasperated. She reached down and scooped up her little cat with one hand. Bristle instantly started purring, and rubbing her head against Helen's cheek, but at the same time struggling to get away. Helen held her cat for a few more moments, but finally the clawing started hurting more than she was enjoying the affection. —Okay, okay, Helen said. Here you go. She loosened her grip on Bristle, and her cat sprang from her body, scratching her on the arm in the process. She hit the ground and, without missing a beat, bounded up the stairs. Helen followed her. She took the rest of the food Tim had bought and poured it into Bristle's bowl. Why was her cat so crazy? Helen wondered if the experience of living at Holly street had permanently wounded Bristle, rendered her unable to interact with human beings normally. What age was Bristle in human years? She was past puberty, of course. She had already been fixed, thanks to the SPCA. Were she and Bristle the same age, allowing for the conversion of human to kitty years? Was Bristle's need to venture outside, get dusty and collect fleas somehow the kitty equivalent of going away to college? She looked into Bristle's goofily skewed pale blue eyes, but her cat had no answer, other than to broadcast a new sequence of piteous meows. Helen looked at the clock and saw it was time for bed. At least she had all of her papers evaluated now. She would be spared at least one of the things she hated about her section-their constant pestering her about when their papers would be done. *      *      * Helen stared at the Dead Kennedys logo carved in the tabletop in front of her, the only piece of graffiti legible from where she was standing. Hadn't Jello Biafra gone to UCSZ? Maybe he had inscribed it there personally. Her mouth hurt because she was clenching it so hard, trying to stop a yawn in mid-eruption. The classroom was terribly hot and crowded. A ring of students were seated at the four tables arranged in a square, and around them gathered still more, standing or sitting against the walls of the room. The multitude of bodies made the room seem far smaller than it was. Flies buzzed against the windows and occasionally flew around the people in the outer circle before they were shooed away. As always, most of the section seemed lost in half-attention, looking out the window at the bright corn-flower blue winter sky, doodling in their notebooks, or even catching up on their reading. Helen wished she hadn't done all those things so many times in UCSZ classes so she could feel more justified in her irritation. She glanced around and took stock of her students one by one. Helen had never really realized, from a teacher's perspective, just how pathetically obvious it was who was paying attention, and who wasn't. As a student, she had always felt like part of an anonymous, undifferentiated mass, but now she knew that her teachers and professors must have taken note of her boredom all these years. You had to have a pretty thick skin to be a teacher-thicker than what Helen wore. She just wished someone, anyone, would say something. Other than Peak. As usual, Peak's voice filled the room, seeming to drown out not only the possibility of others' speaking, but thinking as well. His words were delivered with such confidence, such overwhelming conviction that the world needed to hear them, and with such complete disregard and awareness of the tedium and torpor they induced in those unlucky enough to still be paying attention, that it infuriated Helen, but she had no conception of how to convince him to shut up that wouldn't make the class think she was on some kind of power trip. Besides Peak, the other member of the section likely to be paying attention at any given moment was Michael Sullivan, a freshman who looked younger than that, like he had just wandered into the section from a local high school; though possibly not a high school in this decade. Helen could feel Michael's eyes on her most of the time, though he rarely spoke. She had tried making eye contact with him a few times just for the hell of it, but he was too shy and always looked down, pretending to be absorbed in writing his notes. Michael took by far the most notes in the class. It showed in his papers, which were detailed and well-written, though a little dry. She thought of trying to draw him out somehow, but all she could think of was to call on him, since he never opened his mouth voluntarily, and just the thought of turning that power-mad gave her the creeps. She wondered, too, if, there was something more than just scholarly interest in his gaze. She got that vibe, and usually when she felt something like, it turned out be real. Especially when she didn't want it to be. —It's like last summer when I was back-packing in Guatemala, Peak was going on. You would go to these villages with, like, no TV or radio, and it was like, man, you really don't need that stuff. Peak brought up his trip to Central America during fall quarter at least once a section. Of all the indignities the United States had inflicted on Central America, she thought that three months of Peak might have been the worst. Helen glanced around the room, to gauge her section's interest in the latest volume of the "Life & Travels of Peak". Directly across from Helen's position at the center of the table parallel with the chalkboard, sat Maria Gaier. As usual, Maria wore a disdainful look, the same look she wore during most of the conversations in their section. Maria was the oldest woman in the section, older than Helen by about two years. She wore a simple cotton print dress, which seemed in a curious way to emphasize her advantage in both age and height over Helen. Compared to her, Helen felt like a high schooler in her blue sweater, white jeans and sneakers. Maria was a fifth-year senior taking the class because it was the only she could get into which satisfied her major requirements. Helen knew this because she had talked to Maria after the first section meeting. Helen had been impressed by some of her comments in the first section, and thought it a good idea to cultivate her acquaintance-as she might be a good ally. As the quarter had gone on, though, Helen's opinion of Maria had, like her opinion of so many of her students, only gotten worse and worse. Maria's attitude was patronizing, and Helen got the feeling that only her profound sense of sisterhood prevented Maria from letting Helen just how lame a section leader she really was. Also, she had stopped being a good contributor, as if the quality of discourse in the section was not up to a high enough standard for her to take part in. Such arrogance drove Helen crazy. Especially from a woman; and a woman who claimed allegiance to the feminist cause. Their eyes met for a second, and Helen hoped that it would challenge Maria to break into Peak's monologue. But no such luck. Instead, Maria just averted her eyes to the window facing the Terra Nueva bay. —So I was like talking to this guy who was some kind of, like, tour guide, or shaman, and he was telling me about climbing the volcano at night, and I was like "yeah, okay, cool, I'll do that". But then he totally flaked, so I just went off into the jungle by myself. I saw a tarantula, which was intense, because that's my like, totem animal. —Thank you, Peak, Helen said. —No prob, he said. Helen could tell he had only been pausing to take a breath, gathering himself to launch into the next chapter of the saga, in which he ended up falling asleep in a clearing (baked out of his gourd, Helen was sure) and waking up covered with stinging red ants. Just imagining Peak being stung half to death was almost worth listening to him tell the story, but not quite. He gave her a winning smile, as if were granting her a huge favor by letting her break in. Helen picked up the chalk and, instead of answering the question of whether it was possible to kill someone with a piece of chalk by flinging it at Peak's huge dome of dark curly hair, turned to the chalkboard. Peak's tale had made her think about geography, and the paper she had written for the class that had gotten her into this mess in the first place, so she wrote: China USA And underlined both. —These are the two worlds of China Men. —What about Hawaii? one student asked from the corner between the two windowed walls. —That's part of the US. —I think it's like where the two worlds collide, another girl said. Helen nodded, amazed that actual intellectual discourse seemed to be occurring in her section. —That's great, Jennifer. As Jennifer continued on, Helen wrote Hawaii on the chalkboard between the USA and China, drew a wiggly circle around it in a vague attempt to replicate what she remembered the island of Hawaii looking like on a map. She had only been there once, and it hadn't been for vacation. She and her mother had spent two hours in Honolulu, changing flights. It had been the first stop on the journey that had taken them from Guam to Minnesota, to begin their new, husband and father-less life. She remembered how sweet the air had smelled, like a bouquet of flowers, instead of a wet blanket of rotting lettuce like it had in Guam. She and her mother had stopped there to transfer between the military transport from Guam and the United flight that would take them to LA, after which they would connect to Minneapolis-their final destination on the far side of the world. Helen and her mother had ridden the wiki-wiki bus between terminals, since the bus from the Air Force base had dropped them off at the wrong one. Unlike the Air Force bases, where people were constantly telling you where to go and what to do, in the civilian world you were pretty much left to figure it out for yourself. Helen's mother had tried to cheer her up by pointing out the silly, sing-song name of the bus. But Helen had been too scared, and too determined to be grown-up and not show she was afraid, to enjoy the name and had just scowled, said "yeah, that's so cute, mom". Her mother suddenly looked so sad-her eyes had started to water, and Helen felt a chasm open, the world disintegrate, surrounded by fat and happy tourists laughing excitedly, about to begin a week in paradise. Helen had hated them all and wanted to shout "can't you see my mom is sad?!". She hated their huge butts in shorts big enough to be used as tents, plastic flower leis and Polaroid instant cameras around their neck, children crying because they hadn't been bought a present in the airport gift shop, not because their parents had just split up, and their mother had told them they would never see their father again, that she should never see her father again, or want to see him, and if she did it wouldn't be allowed, and she might be slapped just for asking; and they were going to Minnesota where it snowed in the winter and if you got locked out of your house you would die from the cold. Helen had wanted so badly to stay overnight in Honolulu, to see the stuff she had seen on TV-the beaches, surfing, and volcanoes. She wanted to see Hawaii 5-0. But they had no time, her mother said, not enough money to stay even one night. Maybe another time. When they had moved to Alta Lara and their financial situation had somewhat improved, her mother had talked about it, but they always ended up going somewhere else. Meanwhile, Sarah went there seemingly at the drop of a hat since her family had a timeshare in a condo on Maui. Jake and Todd Forrest had gone during senior year. Helen was invited but had to decline, since she had to save her money for her freshman year at UCSZ. Helen forced herself to stop ruminating, aware that Jennifer had finished. —But what does Hawaii really mean as a place? Helen asked. Isn't it kind of a stop, on the way to someplace else? —Not for the people who lived there, before the white man came and killed them all, said the short-haired girl. Hawaii was their home, she said plaintively. Everyone in the section nodded and murmured in agreement. Helen had the distinct feeling that they all felt she had made a terrible faux pas. —Well, Helen said, that's true, Brianne. —It's Brionne, the girl said. —Sorry, Helen said, to which Helen added "stupid little valley girl PC-wannabe bitch" in her mind. Now, instead of her jaw, her teeth were starting to hurt from gritting them so much. The pause that followed was so awkward it seemed to suck every possible idea out of Helen's brain. She waited for Peak to fill it with one of his idiot monologues, but he seemed to have fallen inexplicably silent. She glanced at him, and he was apparently so absorbed in his next masterpiece of doodling that he couldn't be bothered to participate. Helen licked her lips and suddenly realized what it means to have stage fright. Someone coughed and paper rustled. All Helen could think of was the scene on that bus and how impossibly lost she had felt, and after that, how terrifyingly dark the flight had seemed. She had tried to sleep, but instead she just stared out the oval window at the black sky, infinite darkness above and below, no moon, no stars, no anything. Just a black void that had seemed to swallow Helen, her mother, and everyone else on the plane. It had been such a relief when she had dozed off, then came awake to see bands of red, pink and yellow light in the east-reassurance that the world hadn't come to an end after all. Movement, unexpected movement, that Helen would have thought was a student raising their hand if it hadn't come from a table with some of her most somnolent students, caught Helen's eye. She thought at first it was just a fly being swatted away, but then she saw it was one of the freshmen, Michael, slowly raising his hand, and looking as if he would take it back down at the slightest opportunity. Helen didn't intend to give him that chance. —Michael, right? She smiled at him. —But they came from other parts of Polynesia, Michael said. The Hawaiian islands were only settled for a few hundred years before Captain Cook d- sailed there. —Thank you, Michael, Helen said with relief. That's a good point. Michael smiled shyly, the first time Helen could remember him smiling. That smile disappeared the second Peak's voice came booming across the room. —But those people were peaceful, man. They didn't even have, like, weapons. A few of the other students murmured in agreement. Helen saw Michael frown in disbelief. It seemed like he was about to say something, but held back. Helen had no idea who was right, and she didn't think there was much point to getting in an argument about history, which she could just see going round and round in circles with no resolution. Instead, she tried to bring the conversation back to the book. —What about the women? Helen asked. Where are they happiest? *      *      * Helen stood with her back to the chalkboard, satisfied that for at least once her section was having a half-way decent discussion. The subject had shifted from China Men to Raymond Carver, but that was fine with Helen as long as they didn't have to hear more about Peak's escapades in Guatemala. —I think the impulse to fix the meaning of texts in an absolute way is part of a patriarchal system which freezes literary interpretation in order to prevent feminist rereadings, Maria said. Helen forced her eyes upwards. She saw that her section, by their expressions, postures and murmurs of assent, agreed with Maria. She was torn between pleasure that Maria had broken her contemptuous silence, and irritation at the flat, authoritative tone the words were delivered in. Feeling that Maria was being way more dogmatic than was appropriate, Helen decided to try and open the conversation up. —What do other people think? Is it a good idea if there is one true meaning to a book, or story, or whatever? —I think ultimately there must be a truth in what we read, else the act of reading would be pointless-an endless circle of people interpreting and re-interpreting, with no end, ever. —Maybe that's what it is, said one student, who had a brown pony-tail and wore and orange and green pullover. He gained an appreciative laugh from many of the other students in the section, which he received with a grin and a self-conscious smoothing of some hairs that had escaped the rubber-band holding the rest. —But if that's so, said Michael, how can literature ever actually do something? Like educate, or... Several students nodded in agreement. —That's true, one murmured. —Good point, another said. Helen nodded as well. She liked the sound of Michael's well-phrased words. His measured and reasonable tones distracted her from her caffeine jitters. She hoped someone other than Maria would respond, but then she saw Maria lift her pinky finger, a motion which made her seem weirdly aristocratic. —I'm not sure that's what education should be, said Maria. Helen looked around the room. She was pleasantly surprised to see that most of the students were paying attention, but none of them added anything. They merely followed the conversation between Michael and Maria by turning their heads back and forth. Helen found Michael very appealing because she knew he was being absolutely honest-which was rare in her section. He wasn't trying to please anyone with what he said. She hoped it didn't get him in trouble. She was about to say something, to unite the two sides harmoniously, because she thought it was silly for people to disagree about something like literature, when Peak raised his hand slightly. —It's all true, though, Peak said. Everyone has their own truth, you know. It's capitalist bullshit to say there's just one way to do something. The government wants you to think there's only one truth. But you have to break on through that. To the other side, he concluded with a crooked smile. Again the students sitting at the table nodded and murmured agreement. Michael, though, frowned and blurted out: —But you have to be careful about the truth, and make sure you have the right one. I think Carver was demonstrating the degree to which everyone is intellectually responsible for his or her own salvation or damnation. Helen's eyes widened. She knew Michael's statement would get a negative reaction. What's more, she knew that he wouldn't expect such a personal response in an intellectual discussion. She felt hot in her face and the lower middle of her chest, hearing the rustle of bodies as the students tried to release the accumulated tension. Maria Gatellis rolled her eyes at Michael's statement. Helen heard murmurs and giggles and a whispered mockery, aimed against this obvious freshman that had violated the unwritten laws of the UCSZ section. Maria looked into Helen's eyes, narrowing her eyes slightly. Helen felt a little intimidated by her direct gaze, but she could not allow the upperclasswoman to usurp her position. Helen decided to deflect Maria, and the rest of the section who had set themselves firmly against Michael, by stating their judgment in a more gentle way. —Well, Michael, I think you're right to a degree. But you know, there are many things beyond the characters' control. To place all the blame on the individual removes any responsibility from society. Maria stared hard at Helen. Helen looked back with what she hoped was a pleasantly neutral expression. She wiped her hand on her pants. Her hand felt sweaty and scummy because of all the coffee she had drunk, and the ache in her left temple was getting harder to ignore. She remembered as she was wiping her hand that she had worn her white jeans that day, and realized with annoyance that there was now a faint brown stain on her leg. She leveled her head and smiled to her section as a whole, hoping the crisis had passed. But Peak had more to say, and with great misgivings, Helen gestured for him to speak. —I think that saying someone's responsible for everything that happens to them is just a way of blaming the victim, Peak said. Here we have people getting totally screwed over by the system, and then you're saying it's they're fault? I think that's way out of line, dude. Helen stood and watched this exchange, trying to think of a way to steer her section away from the argument, since no good was going to come of further discussion. She looked at the faces of the students and sighed inwardly. They seemed set on judgment. —But the question isn't society, the question is the individual's response to society, Michael responded, his voice breaking at the end. Nobody said anything. It was as if Michael had ceased to exist. He slumped, and seemed, to Helen, to withdraw from the world. Helen shrugged, and decided it was time to move on. Forgetting again, she wiped her hand again on her pants several times. She looked across the room to Michael. For the first time, his eyes met hers unyieldingly, but they were sad and disappointed. She had let him down. She realized just how much he liked her, and the absurdity of it all almost made her break out in laughter in front of the entire section. It was all so ridiculous. Why? Why not? What was wrong with him? Not only did he have no idea how to act in a UCSZ section, what business did he have getting a crush on her? Helen felt helpless to aid Michael, and angry at him for being so defenseless and making an ass of himself. He was smart enough, but he lacked the social skills; the sense, the knowledge of what to say (and more importantly what not to say) in a UCSZ section. Helen broke her gaze away and did not look back in Michael's direction for the rest of the section. There were only about five minutes left, so Helen decided to wrap things up. She told her class: —I have your papers from two weeks ago. Helen passed out the evaluated papers to her students, noting that none of them would make eye contact with her. When she gave out the last one, she almost ran out of the room, she was so glad the section was over. She was glad she had coffee with Roxy at Fremont College to look forward to. Without that, she thought she might just go lie down in a bed of ferns under the redwoods and do nothing until the sun went down and the moon rose. *      *      * Helen rushed up to Roxy, who stood just outside the coffee shop doors and smiled widely when she saw Helen hurrying down the hall. She and Helen hugged, then went inside and stood in line. —How was section? Roxy asked. Unwilling to face the reality of her section, Helen chose something ridiculous to focus on, in the hopes that Roxy might find it amusing. —Oh, God. One of the freshmen has a crush on me. —No way. —I know. It's so bothersome. —Is he cute? —No, not really. He's kind of underdeveloped, physically. —A nerd? —Sort of. Really serious. He never smiles. —Weird. —Yeah. Out of the corner of her eye, Helen spied someone from her section enter the coffee shop-a sophomore guy she named Matt. Vaguely cute, but a little too short. She looked away, hoping he hadn't seen her. She shivered and yawned simultaneously. She saw the girl in front of her buy a tall, steaming cup of coffee. It looked too good to pass up. Helen knew she shouldn't drink more coffee, but she didn't know how she was going to get through the rest of the day without it. Once Roxy and Helen both bought coffee, Helen led her friend to a small table in the corner, vacated just as they left the counter. —I'm sorry about Tuesday night, said Helen. —You don't have to be sorry about anything. You needed to really talk about it. —I feel so ridiculous. It's been two weeks. You'd think I'd get over it. —Don't worry about it. Some things take time. Roxy grabbed Helen's hand and Helen felt her slender fingers squeeze Helen's. She wished she had hands as elegant as Roxy's. Helen's were more stubby and mannish. —Thanks, Roxy. I just feel so stupid. —You need to forget about it and move on. —Yeah. —Any hot prospects? asked Roxy. Other than the freshman. Helen mock pouted. —No. —I would think being a TA would help. —Not in a lit class. The only good looking guys in literature sections are gay. Or incurably annoying. —Can I quote you on that? —Sure. Helen gulped her coffee. She remembered Michael again. She should have been nicer to him. She should have stopped her section from coming down so hard on him. He didn't know any better. During the pause, Roxy had been looking outside. She looked back at Helen, and let her breath out. —You know, I've been thinking, relationships don't seem to ever work out in Santa Zita. Look at Peter and Jamie- —Or you and Torrance. —Yeah. And you haven't had any better luck, either. Granted, you were with Todd for a long time, but it was very up and down. —To say the least, Helen agreed. Mostly down. —It's like the whole place is cursed. —Everyone here just has a stick up their butt, that's all. —I don't know. It's like the coolest people are the ones who have the most trouble. Helen moved her hair out of her eyes. —Maybe. There was probably more to it than that. But Helen didn't feel like pursuing it any further. She didn't want to think about Todd, and even if Roxy wanted to talk about Torrance, Helen didn't really want to think about him, either. She had gotten rid of Todd-why couldn't Roxy forget about Torrance, and, for that matter, why didn't Gretchen break up with Bill? Didn't they see how stupid it was to be obsessed with guys that were such dicks? —What's wrong? Roxy asked. —Nothing, Helen said. Why do you ask? —You look kind of irritated. —Oh, I'm just PMSing. Or it's too much coffee. I don't know. Both were silent for a minute. Helen felt a sudden desire to leave the cafe, but she before she could take her leave, Roxy had thought of more to talk about. —Jake has a date... —Really? Helen said. Over winter break Jake had broken up again with his girlfriend from Alta Lara, Christa. Helen hadn't actually been that bummed, since she thought Christa was a possessive bitch. Helen had been friends with Jake for a long time, and though she thought he was, objectively speaking, attractive, she had never really been psyched on him, and her manner towards him indicated that. They flirted, but it was the kind of flirtation that was obviously, to anyone with an ounce of perception, never meant to go anywhere. Christa's attitude towards her, then, was an indication to Helen that she was pathologically insecure-an opinion that was echoed by Jake's other female friends from Alta Lara, like Sarah and Alice. —With who? Helen asked. —Some chick he met in his French class. —Ah, oui, Helen said. She smiled, but at the same time she felt a little pang. Jake had broken up with his girlfriend, but now he had a date. Life goes on. At least for him. —I should go, Helen said. What's up for this weekend? —De nada, Roxy replied. That I know of. I might have to study, she said, and grimaced. —God, Helen said. What's happening to us? Are we getting old? Roxy shrugged. —Let's go see a movie, Helen said. Study break. —Sure. Roxy replied. Any one in particular? —Crazy For Love, Helen said, and embellished the title with a wild movement of her eyes, eyebrows and cheekbones. —Sure, Roxy laughed. Call me when. —Okay. Maybe I'll call Tim. —I haven't seen him all quarter. Since Peter's birthday party. A slight inclination of Roxy's head indicated to Helen that she knew about her estrangement from Tim. Helen wondered who had told her about it-probably Jessica. —Neither have I, Helen said simply. But we hung out last night. —He feeling any better? —I guess... yeah. It was okay. We're supposed to hang out this Wednesday. —Isn't that Valentine's Day? —Yes, Helen said, it is. My least favorite day of the year. —Valentine's Day sucks. —Yeah it does. So I'm boycotting it. —Good for you. Is Tim? Helen gave Roxy a sharp look. —Who knows? Helen said. I think he's still pining away for that high school chick from last summer. —Are you kidding? Roxy said incredulously. The one that Torrance sold weed to? Roxy shook her head and rolled her eyes. —Whatever on that, Helen said. I really need to go. —Alright. See you this weekend. Adios. Roxy bent down, and gave Helen a hug. They exited the cafe, Roxy going through the back sliding glass doors that led in the direction of Humphrey College, while Helen went out the front doors towards the Fremont courtyard. As she walked along the terraced courtyard, she took in the view of the Terra Nueva bay and peninsula, magnificent as always, luring her with its seeming independence from the rest of the land. She briefly fantasized about moving there, getting a high-paying waitress job at a swanky restaurant, and being able to afford her own place. She would still be close enough that she could keep in touch with Jessica, Roxy and her other friends, but it would still qualify as a new life. *      *      * Helen jiggled the key in the lock, waited for it to catch, and shoved the door open. The house was dark, which meant her housemates weren't home, which was a relief. Out of habit, she glanced at the answering machine. The red light blinked ominously, like the eye of a lizard lurking in a cave. She had no intention of listening to the messages. Not today, when she was too tired, too stressed. Even as she stood, caught between the answering machine and the corner of the wall, thoughts of what those messages might be clicked in her mind. Her mother, wondering why she hadn't called. Sarah, wondering the same. A student, wondering where their paper was. Joseph Harkes, demanding yet another meeting. The credit card company, wondering where their money was. As the potential disasters that the blinking light might portend cascaded through her mind, Helen realized she was still standing, holding her backpack, paralyzed. The thoughts kept flashing by despite her efforts to cut them off. With a chilling stab in her stomach, she wondered if she might be losing control of her mind. She threw her backpack on the couch and went in her room. She moved the pile of laundry she was planning to do that weekend off the bed. She fell on to her bed and had just enough energy left to kick off her shoes. They hit the door with a satisfying clunk. Helen drifted off into a troubled half-sleep. Every time she was about to completely lose consciousness, the phone would jangle her awake. After four rings separated by an endless wait, the answering machine clicked on. The messages all sounded like they were for her; the voices irritated because she was napping instead of answering the phone. *      *      * Helen woke up, a jolt crashing through her nervous system like an electric shock. For a moment, she wondered if there had been another earthquake, but the house was still-no vibration of walls and rattle of objects like a big truck passing by. In the months after the quake, she had tormented by such dreams-normal scenes interrupted by intense vibration, shaking her until she awoke in a state of cold terror. She sat up, rubbed her eyes and scratched her belly. She remained sitting in bed for more several minutes, wondering what time it was and trying to figure out if it were morning or evening. She looked down and realized she was in jeans and a T-shirt. She remembered that she had only been napping. She hadn't meant to sleep so deeply, and she certainly hadn't meant to dream, especially one so vivid and apropos. The dream had sstarted with her driving her car over the route 27, back from Alta Lara, though she couldn't remember why she had been there. There was no one in the passenger seat. Tim and her grandfather were in the back. They were on the windiest part of route 27, the downhill section right after the crest. Despite her efforts to control it, her car kept going faster and faster. The brakes didn't really seem to work. Tim and her grandfather didn't seem concerned, though-they just talked in low voices about how typical it was and how Helen was always getting into these kinds of scrapes. She couldn't hear much of what they said, just a low murmur of disapproval. At some point, Joseph Harkes joined them in the car, and he too seemed utterly unconcerned that Helen's Volvo was uncontrollably careening down route 27's serpent-like curves, somehow keeping from either going over the barrier or plowing into the line of semi-trailer trucks on the other side. He was talking about the car as a symbol for life, and how driving was symbolic of how someone deals with life. Tim and her grandfather couldn't stop agreeing at how true it really was, that Joseph had hit the nail on the head. Tim kept saying "it's so perfect, it's so perfect" over and over. Finally Helen got so angry she let go of the steering wheel, yelling "shut up" at the three of them. For a moment, Helen thought she would crash, but the car seemed to have a mind of its own, and they shot even faster down the curves approaching Welsh Valley. It was obvious that very soon they were all going to be killed in a horrible accident and it was all her fault, but Helen found herself to be oddly accepting of it all, as if it were exactly what she had expected would happen. Helen shook her head, trying to dispel it from her mind. Couldn't her subconscious cut her some slack? Life was hard enough without these psychologically revealing dreams. Maybe she should tell Tim about it. No, it was too easy for him to interpret. And she wasn't sure she wanted him to know he was in her dreams-it might over-excite him. Through the wall, she heard the sound of a cupboard door being open and shut. She realized that someone else had returned to house. Bleary eyed, Helen got out of bed and exited her bedroom. Once in the kitchen, she saw Gretchen crouched in a corner. —Hey, Gretch', Helen said. Gretchen was picking through potatoes one by one in the torn mesh bag. A few potatoes had spilled out on to the floor. One in the corner, Helen saw, had been there long enough to sprout a curly green shoot. Helen shook her head slowly. Now that she was more awake, her stomach ached from hunger, but she had just lost her appetite, watching Gretchen pick through the moldy potatoes. Why did she live like this? Her home was slowly decaying into a hovel. It had never been like this the year before. —Hey, Hel, Gretchen mumbled. Helen sat at the table and ran her hand through the pile of mail that Gretchen must have just brought in. On top was an angry looking letter from Western Bell-no doubt a disconnection notice. To her surprise, she saw a hand-addressed envelope beneath it. From one David Stone, in Winterton, Mass. She felt a deep pang of unexpected dread inside of her, and shoved the letter under the pile of Victoria's Secrets catalogs. She hoped Gretchen wouldn't ask her about it. —How was school? Helen asked. —Shitty. Life sucks. —Yeah it does. Gretchen stood up and showed Helen two potatoes. —Dinner, Gretchen said. —Oh, boy. Gretchen went to the sink. She took a stack of plates off the counter and put them onto another stack in the sink. It teetered and hit the back of the sink with a loud clink. —Where's Bristle? Helen asked. She hadn't seen her cat since she had come home. —I saw her outside, playing in the garden next door. —I'm worried about her roaming around this street. There are so many weird people around. —She needs food. —I know. We need to go to the grocery store, but I have no money. —I thought you were going to the job center. —I will, this week. It's just that I have no time. —Yeah. After rinsing off a knife, Gretchen sliced the potatoes into round discs. —There are messages for you on the answering service, said Gretchen. —From who? —I don't know. I think one of them is Alice. —Oh, I can't talk to her right now. I haven't returned her last three phone calls. —Can I erase them? —Sure, go ahead. I don't care. I have nothing to say to anyone. *      *      * Helen