A glob of strawberry jam slips off the edge of my toast and lands on the leg of my pants. I frantically dab at it with a napkin, but it only smears and leaves an ugly pink circle on the tan fabric.
I guess I shouldn’t care; they’re old sweats, holes on the legs and strands of fabric escaping the hems. Besides, I’m not exactly required to look pretty right now.
It’s eight o’clock at the galley,
It’s eight o’clock at the galley, the college Is it a gallery or cafeteria?cafeteria at NYU, and only a few other students are here, eating late-night snacks and toiling over homework.
More people are milling around the bookstore shelves above me, some peering over the banister down at those of us eating. I glare at anyone that meets my eyes.
I am not in a good mood.
College is
I hardly have
I will fall down dead
has now glued my pant leg to my thigh]
I peer at my watch.
it’s after
I scratch at the drying spot of jam on my pants with one hand and twist a lock of hair around my finger with the other, slouching over the table and feeling my self-esteem break into little jagged pieces.
A girl plops suddenly
I look up, and it’s Izzy
“how did it go?”
interrupts
eyes is almost painful as she squeals
I take a deep breath,
Izzy stops and looks
I sigh again.
Lizzy says wisely, because now’s she caught on and is in supportive comfort mode.[size=9]
I whisper dully
She waits calmly
I say.
says Izzy, looking at me.
“Lucy.” She’s slightly exasperated now. “Trust me, okay? You are the kindest, smartest, most talented person I know. You’ll get that job in no time. Besides,” she says, leaning back in her chair and suppressing a yawn, “what’s wrong with waiting at Cee’s?”
A glob of strawberry jam slips off the edge of my toast and lands on the leg of my pants. I frantically dab at it with a napkin, but it only smears and leaves an ugly pink circle on the tan fabric.
Dang. Just my luck. I guess I shouldn’t care; they’re old sweats, holes on the legs and strands of fabric escaping the hems. Besides, I’m not exactly required to look pretty right now. But still, it’s never a good thing to walk around with food sticking to you like a bad omen.
They imagine me, ten years from now, without job, without husband, and without life.
But brooding about college is just the result of my bad day. If only Izzy would show up and I could vent . . .
A girl plops suddenly into the seat across from me. I look up, and it’s Izzy: stylish blonde hair, muddy eyes, and a pug nose; skinny jeans, mismatching converse shoes, and an Angels & Airwaves T-shirt. My safe-haven and the only person who can lie to me kindly and break the truth to me gracefully.
“They told me I needed singly lessons. A bar manager told me I needed singing lessons.” I sigh again. “I’m a failure.”
“They told me I needed singly lessons. A bar manager told me I needed singing lessons.” I sigh again. “I’m a failure.”
“Well, I saw it on Wikipedia—”
I’m thinking to myself now, but I know Izzy’s listening, waiting for me to stop so she can offer up a helpful response.
My mom was a maid to his wife, and a cook in the kitchens, and after Mrs. Fairfield—whom we all call Moira—heard about the incident with my father she took us under her wing.
I am, and always will be, in love with him.
It's difficult to explain. I mean, in high school he was the dreamy, mysterious football player. His grades were okay, but he got into Harvard with a scholarship (and a load of bribery from Moira) in football. His eyes are so clear and blue, and his hair is blond and the right kind of messy. I like the way he looks in collared shirts with the sleeves rolled up, I like the way he saunters down the hallway and runs a hand through his hair. I don't like the way he glances at me and says, "Oh, hi, Lucy."
200397 wrote:“Are you, er, going to see You-Know-Who?” she whispered, cocking an eyebrow in meaning.
We both know who she’s talking about.