that? It’s not natural, except it is, and it’s all naturally him. I wonder if he remembered to flyer the telephone poles over by the River dorms. Last time the beat brothers skipped that spot, and we always get a few folks from the River dorms if we flyer it.
“Emmy, dinner!” I hear Granny call from the hallway.
Dinner tonight is my favorite, thin spaghetti and Mom’s homemade gravy. I eat as much as I can to avoid the critical stares and then explain I have a paper due and need to leave early.
“That’s what I’m talking about,” Mom says. “Being responsible.”
She has no concept that dragging three guys and a vanload of thousands of dollars’ worth of equipment six hours north to Boston, playing a show to a packed crowd at the Middle East, managing to get paid your guarantee, leaving with all your stuff, and driving home all night in a snowstorm so you can turn in your paper for Modern Novel the next morning is the height of personal responsibility. I’ve tried to explain it, but she doesn’t see it that way. She sees it as “fun.” A “hobby.” And I’m resigned to the fact that that she’ll never see it otherwise.
“Any cute guys at school this semester?” Granny asks as I’m sopping up the last bit of gravy with a piece of white bread, because that’s all we’ve got in the house.
“Plenty,” I say. “But I’m too busy studying to pay attention to any of them.”
“I like that one boy in your band,” she says. “Blondie. He’s a honey.”
“You can’t date boys in your own band,” I say. “Bands have rules against that kind of thing. It’s like dating your boss.”
“Then what fun is it?” she asks, with complete sincerity. “Being surrounded by cute boys and never dating any of them?”
“I don’t do it for fun,” I say. “I’m trying to accomplish something. Did you work at Lipton for fun?”
“No, but I did meet your grandfather there,” she says with a wink, and what can I say?
She wins.
***
I know I should be home working on my poetry paper, but instead I’m standing on Travis’s front porch. I drove straight here from Mom’s because I have important, unfinished business with Travis. The way we left it at Neubies this morning isn’t okay—things are too weird and I need to un-weird them in a hurry—so on my way home I stop in front of his house, park across the street. I see the light on in his room and get out of the car, but I can’t seem to get further than the front porch. The doorbell is right there, but I just stare at it because I have no idea what I’m going to say to him yet. I’m still working on it.
We can’t go on like this.
It isn’t you, it’s me.
Let’s just try to be adults here. It’s only sex.
Oh wait, I tried that one already and it was a dismal failure.
I’m not prepared when the door opens and there’s Travis, barefoot and his hair is all messy like he’s been napping on it.
“Hi,” I say.
“Hi.” There’s a long pause and then he opens the screen door and I go in.
Travis lives in an old house a few blocks from me in Highland Park with George from the local punk band Fester, but George isn’t here. He’s probably drinking at the Ale ’n ’Wich with the Rutgers women’s rugby team since he’s their coach.
The living room and the entire downstairs is dark. Travis puts on a light and offers me a seat but I don’t take it. He stands there with his hands in his pockets, leaning against the back of the couch.
“How was flyering?” I ask.
“It was fine,” he says. “I got the River dorms. I even went up to Vintage Vinyl. Picked up the Archers of Loaf album.”
“Make a tape for me?”
“Already did.”
But I don’t really care about Archers of Loaf right now. I care about how Travis’s forearms are flexing as he crosses them in front of his chest. Without realizing I’m going to do it, I let out a noisy, exasperated sigh because I’m so frustrated with myself, because I can’t stop wanting him. How am I going to rehearse with him if I can’t stop thinking about how much I want to fuck him all the time?
“Emmy, what’s the matter?” he says.
“I don’t want it to be weird,” I say. “That’s all.”