Read Online And Now You Can Go by Vendela Vida - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Vendela Vida
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head at first, but I remind myself that his dirty blond hair always darkened in the winter.
"Hi," I say. I've brought the pepper spray with me in my jacket pocket.
He doesn't turn around. I walk around so I'm facing him. His eyes are gray. He has one set of eyelashes that are blond; those in the other set are brown. I used to love this about him. Now the imbalance frightens me.
"Happy birthday," I say.
He looks at the radiator as it releases steam. On the stereo, a violin is playing scales.
"Here," I say, and hold out the envelope. He takes it from me with his left hand. His right wrist is still messed up from the car accident.
The heat's on much too high in the apartment and I feel like I'm choking. I tell myself what I always tell myself when confronted with him, or the rumors I hear about him: It's not my fault .
"How are you doing?" I ask. I wonder if he'd have been different, better off, if he weren't an only child.
He's not even looking at me, but at a miniature model his father has of his house on Lake Como, in Italy. His mother, a divorce lawyer, got everything else. "Oh, just great.
Everything's fucking great," he says. "What can I do?" I ask.
"What can I do?" he mimics. "Please give me a break," I say. "Why should I?"
I tell him that someone recently could have killed me, that someone came very close to killing me. I tell him that I almost died, that I almost had no choice.
He turns his mismatched eyelashes and pilled-up, dulled eyes in my direction. "Lucky you," he says.
"I'm going to go," I say. "But before I do, could you please count the money? While I'm here?"
"You think I'm going to lie?"
"I just want to be sure we both see the money and that we both agree that I don't owe you anything else."
On the stereo, the violin keeps playing scales. I know this tape. Nicholas's parents made him play violin from the time he was four. Toward the end of high school, he wanted to quit. His parents, who met with the high school's college admissions counselor on a regular basis, wouldn't let him.
Nicholas made five tapes of himself practicing and would rotate playing them on the stereo. Outside his bedroom door, his parents would think he was dedicating hours to the instrument, when in fact he was in Central Park with friends, smoking weed. Now he's started playing these tapes again.
Nicholas has counted the money and is now counting it a second time. "Listen," he says, "why don't you take some of it back. I feel bad." "Really?" I say.
"Yeah," he says. He takes a one-hundred-dollar bill and tears in into pieces, into confetti, and tosses it in my direction.
"Do you know how many hours you just threw away?" "Did you sell some more of yourself ?"
I walk to the door, past a maid vacuuming. The maid wears a black dress and a white apron. She looks up as I leave.
A narrow bench is built into the back of the elevator. I sit down as the car begins its twenty-one floor descent. One floor for every year of my life. I want to believe this has some significance, but I can't think what it could be.
I get off the subway at 116th Street and walk to Schermerhorn Hall to check my mail in the student lounge. White Christmas lights hang from trees on campus in strange constellations. I zip my blue coat all the way up—I bought it in San Francisco and it's too thin for this weather. Somewhere, at some point in the last few days, I've lost my scarf.
Hanging folders, arranged in alphabetical order, function as our mailboxes. Papers are stuffed and mangled into my folder: a notice about final papers; information about a class excursion; an invitation to another Christmas party, now four days past; a paper returned by a professor. I got a good grade. I look at the date. November 30. Not even that long ago, but I have to read the first paragraph to remember what it was about: the architecture of a convent in Venice.
Two professors, one male and one female, have written me letters saying they heard what
"Hi," I say. I've brought the pepper spray with me in my jacket pocket.
He doesn't turn around. I walk around so I'm facing him. His eyes are gray. He has one set of eyelashes that are blond; those in the other set are brown. I used to love this about him. Now the imbalance frightens me.
"Happy birthday," I say.
He looks at the radiator as it releases steam. On the stereo, a violin is playing scales.
"Here," I say, and hold out the envelope. He takes it from me with his left hand. His right wrist is still messed up from the car accident.
The heat's on much too high in the apartment and I feel like I'm choking. I tell myself what I always tell myself when confronted with him, or the rumors I hear about him: It's not my fault .
"How are you doing?" I ask. I wonder if he'd have been different, better off, if he weren't an only child.
He's not even looking at me, but at a miniature model his father has of his house on Lake Como, in Italy. His mother, a divorce lawyer, got everything else. "Oh, just great.
Everything's fucking great," he says. "What can I do?" I ask.
"What can I do?" he mimics. "Please give me a break," I say. "Why should I?"
I tell him that someone recently could have killed me, that someone came very close to killing me. I tell him that I almost died, that I almost had no choice.
He turns his mismatched eyelashes and pilled-up, dulled eyes in my direction. "Lucky you," he says.
"I'm going to go," I say. "But before I do, could you please count the money? While I'm here?"
"You think I'm going to lie?"
"I just want to be sure we both see the money and that we both agree that I don't owe you anything else."
On the stereo, the violin keeps playing scales. I know this tape. Nicholas's parents made him play violin from the time he was four. Toward the end of high school, he wanted to quit. His parents, who met with the high school's college admissions counselor on a regular basis, wouldn't let him.
Nicholas made five tapes of himself practicing and would rotate playing them on the stereo. Outside his bedroom door, his parents would think he was dedicating hours to the instrument, when in fact he was in Central Park with friends, smoking weed. Now he's started playing these tapes again.
Nicholas has counted the money and is now counting it a second time. "Listen," he says, "why don't you take some of it back. I feel bad." "Really?" I say.
"Yeah," he says. He takes a one-hundred-dollar bill and tears in into pieces, into confetti, and tosses it in my direction.
"Do you know how many hours you just threw away?" "Did you sell some more of yourself ?"
I walk to the door, past a maid vacuuming. The maid wears a black dress and a white apron. She looks up as I leave.
A narrow bench is built into the back of the elevator. I sit down as the car begins its twenty-one floor descent. One floor for every year of my life. I want to believe this has some significance, but I can't think what it could be.
I get off the subway at 116th Street and walk to Schermerhorn Hall to check my mail in the student lounge. White Christmas lights hang from trees on campus in strange constellations. I zip my blue coat all the way up—I bought it in San Francisco and it's too thin for this weather. Somewhere, at some point in the last few days, I've lost my scarf.
Hanging folders, arranged in alphabetical order, function as our mailboxes. Papers are stuffed and mangled into my folder: a notice about final papers; information about a class excursion; an invitation to another Christmas party, now four days past; a paper returned by a professor. I got a good grade. I look at the date. November 30. Not even that long ago, but I have to read the first paragraph to remember what it was about: the architecture of a convent in Venice.
Two professors, one male and one female, have written me letters saying they heard what
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