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From: Jay Bird <first_category@yahoo.com>
Subject: <*> An Outsider's Education (mf, rom, 1st, college, 84k)
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A few notes: the primary characters in this story are purely from my
imagination; if you are reminded of anyone you know, I didn't mean it.
I don't know anyone named "Tracy Lyon" or "Donald Harper" or "Bill
M'bele". I haven't been by the campus in years. Some background
features are real; Pete Carril is now an assistant coach for the
Sacramento Kings, for example. The basketball games were as
discussed; I checked with the Bergen Record's web site. Thomas
Sweet's Ice Cream Parlor is still great, and Victor's Pizza will last
forever, or at least "ten minutes". I do not know what the weather
was, and I could only guess as to the general campus reaction. The
rally at the end was completely made up. I also may have gotten some
of the building names wrong. Perhaps I'm turning senile. Finally, I
had tried to send this from another account, fcp2718@poboxes.com, but
I couldn't get the anonymization right. I hope I did this time.
I don't know anyone named "Tracy Lyon" or "Donald Harper" or "Bill
M'bele". I haven't been by the campus in years. Some background
features are real; Pete Carril is now an assistant coach for the
Sacramento Kings, for example. The basketball games were as
discussed; I checked with the Bergen Record's web site. Thomas
Sweet's Ice Cream Parlor is still great, and Victor's Pizza will last
forever, or at least "ten minutes". I do not know what the weather
was, and I could only guess as to the general campus reaction. The
rally at the end was completely made up. I also may have gotten some
of the building names wrong. Perhaps I'm turning senile.
I'm not going to apologize for my opinions about NYC public school
teachers; I barely escaped with my sanity. Sorry, Celeste, AnnD.
ObOldJoke: Amy and Bruce were at a MLA conference. During a cocktail
party, Amy asked Bruce, "Bruce, what do you think is the least
commonly used verb tense in the English language?" Bruce immediately
replies, "The pluperfect subjunctive." "There's no such thing," says
Amy. "Of course there is." "OK, big shot. Give me an example of its
use."
Bruce says, "A drunken man walks out of a bar in Back Bay Boston; for
some reason he's hungry for seafood. So, he hails a cab, and asks the
driver, 'Hey bud, could you tell me--hic--where I could get scrod?'
The hack replies, 'I've heard that question many times, but never
before have I heard it in the pluperfect subjunctive.'"
Standard disclaimer: Yes, if you are under 18 years old, you should
not read this story. Somehow, I don't think it will rot your mind
though; it's pretty tame as this newsgroup goes. No electrons were
harmed during the writing of this story.
Nonstandard disclaimer: This story is copyright 1997 by FC Press; all
rights reserved. The author grants permission to archive this on
non-commercial sites, such as Eli's ASSM newsgroup archive, or
Celeste's site. The author grants permission generally to distribute
this singly and non-commercially, and to print one copy for personal
use, so long as it is distributed in its entirety. On the other hand,
the author refuses permission for the story to be reposted by anyone
but the author. "who@why.not", that means you. Frankly, the author
doesn't want it mixed with the ASS spam.
Oh, and this is my first attempt. When you speak of this in the
future, and you probably won't, please be gentle.
-------
An Outsider's Education (MF, rom, 1st)
by fcp
<fcp2718@poboxes.com>
-----
Prologue: Half Time
Saturday Morning, March 16, 1996
Tracy shut her eyes tightly, willing the conversation she heard
through the thin dorm wall to go away. She thought, "It's Saturday
morning! Why can't they let me sleep?" The conversation became
louder and louder, and she resigned herself to an early and unwanted
start to her day.
Still, she kept her eyes closed, hoping for a few more minutes of
half-slumber. Why were her thoughts so unfocused? She had never felt
so clumsy before. As she awakened, other uncomfortable thoughts
entered her mind. Why was her arm numb, and her neck stiff? Who were
those fools in the next dorm room? Why was she nude?
Nude? At that, she opened her eyes wide. A soft voice from behind
her whispered, "What a glorious sight to awaken to." Still confused,
she rolled onto her side and looked at the source of those words.
"Donald?" Don nodded, and they stared at each other. Now, she
remembered. Two days before....
-----
Part One: The Orange and Black
Princeton University,
Thursday afternoon, March 14, 1996
"So, where will you be watching the Game?"
"Oh, I'll be at the Wilson College TV room. What about you?"
"Jordan's coming down to the dorm at 6:30. I hope we'll get good
seats. You'll be sitting with Don? He really has a crush on you. I
just don't..."
Tracy rushed out the front door of the U-Store onto University Place,
trying to evade Alison's questioning.
"HEY! ROOMIE! I said I just don't understand why you're keeping Don
at arm's length. He really likes you, and you like him, but you'd
rather argue with him than kiss him. WAIT UP! Tracy Lyon, I need to
talk to you!"
Again, Tracy turned east and rushed down University Place, toward the
Dinky station. With her hardened New Yorker straphanger's gait and
glare, Tracy dodged the other students and grad students heading home
for dinner. As she passed the architectural nightmare of Lawrence
Hall, she heard Alison's loud shrill calls of "TRACY! TRACEE!
TRAAACEE!" Embarrassed and defeated, Tracy stopped and turned back.
"Would you please quit your Dinah Lord imitation? What's wrong with
you?"
"Gee, you don't like 'The Philadelphia Story'. I would never had
guessed."
"Well, I don't look at all like Hepburn. Would you stop annoying me
about my love life? I have no intention of discussing it with half of
Princeton listening."
"What love life? You don't have a love life. What are you waiting
for?"
"You just don't understand me at all."
"True."
The two freshman roommates continued walking down the hill, past the
shuttle to Princeton Junction, and turned into the Wawa store.
---
The convenience store was mobbed. It seemed that half the people of
Forbes College, their dorm, had come to buy snacks and beer. The
sports pages of every local paper were taped to the walls, all with
banner headlines about that night's game and the team's legendary
Coach Carril. The NCAA Division I Men's Basketball tournament had
just started, and the Tigers won the Ivy League title and NCAA berth
for the first time in four years, after a dramatic tie-breaker game
against Penn the previous weekend. It was the perfect excuse for a
party.
Alison grabbed two large bags of nachos, tossed one to Tracy, and
said, "I don't understand how a New Yorker could be such a prude."
Tracy caught the bag, walked toward the freezers, grabbed some
Haagen-Daz containers, and flipped one back to Alison. "Did you ever
think that I act the way I do because I grew up in East New York? And
how did a genteel Main Liner like you become such a--" She stopped
short.
"Always so polite, Tracy. You wanted to say 'slut', didn't you.
Well, compared to you, I am. Objectively, I'm not. Now, Mary Jane
from down the hall...." A jock in the produce section turned to them,
obviously hoping to hear Mary Jane's full name and number. The
counterman looked up from fixing a hoagie and said, "Ladies, please
discuss your romances after you leave." Chastened, the two became
quiet, made their final selections, moved to the no-beer line, paid
for their purchases, and walked out.
They were waiting at the Alexander Road traffic light when Alison
said, "Look, I do want you to be happy. I don't see you being happy
as long as you weight your life so heavily toward your studies. I
wish you could find some pleasure in a non-intellectual pursuit."
"Sex, you mean."
"Well, yes. It is, after all, the best way to relax your mind after a
long day of studying. We're too young to drink beer legally, ...."
"As if that ever stopped anyone."
They walked across the street, walked into the dorm, went to their
room, and stored their purchases. "Alison, I'm going to dinner." "I
need a shower, Trace. See you later." "Look, if you--" "I know,
leave my door closed and your desk lamp on if Jordan's still here.
Still friends?" "Yeah." Tracy grabbed her number theory book and
walked out.
---
Tracy returned to the suite at 6 o'clock. She put on an Ella
Fitzgerald CD, a gift from her old choirmaster, and stood in front of
the pictures on her wall. One was of her parents' wedding at the old
Brownsville African Methodist Church. She thought bitterly that few
marriages were celebrated there now; drugs and dishonor had swept the
neighborhood. One was a family portrait, her parents, two
grandparents, and her. One was a snapshot of her father at work, in
his MTA mechanic's uniform. A tear rolled down her cheek as she bent
and kissed it. Next to this were her Stuyvesant HS diploma, a framed
copy of her Westinghouse Talent Search paper, and a very nasty report
card from a child-hating junior high school teacher. She gave the
last a Bronx cheer, and started to change her clothes.
Five minutes later, Alison barged in: "'Someone to Watch Over Me'?
Perhaps there's hope for you yet. Look, Jordan will be here soon, and
you have a long walk. You'd better get going." "Yes, mother." Tracy
gathered up her things and headed for the door. "Tracy, do not take
any books with you." "I feel naked without a book." "Ever go
skinny-dipping?" "Alison, please stop." "OK, Tracy. Give Don a kiss
for me, at least. Go Tigers!"
Tracy left their suite, and started back toward the main campus and
Donald's dorm, Wilson College. Orange and black pennants and flags
flew over the buildings, and orange and black crepe paper adorned the
street lights. A couple dressed in Tiger jackets walked out of Wawa,
one with an orange and black cake, the other with a 24-pack of beer.
She walked around the bend, past the Dinky, and turned onto the
campus.
The basketball players back in Brooklyn would have sneered at her for
being a Tiger fan; Princeton had the most old-fashioned style in all
of college basketball. They'd make jokes about white men not being
able to jump, and they'd insult the players for not being good enough
to earn athletic scholarships. Tracy saw in their style a fascinating
series of patterns and weaves, a combination of abstract beauty and
practical force. Wednesday night, most of her dorm showed up in the
TV room to watch a videotape of the most famous game in school
history, the 50-49 loss to Georgetown in 1989. The defending champion
UCLA team Princeton was matched against was nowhere near as good.
She continued through the tennis courts and stepped onto the long
promenade toward Fine and Jadwin Halls, the math and physics
buildings. "No, I am not going to the library tonight." Half-way,
she turned left into Wilson College. She followed the arrows to the
cafeteria where they had moved the big TV, went through the doors, and
blinked.
The place was as packed as the rush hour 4 train. She scanned the
room for a minute until she spotted Donald on a bench near the middle
of the room. Donald was struggling valiantly to maintain some space
next to him, and she ran down the aisle. She called out to Donald,
lofted her food to him, and climbed over three people to get the seat
Donald had saved. It was tight quarters, but Donald showed no signs
of minding.
---
Tracy had met Donald at a party the last semester. The African-
American Cultural Committee had organized a dance, and Tracy had been
embarrassed that she had never gone to any of its previous events.
She had arrived at the party twenty minutes late, and nearly walked
out twenty minutes later. A stereo was blasting rap music, all
pounding rhythm and no heart. She would have left early, but one of
her classmates saw her and invited her to sit at her table.
"Tracy, over here!"
"Hi, Tanikka. I was just leaving."
"Shy, Tracy? You aren't in class, so relax and stay. Don't be lame.
Come, sit and talk. Here's Bill M'bele, and this is Donald Harper."
Their conversation took the usual course. Tanikka and Bill were
dating, while Donald was unattached. Tracy was the political and
social conservative of the group, Donald the liberal, Bill the
radical, and Tanikka the undecided. More inconsequential chit-chat
followed until Tracy changed the topic:
"You know, I hate the 'music' they're playing here. The volume and
the misogyny are giving me a headache."
"I wouldn't expect _you_ to understand," replied Bill. "You're doing
your best to run away from your home, and your people. You're not
going to be part of African-American society as a mathematician. Why,
you're just trying to be white."
"Am I supposed to abandon the subject I love because it is not black
enough for you?"
"What would you have her do?" asked Donald.
"You won't understand until you accept your culture."
"That music is my culture? I can't accept that. I have no kinship
with with the people responsible for that song. If I acted that way,
I'd be on welfare and have two kids by now." Her face hot with anger,
she rose and walked toward the DJ. "Excuse me, but I'd like to ask
you a favor." The DJ smiled and asked for her request. Tracy
replied, "No, no. Just that if you're taking a break any time soon,
do you mind if I take over for a bit?" The man looked confused, but
agreed, handed her his microphone, told the bartender he was taking a
bathroom break, and walked out.
When the song ended, she stopped the CD players, and said into the
microphone, "Bill, you want black culture? Here's black culture. If
it's good enough for Ella, it is for me." She then walked in front of
the audio set and started singing:
"They're writing songs of love,
But not for me.
"A lucky star's above,
But not for me."
Conversations stopped. The dancers moved off the dance floor as if
she had had the plague. She heard exclamations of surprise: "What is
this crap?" and "Who the hell is she?" Still, she finished the song;
she felt embarrassed, but she preferred to be brave about it than to
be cowardly.
She started to put the microphone down and leave when she heard a
mechanical noise from her left; a man was rolling an upright piano
toward her. She waited while he set it up, and then the man started
playing the introduction to a song she knew well:
"There's a saying old
says that love is blind,
Still we're often told,
'Seek and ye shall find.'"
She continued the song, and the man joined her to sing the final
stanza:
"Won't you tell him please
to put on some speed,
Follow my lead,
oh, how I need,
Someone to watch over me."
The man changed tempo and started to play an old Ray Charles song, but
Tracy suddenly jumped, ran through the appalled crowd and left the
building. Outside, she walked slowly back toward her dorm. Behind
her, she heard shouts: "Wait up! WAIT UP!" She turned, and saw
Donald running toward her with her coat in hand.
"Thanks."
"You're welcome."
"God, I don't know how I could have made a worse impression than
that. Even if I had fallen down drunk on the dance floor I wouldn't
be feeling so horrible."
"No, no. You're a fine singer. 'Tell me, where is the shepherd for
this lost lamb?'"
"Sorry?"
"You didn't recognize me at the piano?"
"No, it was too dark. You play very well. Where did you learn it?"
"Back in Chicago. Dad's a preacher and mom's a teacher, and they
thought I needed a well-rounded education."
"Oh. Look, after that I feel ill. I'm going back to my dorm now."
"Please wait. What's your name again? Should I walk you back to your
dorm?"
"I'm Tracy Lyon, over at Forbes. No, I'll be okay, but thanks
anyway."
"Please wait a second." He walked toward her, hugged her, and kissed
her cheek. Now truly confused, she fled.
He had called her the next day, and they had met a few times for
dinner and for movies since. She had kept things between them
determinedly casual, however.
-----
Part Two: Tigers, Bears, and a Cowardly Lyon
There was still an hour left before the game, so Tracy and Donald
chatted
about the week's classes, the political campaigns, their fellow
students, and their roommates. Tracy changed the subject away from
their roommates' love lives, and started talking about dorm food:
"I had thought that high school cafeterias were bad, but the turkey
tetrachloride they served Tuesday was the worst parody of food I've
ever seen."
An odd expression flickered over Don's face for a moment, and then he
replied, "Well, I took a sample of Monday's beef stroganoff to my chem
lab, and did a qualitative analysis of it. I'd hate to say exactly
what qualities it had, but--"
A neighbor stopped them and said, "Please don't talk about dorm food.
I don't want to vomit until after the game." Since he had two 6-packs
of Iron City Beer with him, Tracy and Donald figured that nausea was
definitely in that man's future, and they didn't want to accelerate
it.
Someone turned up the TV--"Oh no, not Dick Vitale! Get the
ear-plugs!", and the game started.
---
In fact, it started slow. The UCLA Bruins seemed like they were
playing in quicksand, while the Tigers always played slow. The
students started counting the passes made each possession, chanting
"One, two, three, ..., twenty-five, twenty-six, GOOD!" Both teams
were surprisingly clumsy, and at the end of the first half UCLA led
19-18.
"Well, we might actually win this," said Tracy.
"I don't know. We had a big lead against Georgetown at the half, and
lost it."
"I don't think the UCLA team is taking this game seriously. Just look
at them. By the way, why do you think we like the Tigers? They
aren't 'like Mike.'"
"I guess I see myself in them. I'm not a great athlete; the only way
I could hope to win a basketball game is with teamwork."
"They are good athletes, though."
"Not the tallest, or the fastest, or the strongest, though."
"The players I grew up cared only about basketball, not school, not
church, not their futures. Give me a whole human being any day."
Similar conversations were going on all around them. They heard one
woman say, "They play so well together they could almost be a women's
team." Tracy and Donald took turns leaving the room for 'personal
errands'; when Donald returned, he took Tracy's hand, and asked with a
somewhat quavery voice, "Suppose we win. What would you like to do to
celebrate?"
"Sorry to disappoint you, Alison," thought Tracy. "I'm sure that
people will be partying right here, Donald. Let's play it by ear."
Donald chuckled and said, "Nice play."
"What do you mean?"
"Blocking that pass out of bounds."
"Oh."
Someone turned up the volume on the TV, and the second half started.
The Tigers kept the Bruins to their pace for the first few minutes of
the half, but then the Bruins started to pull away. With just over
six minutes left in the game, the Bruins led by 7, and a hopeless mood
spread across the room. A business major called out the old Princeton
cheer, "That's all right, that's okay. You're going to work for us
someday!" Her date poured a cup of beer onto her lap.
Tracy felt as though the mood of the crowd hung like storm clouds over
the room. Even though a Princeton loss would not measurably affect
her life in any way, she still felt as if her puppy were dying. The
rest of the crowd felt much the same way. Some even started to head
for the exit.
Still, most of the crowd waited. The Bruins failed to score on their
next possession, and then Lewullis found Johnson for a 3-pointer,
cutting the lead to 4. Hope had reentered the room; the clouds
started to part.
A minute later, Doyal got the ball to Goodrich for a layup; the lead
was only 2. UCLA missed on its next possession, and the Tigers weaved
and danced for nearly the whole shot-clock until Henderson could get
the ball to Johnson for another layup. The score was 41 all.
Strangely, the crowd stayed quiet. Three minutes remained in the
game, and everyone seemed too scared to say a word. The bubble might
burst, the players might throw the ball and the game away, as they had
nearly done in the playoff game against Penn. The teams traded misses
for the next two minutes; Tracy could hardly breathe.
Then, a stupid turnover forced the Tigers to give up an intentional
foul--2 foul shots and possession. The clouds became black and
ominous. But, Cameron Dollar missed both shots; could the Bruins be
choking? Then, UCLA missed its next shot and turned the ball back to
the Tigers. The game was still tied, and the Tigers had the ball with
a half-minute left.
The clouds parted, and the room seemed to shine. Tracy's heart began
to pound. She wanted to get up and scream, but there was no room.
Carril called a timeout with 21 seconds left, the TV went to a
commercial, and Tracy hugged Donald and kissed him lightly.
She was breathless; her mind went blank. As one, the crowd rose and
started to clap rhythmically--"Ti-gers, Ti-gers." Donald held onto
her hand with a death-grip, and she did the same with her other
neighbor. The game returned, and they all quieted down to watch. She
heard short prayers from all over the room. The team walked the ball
up the court, and set up their signature play. Steve Goodrich held
the ball at the top of the key, and forward Gabe Lewullis ran away
from the basket, seemingly to try for the open outside shot. Charles
O'Bannon expertly blocked the passing lane. Then, with 6 seconds
left, Lewullis tried again, and the feint succeeded--O'Bannon
overcommitted. Lewullis spun back toward the basket, took Goodrich's
bounce pass, and made the uncontestable layup. A rainbow shined. The
team, the stadium, and the room went wild.
Cheers echoed through the room, and could also be heard all over the
campus. Still, UCLA had one last desperate chance. They got the ball
with less than 3 seconds left in the game, tried for a good shot, and
flubbed it. The Tigers had won, the players were crying, the coach
was crying, the fans in the Hoosier Dome were cheering unrestrainedly,
and Tracy started to cry tears of joy. She embraced Donald again, and
gave him a full, open-mouthed kiss, the first they had ever shared.
Someone in the room started singing the campus songs and everyone
joined in with "Three Cheers for Old Nassau." The room began to
empty, as students walked outside yelling and cheering with happiness.
Donald handed Tracy a cup of beer, and she downed it and gagged.
"What was that?" "I got it from him," pointing at the Iron City
drinker.
"Now I know why this beer is so cheap." Tracy shook her head and walked
out to the promenade. Hot flashes and shivers warred within her; she
felt exhausted, and she sat down on a bench. Two couples skipped by,
singing "These are the days you might fill with laughter...." Donald
sat
down next to her, and held her quietly. She sat for another minute,
and started to sing, "We beat the champions, we beat the champions, no
time for losers 'cause we beat the champions." Donald lifted her up,
and the two of them swayed to the music coming from the dorm windows
overhead. The Nassau Hall bell started to ring, and he walked her
back into the building. She saw the student lounge, shrugged off Don's
hand, and walked into the lounge toward the piano there. Donald sighed,
followed her, sat down, and started to play "Happy Days are Here Again."
Other students saw this, and followed.
Tracy and Donald sang and played for about a half-hour, and then Donald
pleaded exhaustion and got up. Tracy followed, as Donald walked
outside.
The promenade was nearly empty now. They still heard loud music from
the rooms above and across the way, and they embraced again. They
kissed again and again, as the wind blew and chilled them.
"Come inside with me."
"What?"
"Come inside. Let's celebrate. Don't you feel tonight's magic?
Let's make love."
"Donald."
"Please, Tracy. It's the right time for us."
Tracy kissed Donald again, loosed one of his hands, and turned toward
the
building, when her somewhat rational mind took over.
"I, I can't. It just isn't me. I just can't."
She turned away from him, and started to stumble down the walk. Donald
started to follow her, stopped, and called to her, "Why?"
"I'm scared." With a sob, Tracy ran back toward the tennis courts and
her dorm. Donald did not follow.
-----
Part Three: Post-Game Analysis
Tracy reached the tennis courts, turned up the road to walk around
them, and stopped on the walkway above the courts. "Why did I do
that? Why am I so scared?" She turned toward University Place,
sniffling and sobbing, passed the Wa and calls of "Are you okay?",
across Alexander Road, and into her college. She walked slowly to her
room, fumbled for her keys, and then she heard the sound of metallic
and human squeaks, practical demonstrations of Hooke's law, bedsprings
in rapid compression and relaxation, Alison and her beau of the moment
doing what she herself had almost done with Donald. She put her keys
back, and walked toward the college lounge. Halfway there, she
started to feel nausea, and she ran to the women's bathroom and was
ill. She cleaned up after herself, walked to the bar, purchased a cup
of apple juice and some pretzels, and sat down in the TV area.
By now, it was 1:30AM Friday, and a few diehards were still in the
room watching ESPN. She sat quietly, trying not to think about the
entire night, while the other people were laughing and boasting about
the game. She sat there for an hour, an eternity, and then she
started to cry again in earnest. In her fog, she heard murmured
whispers, and then the door opening and closing. There were some
louder than normal words from outside the room, and then she felt
someone tap her on the shoulder.
"Tracy, Tracy, it's me, Mary Jane. What happened to you?"
"Nothing, nothing at all. Please go away."
"Look, I just came to get some munchies and see the highlights on
SportsCenter (Phil's asleep), and someone tells me that you're here.
Please tell me what happened."
"Nothing happened. Please leave me alone."
"For a moment, T. For a moment." Mary Jane walked off.
Ten minutes later, Mary Jane was back. Alison was standing in her
bathrobe next to her. Tracy really started to cry then. The two
picked her up and marched her back to the dorm room.
"Where are your special friends, Alison, MJ?"
"I had him leave. He has my rain-check." "Ditto." "One free
fantasy, no flowers required. What happened?"
"Nothing happened. That's what I'm telling you."
"And that's what we're asking you. What exactly do you mean?" said
Mary Jane.
"I mean, NOTHING happened. We kissed a few times, and I left."
"Something's not right here," whispered Alison to Mary Jane. "D'uh!"
"Exactly how long were you kissing him?" asked Alison.
"Off and on, until about midnight."
"Ahh. Now we're getting somewhere. So why did you leave? Was that
all you did?" asked Mary Jane.
"Yes, I told you. Leave me alone."
"MJ, I've got it. Trace, did he ask you up to bed?" Tracy nodded.
"And you said no. Did you want to go with him?" Tracy just stared.
Mary Jane continued, "You did. Now we're getting somewhere. Let's
see. Religious scruples? No? You two drank too much? No, not you."
Mary stopped for a moment and took a deep breath. "Alison, do you
think that maybe she was--Tracy, were you abused or attacked when you
were younger?"
"No. Absolutely not."
"Tracy, would it have been your first time?" asked Alison.
"Yes." Tracy put her face in her hands.
"You said something to me earlier about acting the way you do because
you grew up in East New York. Would you care to explain?"
Tracy took a deep breath, and said, "You know how messed up my 'hood
is, don't you. Drugs, abandoned buildings, dirt, poverty,
hopelessness. Kids who cared about absolutely nothing. Pregnant
girls in junior high--I guess they wanted living Barbie dolls.
Teachers who wouldn't teach, students who wouldn't learn, parents who
wouldn't parent.
"I was lucky. You see the pictures on the wall? Those are my
parents. Mom's a librarian, while Dad was a subway mechanic. Good,
honorable jobs. I spent much of my childhood at the library. Then
Dad, dad, dad." Her voice drifted off.
"You don't talk much about him, I know. I assumed a divorce."
"No. He died in '88. Pancreatic cancer, inoperable. He was in great
pain that last year. No matter how hard he tried to hide it, I knew.
Mom and I loved him so much. He did everything he could to be there
for me. I still remember the three of us going up to the roof at
night to watch the stars. He'd tell me romantic stories about them,
and then Mom would tell me what they actually were. God, I miss him
so."
All three of them were sniffling at this for a while, and then Tracy
continued:
"The junior high teachers were just time-servers, waiting for
retirement. The students were noisy nuisances. Most of my education
came from the library. That's where I found and developed my talent
for mathematics. The rest came when Mom and I would go to museums,
concerts, and when we would just talk. My dream was to take the exam
for the Sty, Stuyvesant High School, and earn a place there, to get a
good education, a good job, and to get Mom out of there."
She stopped, and then through clenched teeth said, "But I couldn't do
that while screwing around."
"I see."
"I'd walk to the train each morning and play 'Dodge the Druggie'. I'd
ignore the insults and propositions from the boys at the basketball
courts. I'd sit on the train at 6AM trying to ignore the blitzed
buildings outside the windows. The conductors watched out for me,
however; they knew my father.
"I loved it at Stuyvesant. The teachers cared, the students cared, we
had access to computers and labs, and we had respect."
"Did you have friends there?"
"Yes. We had student clubs, sports, we'd go to cafes in SoHo or
TriBeCa, we'd do lots of things. Movies, plays, concerts at the Trade
Center. Sometimes, I'd stay overnight with one of my classmates.
Always chaste, MJ. I was just disgusted with the sexual behavior in
my neighborhood, and I didn't want to get involved, even after I left
it. Besides, whenever I thought about having sex, I would remember
the taunts I used to receive. I deliberately avoided it. I was not
the only one who did.
"You do have the drive, yes? It isn't good for you to thwart
yourself for a political point," said Alison. "Look, it's 3AM and
we're all exhausted. We need to get to sleep. We'll figure things
out in the morning."
"I don't think I could sleep, Ali."
"Hush. I'll get you some cocoa." Alison got up, puttered around for
a couple of minutes, and returned with a cup. "Here, drink this."
"Ahh, thanks," said Tracy. "It tastes strange somehow. What is it?"
"The new Swiss Miss flavor. Hot Cocoa with Rum. Sleepy yet?"
"You nut." As Tracy started to doze off, Alison and Mary Jane carried
her to her bed, removed her shoes, loosened her clothes and turned off
the lights. The last thing Tracy heard before she lost contact with
the world was Mary Jane asking Alison for a cup of cocoa.
-----
Part Four: A Sense of Who You Are
Tracy's alarm rang a few hours later. She reached from her bed to
turn it off, and felt a sheet of paper taped to it over the alarm
switch. She grabbed the clock with both hands, pulled the paper off,
and turned off the buzzer. It was 10:30; obviously, Alison had
fiddled with the alarm. Tracy started to read the note:
Tracy,
I took a few liberties on your behalf. I also turned off the
ringer on the phones so you'd be sure to get your rest. Don't
worry about your morning classes; I e-mailed your TAs and told
them you weren't feeling well. They wrote back that they
expected exhaustion and hangovers to cut attendance to nil.
You have a hang-up or two. We all do. Yours, at least, are
not destructive. Don seems to be a very patient man, and that
is a very good sign. Relax.
Trace, please meet us for dinner here at 5:30. MJ and I will tell
you our stupid stories, and we'll have a laugh. Dessert at
T. Sweet's?
Love,
A
Tracy turned her phone back on, stripped down, and padded off to the
shower. Twenty minutes under alternating sprays of hot and cold water
left her feeling nearly human, though still a bit wobbly. She
returned to her rooms, dressed, and read her newspapers until lunch.
There would be a celebration Sunday on Cannon Green, whether the team
won or lost its second game. Only two other students showed up for
her afternoon precept; when the TA abandoned it early, she went to the
gym and spent the rest of the afternoon in mindless effort.
---
"I was hoping we could find someplace quiet to eat. I don't want
everyone on campus knowing my secrets," said Alison.
Mary Jane replied, "What makes you think theirs are any different?"
"What exactly are you two talking about?"
"Stories about teenagers and sex are usually the stupidest ones."
"We'll just eat fast and go for a walk."
---
They were walking toward Nassau Street when MJ started off: "I was 16
years old, I had been going with Bert for 2 months, and I was pissed
off at my parents. They wanted me to see less of Bert, they wanted to
put a curfew on me, they wouldn't let me go to a Courtney Love concert
in the city, I forget what else. I wanted to do the one thing that
would anger them most. So, just after the high school junior dance, I
resolved to do the deed with Bert. I plotted and planned; it wasn't
enough that we do it, but that Mom and Dad find out. Twisted, huh.
"So, one Sunday, Mom and Dad went to visit my uncle in the next
county. I told them I needed to stay home and study for my French
class, and they told me they would be back after dinner. I called
Bert and asked him to come over and study with me. He stopped by, and
we spent the next hour practicing our French vocabularies and accents.
"After that, I started my plan. I started flashing more than my flash
cards. I talked about finding other French things to practice. Then,
I suggested we stretch and play a set of tennis; I wore an old,
extremely skimpy outfit. His eyes weren't the only parts of his body
that were bulging. I wanted to get him hot, but I didn't want
anything to really happen until late.
"After the set, I told him to go in and shower; I'd bet that he was
praying for me to join him, but I didn't; I took one after he
finished, got dressed, and ordered pizza for dinner. Only after that
did I seduce him in earnest.
"At first, I was doing this only to anger my parents, not really out
of lust, and definitely not out of friendship. I mean, I was thinking
of Bert as a tool, not as a person. Somewhat like the boys you knew,
Trace. Well, as we were doing the dishes after dinner, I splashed him
with water from the sink. He returned the favor; he really drenched
me. And then, as my tee-shirt took the appearance of Saran Wrap, he
turned toward me, held me at arm's length, stared at my breasts,
backed me into the kitchen counter, stepped forward, and kissed me. I
thought about revenge no more.
"Bert and I stumbled and swayed through the kitchen. Kiss, step,
kiss, step, twirl. Finally, we reached the living room, and he fell
heavily onto the couch, pulling me on top of him. We looked at each
other, Bert with his glasses askew and an amazed look on his face, me
with my translucent outfit, and we started laughing together. That
moment was perfect. We stayed like that for a few minutes, and then I
pulled off my shirt.
"You're usually much more plain-spoken than this, MJ," interrupted
Alison. "You usually aren't as bashful about the words 'fuck' and
'tits' and their friends."
"I'm trying not to scare this poor girl, Ali. I don't want to offend
her delicate ears. Well, Bert squeaked twice, once upon seeing me,
and then upon seeing the open blinds. He ran to them and closed them,
while I ran to the stairs. By the time he got them all closed, I was
on the second floor landing, crooning at him. He ran up the stairs,
and reached me at my bedroom door. Again, we clumsily went through
the door, and we landed on the bed. I grabbed the bottom of his
tee-shirt, pulled it over his head, and started tickling his bare
chest. He grabbed at his shirt and tried desperately to pull it off
his head; meanwhile, I unzipped him. Finally, he got his shirt wholly
off, and he pulled me back to him. We stayed like that for a while,
kissing and stroking; we had lost all track of time. This was
unfortunate, because at the moment we started going further, we heard
my parents' car pulling into the driveway.
"He struggled into his shirt, I ran into the bathroom and shut the
door behind me, and Mom and Dad unlocked the door. 'Mary Jane, where
are you?' I flushed the toilet in reply. Mom came upstairs:
'Herbert, what are you doing here?' Five seconds later: 'Herbert!' I
heard him running down the stairs, a high-pitched 'Goodbye, sir!' and
then I walked out of the bathroom looking very sheepish. Mom and Dad
grounded me for the next month, and kept close watch on me for a long
time after that.
"A couple of months later, I finally had a chance to see Herbert
alone. I told him that I owed him an apology and explained why. He
asked me what I would do in apology. I started by unbuttoning my
blouse. It was the most enjoyable apology I've ever given."
---
Tracy asked, "Why are you telling me this?" "Well, roomie, I don't
want you to be miserable all the time. I have to live with you, you
know. Seriously, we want you to realize that sex isn't synonymous
with abuse and dishonor. Most men are not predators, while some women
can be. If you know what you're doing and why, if you just trust
yourself, you might achieve happiness. Don't base your decisions on
what the kids you grew up with do, or on what we do--base your
decisions on who you are."
"We're at T. Sweet's," said Mary Jane. They got on line, purchased
their ice cream blend-ins, and walked outside. As they left, Alison
and MJ stepped to either side of Tracy, and held her elbows. Tracy
gave a cry of surprise, and then Donald appeared before her, holding a
bouquet of roses. They stood like that for a moment, Tracy wanting to
run away, Alison and MJ holding her there, and Donald simply waiting.
After a moment, Tracy relaxed, and Alison and MJ loosed their hold.
Alison and MJ started to walk off, and Tracy turned and asked them
where they were going. MJ replied, "We have unfinished business from
last night. Strangely enough, Phil and Jordan had exactly the same
fantasy. Or perhaps they plotted it." "Too much exposure to
pornography as teenagers, I guess," added Alison. The two had
mournful looks on their faces; then they started to giggle.
-----
Part Five: A Delicate Passing Touch
Donald and Tracy sat down at a bench across the street, and Tracy
slowly finished her ice cream as Donald wrapped his arm around her.
"So, you didn't expect me to be here?"
"No. I guess I'm naive. I thought only that they were trying to
cheer me up." Tracy started to sag.
"So, do you want to talk about last night?"
"Not yet. What exactly did Alison do after she put me to sleep?"
"Well, I had a rough night. When I got back to my room, I saw Sam,
well, doing the same thing Alison was. I left in a hurry; I couldn't
face that either. I knocked on a friend's door; Charlie invited me in
for a beer or three, and we spent the next hour getting moderately
drunk.
"I eventually fell asleep on Charlie's couch. When I woke up this
morning, my dorm room was empty, and there was an e-mail from Alison.
She wanted to meet me for lunch, to try to patch things up between
you and me."
"Meddler." Tracy's voice rose in pitch as she demanded, "What exactly
did she tell you about me?"
"Not much. Just that you wanted to talk with me, and that you
wouldn't run away this time."
"Well, I never told her that, but I do promise not to run away. Walk
away, perhaps, but not run."
"She told me she'd try to get you here at 7:30, and here I am. So,
you want to talk?"
Tracy stopped, mentally flipped a coin, flipped it again, and said,
"Yes. Shall we go for coffee?"
---
"So, I had found a solution to my problems on Pitkin Avenue. I earned
a spot in the best school in the world, and I spent as much time as I
could there. Mom, some people from church, and some transit police
watched out for me as I went to and from the city."
Tracy had been talking for the last half-hour, pausing only for gulps
of strong coffee and stolen forkfuls of Donald's cake. Donald had
said nary a word in response, though he did signal the waiter for
refills. Tracy continued:
"I know, I know. I did weight my life heavily toward my studies; I
did neglect my social side. I'm not sorry about it. But I started to
change at the Sty.
"I made friends there, I was in study groups, I worked with others on
class projects, and occasionally I went to parties. At the parties,
I'd talk with the other kids; on rare occasions, I'd sing, and once or
twice, I even kissed a boy I knew. Occasionally, I'd even have a
date. It was difficult to date, since the train I had to take home
afterwards was never at its best at midnight, but Mom always
cooperated.
"I only considered going farther once. Isaac Weintraub and I were
working late at the NYU computer lab when the system went down; we
left and went to a local coffee shop to relax, and then we started
talking about our futures, what we wanted to do when we grew up,
personal stories. We left around 10, and he walked me to my train.
Just before we reached the chess-players in Washington Square Park, he
stopped, led me to a nearby bench, and we kissed for a few minutes. I
felt myself get excited, but then my old inhibitions returned. I
associated sex with the cruelty and idiocy I saw every day at home,
and I felt that if I participated, I'd become an idiot. He knew I had
stopped, and he stopped. I believe that he thought that race and
religion made me reluctant to go on, but it was just me."
"And that's what happened last night?"
"That's what happened last night."
"And you haven't been involved with anyone here?"
"I haven't been involved with anyone here."
"I was a little selfish last night when I invited you to stay; I knew
I would enjoy it, and I believed you would enjoy it too. I would
never abuse you or your affections. I'm not very experienced with sex
or love myself; I--"
"How many girls?"
"Two girls, 4 occasions. Prom night, July 4, end-of-summer, and once
here in early October."
"Before we met. I must say I'm relieved."
"Look, whatever you choose to do, you are never going to return to
your neighborhood and its mores. You are yourself, with your own
unique mind. You really have nothing to fear. You won't start taking
drugs, you won't get pregnant, and you won't become stupid. Did you
like kissing me? I loved kissing you."
"I loved it. I really did. I can't turn my mind off, though."
"What bad things do you think could really happen to you?"
"I don't really know; it seems silly now."
Donald paid for the desserts, and led Tracy out. They crossed the
street heading for the campus, and then Donald turned toward her,
hugged her gently, and started to kiss her. She responded to the
caresses and kisses; her passion started to grow.
"Tracy, do you want to continue in a nicer location?"
Tracy stepped back a moment and looked at Donald. "Yes. Yes. I won't
guarantee that I'll stay; conscience might make a coward out of me,
again. But, let's give it a try."
---
They walked slowly and silently back to the campus; Donald seemed lost
in thought, while Tracy was trying not to think. As they passed
through the main gate, Donald spoke again.
"Trace, your place or mine? Lord, I've always wanted the chance to
say that."
"Yours. It's closer, and--"
"And?"
"And, I cannot be certain what Alison and MJ are doing right now, but
I know I don't want to see it. It might scar me for life."
"I don't understand--Oh!"
"I see you wouldn't mind seeing it, but not tonight, I hope."
"Yeah. By the way, 'Let's give it a try?' How unromantic."
"Look, I'm nervous enough as it is. Please don't make me feel any
worse."
"Sorry." They walked a bit more, and then Donald asked Tracy, "Could
you explain to me the mathematics behind buckyballs?"
"Well, I'll try to tell you what I know about algebraic topology, but
I will make some mistakes. A buckyball is shaped like a sphere,
right?"
"Right. Sixty carbon atoms in a ball."
"A sphere."
"There's a difference?"
They discussed math and chemistry for the remainder of their walk to
Donald's dorm room. "Donald, thank you. I feel a lot better now."
"You're welcome. I'm glad it worked. I'm going to wash up."
---
Hand-in-hand, the two walked to Donald's room. While Donald fumbled
for the keys, his roommate Sam opened the door.
"Sam. I thought you were--"
"I just came to get some clothes. See you kids tomorrow."
"Shh!"
"Remember, mushrooms and peppers."
"Sam, embarrass me all you want, but if you do anything to hurt Tracy,
I will get you. I learned a trick in chemistry class: you mix iodine
and ammonia, and let the precipitate dry, for example."
"Tracy, are you really sure you want to know this guy? I'd better
go." Sam walked off, and they entered the room.
"Donald, what was that about?"
"Dorm custom. If you have a guest, and you displace your roommate,
you owe him a pizza from Victor's. I hope you're not offended."
"No, no. It's funny. Just don't act so smug."
"I am not smug. I just try to be prepared. 'That's the Boy Scout's
marching song.'"
"Please, Donald. Don't sing 'The Elements.' I hear Tom Lehrer songs
enough."
"It's a deal. Now, where were we?"
"You were going to seduce me."
"I thought we were seducing each other."
"I think we're talking too much."
"Sorry. I'm nervous too. I feel as though I were Mister Magoo
leading Ray Charles through a maze."
"Good. We are on nearly equal terms, then."
"Let me get the candles." Donald lit a pair of candles, put some
Coltrane on the stereo, turned off the lights, and returned to her and
the couch.
"'My Favorite Things'? Strange choice."
"Hush." Donald began to kiss her, first one cheek softly, then the
other, then sweeping over her lips, then tickling the tip of her nose.
Tracy didn't move; she hardly even breathed. She wanted to remember
every sensation he gave her. His kisses were like brush strokes,
painting her with fire. He kissed her eyelids, he nibbled on her
earlobe, and then he pulled back.
"Trace, is something wrong?" Tracy realized that she needed to give
Donald some feedback, but she didn't trust herself to say anything.
She took his hands in hers, released the breath she had held, and
leaned forward to kiss him. She then drifted downward and nipped at
his chin. He leaned to the side, and traced a path down to her neck.
Tracy's breath seemed to catch, and she heard nothing, not even the
CD, but her own heart pounding. He continued to lick and nibble her,
slowly dragging his tongue along her face, leaving spirals of
excitement behind. She gripped his hands more tightly to show her
approval; she still did not trust herself to speak.
He broke off his kiss, and pulled back to stare at her. Tracy
thought: "I hope he knows I love this." He pulled back further, and
looked worried. Tracy responded by moving toward him, and saying just
one word: "More." He nodded, and they kissed again. First their
kisses were gentle, then their tongues touched, and then he pulled
back a bit and just seemed to wait.
Donald looked nervous again, and Tracy thought to herself, "What is he
waiting for?" Then, she looked at him again. He was staring at her
face, searching it for a hint of expression. She herself had acted
the same way at job and college interviews. "He's waiting for me,"
she realized. Tracy loosed Donald's left hand, hugged him close, and
kissed him again, playfully licking the inside of his lip, then
tracing the contours of his teeth, and then pulling her tongue back
and trying to suck his into her mouth. Donald's eyes seemed to shine
in the candlelight as he stroked her hair with his free hand.
They kissed like that while the CD advanced to "Summertime," and then
to "But Not For Me." Tracy mumbled, "Thanks." Donald replied, "I
knew you'd like that." Donald let his hand slide down her back toward
her waist, and Tracy felt herself shiver. He pulled upward on her
shirt, and the material came loose from her jeans. He started to
caress the small of her back, and Tracy hummed her approval.
Tracy released Donald's other hand and pressed her body against his;
Donald encircled her waist and moved his hands in widening circles,
slowly exposing more of her skin. Tracy felt much like she had as a
small child on Christmas morning. Her parents would not allow her to
open her presents until after church, and she would wait throughout
the church service with fevered anticipation. She knew there would be
a wonderful surprise at the end, and she felt secure in her parents'
love. She certainly didn't feel secure now, however.
Tracy needed to do something; no longer could she silently accept his
caresses. She fumbled at the buttons of his shirt, but her nerves
rendered her clumsy; she could not undo them. Donald enclosed her
hands in his and stilled them, and she painstakingly tried again.
Donald went back to her waist, and then started to unbutton her
blouse; Tracy's instincts took over, and she stiffened beneath his
touch.
"Too fast?" "Too fast." Donald leaned back and let Tracy finish with
his shirt. He shrugged out of it, and Tracy just leaned back and
stared.
"Donald, let me look at you a minute; I've never been in this situation
before."
"Do you like it?"
"Yes. You look, well, cute. What's that?"
"Appendectomy scar. And that mark on my left arm is a chemical burn."
Tracy shifted so that they were side by side, and Donald placed his
arm around her shoulder. She looked up at him and asked, "What should
I do now?"
"You should relax. We have no deadlines; we needn't hurry. Use your
judgment; I think it's very good. You told me once that you had to
be playful to be a good mathematician. I think the same applies to
this."
"It's easier to say such things than to do them." She tried, however.
She reached toward him and traced his scar line, and then she moved
her hands up toward his chest. She brushed his nipples quite lightly,
and was fascinated to see them stiffen. She continued by stroking him
in the same manner he had just stroked her, with spirals that
sometimes tickled him, and with scratching motions that gave him goose
bumps. He made no attempt to interrupt her.
She stopped after a few minutes and snuggled against him, and he again
reached for her buttons. This time, her instincts were working for
her; she didn't flinch. He slipped off her shirt and faced her
squarely, his eyes alternating between her face and her chest.
"You look like you've never seen a bra before."
"Well, not yours. I've been wanting to see it for a while now."
"My bra, or what it holds?"
"Both, actually. May I?"
She nodded, and he reached for her and lightly pinched her nipples
through the material. She shivered, and he reached around her to
unsnap it. This time, he was too clumsy to get the job done, and she
pulled back.
"You're nervous too. I thought you were supposed to reassure me."
"If I weren't nervous, I'd be taking you for granted. Would you want
me then?"
She answered him by reaching behind her and undoing her bra. He
reached for her, but she stood up and danced away into his bedroom.
He followed.
-----
Part Six: Patterns and Weaves
Donald had grabbed one of the candle sticks on his way into the
bedroom, and he used it to light a pair of candles he had set on his
dresser earlier. Then, he turned toward her on the bed, and he
stopped short.
Tracy had already made herself as comfortable as she could--the bed
was dorm-standard, not comfortable but sturdy. Tracy felt that way
herself. She lay supine on the bed, with her head and upper back
supported by a large pillow. As Donald turned toward her, she saw his
body come to attention, stock-still and erect. He still had his pants
on, but she could tell that he was locally erect too.
She saw how her body affected him; Donald's breathing was shallow and
fast, he looked sweaty, and he started to tremble. He tried to speak,
but couldn't. Tracy felt embarrassed for him; this was the first time
she had seen the power she could have over a man, and that power made
her uneasy.
Donald soon snapped out of his paralysis and moved onto the bed.
Tracy started to turn away from him, but Donald reached her first and
leaned toward her for a kiss. She started to say something, but
Donald kissed her objections away. Despite her training, she
responded again, and leaned forward into his kiss. After trading a
few kisses, Donald drifted down her body to her right breast.
"Ohhhh." He started to lick a helical path around her breast,
stopping before the areola. "Oh, ohh, ohhh." She had trouble
breathing. Now, she was shaky. He reached toward the other breast
and started to tickle its bottom a little. When she started to
giggle, he started to lick and blow on her nipple. Now, she started
to shiver.
Tracy was still troubled. Despite the pleasure she felt, she still
had the old inhibitions. Something was different, though; her
inhibitions seemed to be coming purely from within. She forced the
thoughts back down; she didn't want to deal with them now.
He continued licking and nibbling for a few minutes, and then he
switched sides. New instincts began to supplant her old ones, and she
cradled his head in her hands, aiming his mouth where his kisses most
excited her. Then, Donald moved his right hand down her torso,
brushed past her navel, and he tried to undo her jeans. This she
couldn't accept, and she pushed his hand away.
"Donald, please. Wait."
"Still nervous? What's wrong?"
"Bad dreams, I guess. Give me a moment."
"I wish I knew how to make you feel comfortable. I wish I knew what
you are thinking."
"I'm not really sure myself. Perhaps I should leave. Perhaps I
shouldn't be here. I'm not ready for this."
He rolled over and stretched out beside her. They lay together for a
moment, silent but for their breathing--his shallow, as if he had been
running, and hers exaggeratedly deep, as she struggled to calm
herself.
"Is this really about your old neighborhood, or is this just about
you?"
"What do you mean?"
"You said: 'Perhaps I shouldn't be here.' What does that mean?"
"I don't know. I'm not doing this right. I don't belong here. I'm
not supposed to be doing this. I can't figure it out."
"Tracy, look. There is no right way or wrong way to make love; you
won't have a quiz in the morning."
"But--"
"You don't belong here? Exactly how long were we kissing each other
last night? Shouldn't that persuade you that you're welcome here?
Shouldn't that persuade you that it's right for you to be here?"
"That doesn't--"
"And, what authority is telling you that you shouldn't be doing this?
I think it's you yourself."
"Of course it is. I make my own decisions."
"Look, can you imagine yourself as a sensuous human being, or do you
reject that as being sensual and animal?"
Tracy thought for a moment. "I've taught myself to reject this sort
of thing."
"Sex, you mean."
"Yes, sex. Now I can hardly imagine myself having sex."
"You are a human being, not just a math student--not just a scholar.
You are an adult. If you want to stay here tonight, stay. If you
want to leave, leave. But, make an adult decision; think about why
you'd be leaving. If it's because I'm not the right person for you,
or if it's because of religious objections, or if I'm really going too
fast for you, then go with my blessing. But I think you want to
stay."
Tracy stood up and walked toward the candles on the dresser; the flame
seemed to hypnotize her; she thought clearly and furiously. When
Tracy was 5 years old, she had developed a troublesome fear of the
dark. She would refuse to go to sleep; she would fight her parents,
and she would awaken each morning tired and irritable. Her father sat
her down and told her she wasn't really scared of the dark; she was
scared of herself. She didn't understand her father then, but she
remembered the phrase. Now, she saw its justice.
She sagged a little and started to cry; then she felt Donald hugging
her from behind and his arms circling her waist. "Donald, I want to
stay; it's just so hard to go against my instincts."
"I have an idea; MJ said earlier that perhaps I should get you
exhausted, and then you'd be less self-conscious. Please wait here."
---
He left the bedroom, and Tracy heard nothing more for a minute. Then,
she heard the stereo's hum. Donald called to her, "May I have the
first dance?" She joined him as "The Blue Danube" began to play.
He led her in a simple box waltz; they didn't have room for anything
more. Still, they stumbled and tripped over each other. At the end
of the waltz, he bowed to her and she realized something odd--she'd
danced the entire waltz without thinking about her semi-nudity.
"Thank you," said Donald. The next waltz began.
"Thank you. You know--"
"Oh, say it. Everyone does."
"Every time I hear this, I think of space ships docking to space
stations."
"Well, Kubrick loves phallic symbolism. Remember 'Dr. Strangelove?'"
"Why Strauss waltzes?"
"Well, if I chose 'Bolero', you would have ran away."
"I'm not Bo Derek. Neither am I Jayne Torvill."
---
They danced like that for a few more waltzes, occasionally adding
turns and spins. They also added occasional bruises as they hit the
furniture. At the end of "The 'Dan Jansen' Skaters' Waltz," Tracy
told Donald, "You know, I'm actually comfortable doing this. I'm
surprised."
"You aren't self-conscious? Good. I'm glad. You dance very well,
considering these circumstances."
"Thank you. Would you like to try this some time in public?" His
gaze dropped a fourth of a radian. "Wearing clothes."
"Yes, I would. Would you like to try something? Call it a test of
your comfort, if you want."
"What do you mean?"
Donald reached down to undo his belt, but Tracy stopped him.
"I want to do this, and I'm going to have to sometime. Let me."
---
"I can see that you weren't exactly comfortable before."
"Well, puberty teaches you patience."
"Really? Well, I'm glad you have it. Patience, I mean."
"One more waltz?"
"Two."
---
"Something wrong?"
"Psychological tolerance. I need a little more inspiration. Please?"
"Now I'm addicting you? Yes, you may."
---
"I see that the flesh is willing, though the spirit be weak."
"Alison didn't give you any of my clothes, did she?"
"No. I'll lend you a pair of my jeans; they'll be baggy on you, but
they're clean."
"The spirit's getting stronger, by the way. One more dance?"
---
"Oh, that was fun. We'll have to try it again some time. I could use
something to drink, though."
"There's some apple juice in the fridge. One moment. Here."
"Ah, thanks. No more dancing, though."
"I'd like to dance some more. Just not vertically."
"I'm still scared. Be careful leading me."
"Certainly. I would be honored."
Donald took a moment to switch CDs and to get some more apple juice.
Then, she took his hand, and they walked together into his bedroom.
They embraced before the bed, and she asked, "How do you feel about my
body? I mean, I don't look--"
Donald interrupted by cupping her chin in his hand, and said, "You
mean, do I think that your breasts are too small, or your eyes are the
wrong color, or your hair is too short? You're fine. You're lovely.
You want me. That's my turn on. Shall I prove it? Besides, I'm not,
er, very impressive myself. You might be disappointed."
"Oh, hush. You can start by kissing me." He did, again tracing a
path from her mouth to her ear, her neck, and down to her chest.
Again, he licked and kissed helices around her breasts. Tracy was
transfixed; she could do nothing but moan.
Tracy felt Donald's hand slide down her chest to her navel; he then
started to stroke her abdomen in circles, delicately enough to excite
her further, but strong enough not to tickle her. She began to sway
and to lean into his kisses. He looked up at her face and grinned.
"More?" "More."
Donald dipped his hand farther down her body; Tracy fell back onto the
bed and went rigid with fear. Donald stopped for a bit and waited for
her to relax; after a few minutes, she did. He then lifted his hand a
centimeter or two and moved it downward to hover over her mons
veneris. His hand did not touch her skin; she felt it ruffle her
hair. It felt gentle to her, feather-light, too subtle for her to
name. It felt good.
After a minute of this, Tracy rose a bit and propped herself on her
elbows; she wanted to look at what Donald was doing. Donald moved to
a seated position next to her and continued his caresses. He still
didn't touch her skin; it served to tease responses and demands from
her. Finally, with a cry of "Oh, damn!", she reached down and pressed
his hand onto her, forcing him to caress her directly.
-----
Part Seven: Teammates
Donald's hand was cupping her crotch; she felt the heel of his palm
resting on the top of her triangle, the pad level with her clitoris,
though not yet touching it, and his fingers teasing her labia. He ran
his fingers along her outer lips, up one, down the other, tickling and
teasing them. She started to slip backwards, but Donald held her up,
swung himself behind her, and wrapped his arms around her belly.
"Enjoying yourself?" Donald was peering over her shoulder, and Tracy
started to laugh nervously. Then, Donald started stroking her again.
His right hand ran up and down along her inner lips, and occasionally
dipped shallowly in between. His left hand was softly drumming all
around her delta; occasionally it drifted toward her thigh, and
occasionally a finger touched down next to her button. Her button was
beginning to release from its hood, and Tracy started to abandon
herself to his touches. Something still bothered her, however.
Suddenly, the thought came to her, and she exclaimed, "You're playing
the piano!" He started to chuckle, and she turned toward him with a
mildly angry look on her face; then, she started to giggle too. They
both turned forward again, and then he straightened slightly and
started to nibble on her earlobe.
She started to relax all but one area of her body; her legs stretched
out, but she didn't feel them; she fell first onto her side and then
onto her back, but she didn't realize it; her eyes were wide open, but
she saw nothing. Only her heartbeat and the tingling in her--what
should she call it; she never talked that way--registered. Then, she
felt a mouth on her nipple, almost breathing it in, and she herself
started to gasp, breathing out with a low hum. And then, it happened;
lightning bolts flashed up and down her body, her head lolled from
side to side, and unbidden tears poured from her eyes. This lasted
ten, twenty, thirty seconds, she couldn't tell, and at its peak she
suddenly closed in on herself, curling into a ball, trapping Donald's
hand between her thighs, forcing Donald from her breast. Ten, twenty
more seconds, and then she fell backward again, limp and unthinking.
It was over, and nothing had ever felt like that before.
She came to a few minutes later as Donald was kissing her tears away.
"Trace?" She reached up and hugged him to her, first weakly and then
desperately.
"Trace, are you okay?"
"I'm not sure. A little dizzy."
"Here, relax. Have some juice."
She tore the wrapping on the container, stabbed the straw through its
top, and greedily sucked down its contents. Then, he leaned over her
and kissed her. They stayed like that for a while, occasionally
kissing, but mostly just looking at each other. Her breathing slowed,
her heart stopped racing, and she reoriented herself.
"Donald. I've never felt like that before. When I do it to myself,
it's just, well, pleasant. That was astonishing."
"A little Jabberwocky?"
"Huh?"
"Well, you burbled as you came."
"I am not in a mood for puns. You're awfully self-possessed."
"It's just a mask. Inside, I'm quite jittery. What shall we do now?"
"Do? Let's do what we're here to do."
"And that is?"
"Donald, make love to me."
"I thought that's what we were doing."
"You know what I mean. Don't tease me; make love to me."
"Screw you, you mean?" At that, she frowned a bit, and he continued,
"Well, you can't use clinical language in bed; you're going to have to
use words like 'fuck', 'pussy', and 'cock' eventually. Besides,
that's too passive a mood. I don't want to just fuck you; that makes
it seem like I'm just an impersonal force just doing a necessary task
for you. Of course, that's the way I acted my first time: 'Hooray, I
won't be a virgin any more.'"
Tracy lay a while in thought. "You're right. I guess I'm not that
different from everyone else. I must have really been a prig before."
"No, no. You were just on automatic pilot. It happens. So, what
now?"
She thought for a minute, and then giggled nervously. "I'm really
embarrassed. I still think I was right to wait this long; I would
never have come this far had I been the typical teenager in my
neighborhood. But, I guess I considered myself unique; I wouldn't be
gross and use 4-letter words, I wouldn't actively seek out sex; I'd
just let it happen to me when I was old enough. Well, that's like my
neighbors; they had sex because they thought that's what they were
supposed to do, and I acted like I was supposed to lay here and be
screwed because it was time for me to become an adult."
"You're too hard on yourself. I just hope you want me not just
because you need a warm body, any warm body."
"No, Donald. I want you for yourself. And if I can't be unique any
more, at least I do get promoted to human. Donald, I want you
to--sorry--I want for us to fuck, and now. I'm still nervous,
however. Pain and such."
"I'll try to be gentle, but I may not succeed. Will you accept an
apology in advance?"
"None is required."
"About the nervousness; it might work out better if you first get to
know your dance partner. Take a look. Familiarize yourself."
"Seems reasonable to me."
Tracy reversed her position on the bed, and the two of them just
stared at each other's not-quite-private parts for a bit.
"You know, it really looks cute in a way; it just looks so absurd."
"Men don't like to hear that, you know."
"It just does, so wrinkled and short like that."
"Well, if you expect it to grow bigger, you'll have to stop insulting
it."
"Okay, okay. Let me take a closer look. Are you enjoying your view?"
Donald didn't answer, instead teasing her lips again. Now, Tracy
stretched out her hand to run her fingers lightly near his balls; she
was fascinated as the skin shifted and his cock started to come erect.
She heard, "Would you like to give it some encouragement?" She began
to stroke the shaft, imitating the way he had stroked her before. It
worked; his cock was getting cocky indeed. When it reached its full
height, she impulsively gave it a kiss. She then pulled back and
returned to her earlier position.
"Are you ready now?"
"I'm as ready as I'll ever be. You'd better prepare yourself too."
"Oh, right." Donald pulled a box out of his night table, and he then
fumbled around for a minute.
"That color does not look good on you."
"I'll find another brand." Suddenly, he spun and positioned himself
over her. They kissed once, formally, as if it were a handshake.
They kissed with passion, as if they needed to breathe from each
other. They kissed with abandon, as if they could do nothing else.
And when they finally disengaged, he reached down and placed his cock
at her vestibule, rubbing the outside slightly.
She could wait no longer; she reached down to his buttocks and started
pulling him into her. He proceeded to move in and out very slowly,
while also fingering her lips and the area around her clitoris. The
feelings were exquisite. They both moved slowly, as if they were
immersed in quicksand. He drifted downward to nuzzle her breasts, she
left a trail of kisses from his mouth to his Adam's apple, and he slid
his hands to her buttocks, holding them steady.
She could not tell how long they stayed like that, rapt, wrapped in
each other's embrace. Their positions shifted slightly; once she
suckled on his nipples while he ran his fingers through her hair. At
one point he leaned forward, which caused his shaft to rub against her
clitoris. It was too much for her; she needed him, she wanted to mold
her body to his.
She tugged at his hip, and he understood her signal; he slowly pressed
into her. At first, she felt only pleasure, but soon she felt him
pressing upon her hymen. Donald looked worried; he was about to say
something when she placed her hand over his mouth and commanded him:
"Keep fucking me." He still looked worried, but he did exactly that.
She felt the barrier stretch, and she started taking deep gulping
breaths, as if she were in a Lamaze class, to override the ache. She
started to thrust back at him, and soon she felt a tearing within her.
The hurt showed upon her face, and he pulled back in panic.
"I'm all right. Don't worry. I'm glad you're concerned, but I'm
okay. Besides, I've already forgiven you." She huffed and puffed for
a while until the pain reduced to a cramp and an ache; then she leaned
over to him and kissed him.
"So, what shall we do now?" asked Donald. "Well, we're down seven
points with six minutes to go. Let's win." They adjusted their
positions and resumed play. Slowly, they regained their confidences,
and they weaved and cut, spun and twirled, nibbled and licked, led and
followed, took control and relinquished it, thrusted and parried, gave
and took. The ancient rhythms of sex took hold of them.
Soon enough, their play became serious and single-minded. Tracy and
Donald even stopped talking their way through the act. Tracy did get
frightened for a moment when she saw Donald's face become determined
and grim, but she realized that she looked the same way. Soon enough,
her eyes unfocused; she no longer noticed anything outside her body.
And in the end, their voices mingled in triumph: "Trace, I'm about
to..." "Yes!" They had both won their personal game of one-on-one.
"Trace, that was great. You're great."
"Well, you can't stop her; you can only hope to contain her."
"Right. I did put the biscuit in the basket."
"Nothing but the bottom of the net!"
Giddy with happiness, they spent the next ten minutes bouncing sports
talk and catch phrases off each other. The mood didn't last long;
they were both exhausted, and they did only the most necessary of
personal tasks before they both fell asleep. Tracy did not dream.
-----
Part Eight: Commentary
Saturday Morning, March 16, 1996
Tracy shut her eyes tightly, willing the conversation she heard
through the thin dorm wall to go away. She thought, "It's Saturday
morning! Why can't they let me sleep?" The conversation became
louder and louder, and she resigned herself to an early and unwanted
start to her day.
Still, she kept her eyes closed, hoping for a few more minutes of
half-slumber. Why were her thoughts so unfocused? She had never felt
so clumsy before. As she awakened, other uncomfortable thoughts
entered her mind. Why was her arm numb, and her neck stiff? Who were
those fools in the next dorm room? Why was she nude?
Nude? At that, she opened her eyes wide. A soft voice from behind
her whispered, "What a glorious sight to awaken to." Still confused,
she rolled onto her side and looked at the source of those words.
"Donald?" Donald nodded, and they stared at each other. Now, she
remembered. "Tracy, you could call me 'Don' for now on."
Suddenly, Tracy launched herself on top of Don, kissed him, and said,
"Don, what shall we do now?"
Don looked up at her and said, "You have no idea how much you are
distracting me." Tracy only stared down at him. "I guess you do."
Don considered the question for a moment; Tracy was glad he had the
grace to take it seriously. Then, he took a deep breath and said,
"We're too young to think of this as the prelude to marriage; we both
have three years left here, a few years of grad school, and a lot of
growing up to do. We don't know what will happen to you, to me, to us
in the process. I know only that we don't want to limit ourselves.
You worked hard to avoid the traps of your neighborhood; I was lucky
enough not to need to. Let's just explore. Learn about each other.
And who knows, we might be a permanent couple after all."
"That seems reasonable; I can't say, 'I love you, I want to marry you
and have your children,' just yet."
"Well, I'm greatly honored by your trust. Do you have any regrets?"
"No. This was exactly the right time. I'm glad I waited, but I'm
glad we did it."
"I'm relieved. Meanwhile, do you want to study?"
Tracy chuckled, and said, "I thought you'd never ask. Pass me that
box."
-----
After making love, they heard footsteps. People were going to and
from the showers, or heading downstairs for a late breakfast, or
greeting their friends, or otherwise beginning their day. Tracy got
up and started to gather her clothes.
"Trace, leaving so soon?"
"Don, I do have to get back; I'm a couple of days behind studying for
my French class. Besides, I do need some time alone. It's not as if
we won't see each other again."
"I know. I'll miss you. When do you want to meet again?"
"Not tonight. I need to think and to relax. There will be a rally
tomorrow on Cannon Green; would you like to meet there, say at Clio
Hall?"
"Great. Oh, here's a pair of jeans. Do you need a shirt?"
"Thanks."
They dressed in silence; neither had anything left to say. They
embraced, she walked to the door, she turned back to him, she kissed
him fiercely. Then, she left without a backward glance. She did hear
an exclamation from behind her: "Waltzes, Don?" It made her smile.
She left the dorm, retracing the steps she had taken two days before.
At first, she sped down the promenade, dodging and weaving the same
way she had done many times on Fifth Avenue. While passing the tennis
courts, however, her energy flagged; she slowed to an amble, and she
started to sing:
"It's very clear,
Our love is here to stay,
Not for a year,
But forever and a day.
"Oh, the Rockies may crumble,
Gibraltar may tumble,
They're only made of clay,
But---
Our love is here to stay!"
A few heads turned toward her, but she didn't care. There were some
catcalls from the tennis courts, but she ignored them. She walked
leisurely past the Lawrence Apartments, the Dinky, the Wa, and across
Alexander Road to her dorm. A few people waved, and she turned down
the hall to her room.
Alison was on the phone when Tracy walked in; Tracy was surprised to
find the room perfectly clean and to find Alison looking well-rested
and neatly dressed. Alison waved and pointed at Tracy's computer;
Tracy walked over to it and picked up the Post-It note Alison had
left:
Sat, 3/16
8:36 am
Yr mom cal'd.
Told her u doing laundry, wud kal back.
Ok?
A
Tracy sat down and slumped over the keyboard. She heard Alison put
down the phone and walk toward her; then Alison started to massage her
shoulders.
"Tracy, what's wrong?"
"She knows."
"From that?"
"Well, in my entire life I have never done chores early on Saturday.
It was always my day to sleep in. Sunday was church, and weekdays
were school. Mom's smart; she knows."
"So, that doesn't matter, does it? How was it?"
"Well, we got a few dances in. Oh, it was great. I'd better call
her."
"Dances. Dances? Oh, brother." Alison tossed her the phone, and she
dialed home:
"Hello?"
"Hello, Mother. How are you today?"
"Oh, I'm all right. Look, I haven't visited your campus in a while;
would you mind if I came to Princeton tomorrow?"
"Of course I don't mind. But, you'll miss church."
"The Lord will forgive me this once."
"And, do you really want to be traveling through New York on Saint
Patrick's Day? You know how the city gets."
"I'll be fine."
"Take the train at least. It's more expensive, but it takes you a
block away from me. Also, there will be a rally at noon tomorrow; I
really want to go."
"Of course; that was a great game."
"Look, I have to go. Can you make the 8:50am train?"
"Fine. Tracy, be well. I love you."
"Love you Mom. I'll meet you at the Dinky."
"Bye!"
---
Alison said, "Well, she does know. Why should you care anyway? That
doesn't mean you're going to stop, does it?"
"No. Hell, no."
"That's encouraging. You really should do your laundry now, you
know."
"Right. I'll shower while it's in the washer. Alison, do you have
any books I could borrow? I'd like to prepare myself better."
"Books? On sex? You are truly a student. I'm afraid not."
"I'll go to the U-Store later. I'll be back soon."
Tracy changed into her robe, grabbed her laundry, and left.
---
The rest of the day was quiet. The team lost its second-round game to
Mississippi State, but no one was sad; no one could expect two
miracles in one week. Tracy then went to the U-Store and bought her
textbooks and supplies; studied her French in the early evening, and
spent a few hours curled up on the couch, celebrating the weekend with
a hot fudge sundae, and reading about sexual Starters and Main Courses.
The next morning, Tracy waited for her mother at the Dinky station.
She was a little scared, and she now was angry at herself for being
scared. Why did she care what mom thought? The train slid into the
station, the doors opened, and her mom came out. Mom wore a beautiful
green dress, and she looked as if she had just come from the
beautician. The sight reminded Tracy of mom's wedding photos; Tracy
could understand why dad had decided to court mom years ago.
"Hi, mom! Here!"
"Hi, Tracy. Could we go to your dorm? I need to wash up."
"Of course. Do you need anything from the store."
"No, I'm fine. Anyway. So, who's your special friend, Tracy?"
Tracy choked a bit, both at the question and at how alike mom and she
sounded. When she got her breath back, she replied:
"I could lie to you, but it wouldn't do any good; you know me well
enough. Donald Harper. He's a freshman, a chemistry student. You'll
meet him at the rally."
"Well, that isn't a lie, but it isn't the entire truth, is it."
"No, mother, it isn't. You've guessed already. Do you approve?"
"Would you stop if I didn't approve?"
"No. Of course not."
"Then, you are ready. You're growing up. Frankly, I'm glad."
"Really?"
"Yes. I know that it is strange for a mother to tell her daughter
that it's okay to have sex, and I am glad you waited until college.
But, I want you to be happy and whole. Are you?"
"I feel happy. I am happy. I'm not exactly whole. Not since Friday,
at least."
"Oh. Oh."
The conversation stalled as they walked into the dorm and dropped off
her mom's things, and they resumed it while walking to the gathering.
"So, how serious are the two of you?"
"Well, we're both very serious people. But, we don't know how long
this will last. How could we?"
"I've never told you this, but you should know that neither your
father or I were virgins when we met, nor did we wait until after we
married. Remember, he was 25 when we married and was 30 when you were
born; when he was 20, he spent a year in Vietnam patching up tanks and
jeeps. I went to Queens College from '68 to '72. I did have some
boyfriends along the way. I'm not ashamed of that, and I never asked
him about that aspect of his Army year. It didn't matter. When we
fell in love, nothing before mattered."
"The matter never came up?"
"Oh, no. What do you think? He never asked anything like, 'So, where
did you learn that?' That would have been crass and foolish. We were
happy together. Even at the end, we were happy."
"He was the 'luckiest man on the face of the earth'?"
"Now, now. We weren't Yankee fans. But, that's just about how he
felt. I still have him inside my heart."
"Is that why you haven't dated since?"
"I've never really wanted to. Besides, it wasn't easy getting you
grown up. I put enough of my time into raising you that I didn't have
the time or the energy to look for romance."
"So, why didn't you move us out of the neighborhood?"
"The life insurance went to pay medical bills; what's left I devoted
to your college fund. Besides, I'm too stubborn to be driven from my
home."
"Oh. So tell me, what other news do you have?"
They chatted about neighbors and friends, church and choir as they
went past the U-Store to Blair Arch, and from there to Clio Hall.
"Donald!"
"Tracy. And this is...."
"Donald, I'd like you to meet my mother, Sarah Lyon. Mom, this is
Donald Harper."
"I'm pleased to meet you, Mrs. Lyon, even though I didn't expect it."
"I'm happy to meet you too, Donald. So tell me, what do you study
here?"
"Chemistry. I'm hoping to work on buckyballs and their analogs."
"That's interesting. I've only read about them in the popular press,
but it looks like there will be a lot to learn about them. But,
analogs?"
"Well, I'm wondering what will happen if you dope them with boron or
nitrogen. There must be new structures you can create."
They chatted like that for a few minutes, until the president,
provost, and deans took their positions on the bandstand, and the
president started to speak.
"Tracy, what's going on?" whispered Don.
"I'm not sure; I think she wants to check you out."
"You told her?"
"No. Let's talk later. Eight o'clock, at my room."
They watched as the team and staff was introduced, and listened as
each was given a chance to speak. There were cheers and songs, shouts
and praises. At the end, the president presented Coach Carril with an
award handed out only once before, to Bill Bradley at his final home
game, a large plaque with the Nassau Hall bell clapper mounted
thereupon. The rally ended, and they parted.
"So, mom. What did you think?"
"He's a good person. I like him. He seems good for you. So, do you
have any questions about the birds and the bees?"
"No, mom. Why don't I give you a tour. We'll get you back after
dinner."
---
Hours later, Tracy and Don were sitting on her bed, chatting about
their parents, and about the day.
"God, that was rough for a while. I didn't know whether she would fly
off the handle or not, but she took it well."
"Well, she's a reasonable person. Besides, she was the realist. Give
her credit for that."
"Anyhow, there's some homework I'd like you to help me with."
"Homework."
"Yes, homework." She reached into her nightstand and pulled out a
book; there were a few Post-It flags marking pages. "Are you
interested in this? And this? And this? And didn't you think of
doing that Friday night?"
Don's eyes widened, and then he began to laugh. She joined him, and
then he gasped out, "Yes. Yes. Yes. And, no, I didn't think of it
at all. But I'd be happy to try. Homework like this I could never
get enough of." They laughed harder and harder until they ran out of
air, and then they turned to each other, and continued their studies.
The End
An Outsider's Education
by fcp
<fcp2718@poboxes.com>
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fcp2718@poboxes.com Home of Modern
FC Press Lighthearted Drama
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