Love And Other Things I'm Bad At Part 21

Dear Grant, I was thinking it over, and maybe I was too hasty the other day. Not hasty, exactly. How about wrong? I don't want to be separated from you. Ever. And I don't know about this whole "exclusive" concept, but I'm willing to try again. I think.

What would you think of both volunteering at the humane society this summer? We could work together, and that way we'd get to spend more time together, which is really important.

See, I always kind of pictured us running this animal hospital, only I'm a real wimp about blood and body parts and singed fur and euthanasia.

But I could file, right? I'm really good with the alphabet. Remember: D comes before V except after C.

Love, C.V.D.S.

P.S. In the meantime, how does spring break look for you? I was thinking maybe Cancun. Please get back to me ASAP.

Sundae My Prince Will Come.

8/26.

How do you say good-bye to a dream?

I've always wanted to start a journal like this. Really dramatic and over the top.

Wait. I think all my journals have started like this-dramatic and over the top. Oh well.

But this time, it's serious. And true. And heartbreaking.

Just when I finally get used to being away at college, just when I have found utter bliss with college boyfriend, I get the news: Scholars.h.i.+p. Not. Renewed.

You. Are. A. Loser.

Soon to be an Alone and Lonely Loser.

"The thing is, Courtney . . ."

That's never a good start to a conversation. Trust me.

"Your scholars.h.i.+p." Dean Sobransky's hands were shaking as he tried to casually sip his morning coffee when he called me into his office as if it were any other weekday morning, but he slipped and spilled some on his lap, which made him yell, "Stupid! Stupid! One cream, I said!" He finally composed himself and managed to mutter, "Your scholars.h.i.+p," again.

"Yes?"

"It's . . . well . . . the economy. . . ."

"What are you saying?"

"It's over. Our endowment is plummeting. We can't afford to help all the students we'd like to, and . . . well, you're a soph.o.m.ore and we have seniors who have been here three years so far and . . ." Then Dean Sobransky burst into tears and what could I do but try to cheer him up, because I'm, like, his a.s.sistant and that's my job, but the whole time I was thinking, what does this mean for me? And what good is it being the dean's a.s.sistant if he can't even save you? And if he'd left me to founder in the Cornwall Falls College Campus Funders, maybe I could have convinced alumni to give the school enough money to keep me.

Well, probably not. I kind of sucked at that job, unlike Wittenauer, best caller ever.

Oh G.o.d. Sinking in. Am going to throw up. I have to leave Wittenauer. I have to move back home to Denver. Because I called home and Mom said she had already heard from Dean S., and she was sorry but she couldn't afford to keep me there at full cost. Yes, she'd already asked Dad. Yes, she'd already appealed to my grandparents. Both sides.

"So you were just waiting for the dean to break the news to me? Thanks, Mom."

"I was hoping I'd come up with a solution on my own. I'm sorry, hon!"

("Hon?" Since when does she call me "hon"?) Adding insult to injury, the school had already gone ahead and bought me a plane ticket home. That's how much they want me gone. (OK, so it's a voucher thingy and I can change it, but the way I feel now, I'm so mad I want to be gone. Except for Wittenauer! Not leaving Wittenauer. No way.) This whole cancelation thing isn't even just about me, it's about fifty other scholars.h.i.+p students, too. Our generation is, like, bankrupt before we even get started. We'll be known as Generation B. They're ditching us and importing students with cold, hard cash. And trust funds, probably, so they'll spend lots around town and keep the town afloat, too.

It's like being kicked off Noah's Ark. "Sorry, but we actually don't need one of you."

Now I have to try to get into another college at home. Like I'll be able to. Whatever happens, I won't need this stupid CFC notebook that I bought for cla.s.s, so it may as well be my journal.

I'll have lots of time to write in it because I'll be living at home. I can't even think about that.

So many things have changed since I last lived at home. Puny little brother, Bryan, is now a high school senior. A senior. He's the captain of the cross-country team at Bugling Elk, my alma mater. He gets college catalogs in the mail daily. He tweets. He has interests. He has, apparently, no girlfriend "right now" and says n.o.body does anymore, that it's not cool. That's code: It means he asked a girl out and got rejected.

We don't usually do well with the love connections in this family. Big sister, Alison, recently got dumped by Jessie, the girl of her dreams.

Beth, my best friend from HS and Bryan's former girlfriend (ew, still ew after all these years), is in Italy on a term abroad to study art history. Hate her hate her with intensity of 100 suns. Is it too late to fly to Italy to join her? Jane is still at UW and happy there. She constantly texts me about fun things she's doing. It's like . . . everything is still moving forward, everyone has moved on to something new and exciting. But not me. I moved backward. There was a board game and I drew the card that read "Go Back Three s.p.a.ces."

Dean Sobransky shoved this recommendation letter at me, begging me to take it, as it would help me get transferred somewhere else. Felt sort of like a foster child. Or foster kitten, anyway.

Is it because I was responsible for getting that amendment to the college const.i.tution, stating that the CFC initials could not be used anymore because they kind of promote a pollutant, chlorofluorocarbon? I thought the trustees were over that. Apparently not.

There was a brief discussion among the campus Badicals about holding a protest over this drop in financial aid, but then we realized that half of us were on scholars.h.i.+p and would quickly need to pack up and move home, so we didn't really have time to be political about it. I mean, sure. Get rid of the politically active ones first. Stupid CFC.

Could they not have figured this out before August???

Friends are at door to commiserate. They have Ben & Jerry's. Must go.

8/28.

Mary Jo, former roommate and now friend and again roommate, insisted on exploring every possible option to keep me here.

"What about loans? Can't you just get loans?"

We went downtown (not much of a downtown, but we still call it that). Of the three banks that used to be there, two are closed-completely-and the one that's still open is no longer making loans to students.

"Well, this is lousy," she said.

That's as close as she ever gets to cursing.

I figured I might have stood more of a chance if I hadn't bounced a bunch of checks freshman year. Maybe the banks would still be in business.

We went back to our apartment. On the way, Jane called. "What's going on?" she asked.

"Oh, not much," I said. "Just being forced to move home." Then I burst into tears. She talked to me the entire time I was crying about how she thought she had soph.o.m.ore slump because she wasn't excited to be at UW, either, but it's not the same thing. She can suffer in place. I have to suffer in motion. And a thing in motion . . . stays in . . . whatever.

That's why I'll never take-or at least never pa.s.s-physics.

Jane said moving home wouldn't be so bad and would just be temporary. She tried to point out all the great things about Denver we'd both missed so much: mountains, sun, good shopping. "And I'll see you at Thanksgiving, or at least Christmas," she said. "Cheer up, Court. It'll work out for the best, it always does."

Easy for her to say.

Started packing up my stuff. All we need now are labels and packing tape for the boxes. Courtney Von Dragen Smith-return to sender. And all Mary Jo needs is a new roommate or else she's going to be stuck paying really expensive rent.

A bunch of our other friends came by later, threw me a going away party with pizza and last-minute gifts like bars of soap and travel-size toothpaste and tacky CFC sweats.h.i.+rt: CORNWALL FALLS INTO YOUR HEART.

As we packed my stuff, Mary Jo insisted on my taking her clock that's shaped like a potato. Used to hate that thing. Couldn't stop crying.

Wittenauer came to whisk me away to his place, where I'm going to spend my last night. Would be a tad more romantic if he didn't share the house with four other guys. It's completely messy most of the time and smells like perhaps a dead mouse is under the sofa. (Well, they found one once, so it's not a far-fetched thing at all.) Wittenauer had a blender and attempted to make fancy "adult" malts. (Ice cream with schnapps.) I was too upset to drink one. He's cleaning blender now. He's actually been in the kitchen for, like, hours, I think, cleaning. I think we are both panicking a little.

Somehow this isn't how I antic.i.p.ated my last night being, but then again, I've only known about it for 2 days so at least I didn't get the chance to get my hopes up.

LATER.

OK, let me backtrack.

Last time I kept a journal, I had come here for my first semester at college and was miserable. Then I was not miserable.

I finally started to like it, so much that I didn't even have time to lie around and write in a journal. Instead of bailing for home, I stayed for spring semester, and studied studied studied. I studied my b.u.t.t off.

Over the summer, I stayed here and worked on campus, giving tours and doing fund-raising.

I probably sound like a b.u.t.t kisser, but it was really all about me: I was seeing Wittenauer/Corny (not to be confused with Corny Wittenauer because he's not that corny at all) and I didn't want to leave him for the summer.

I was the ideal Cornwall Falls student. Wasn't I? I mean, I was. Really. I should have won an award. Instead, I'm getting kicked to the curb.

Wittenauer says not to worry, everything will be OK, something good will come of all this, etc. Such an optimist.

I hate optimists sometimes. So not realistic.

"What's wrong with having hope?" he said.

"Do you know me at all?" I said.

Optimist and pessimist that we are, we sit around, smiling, but glumly holding hands.

8/29.

"Courtney. Courtney. Courtney."

The words were floating in the air above my head. I tried to wake up. My name was getting irritating, even to me, and it's my name.

"Courtney!" Someone was shaking my shoulder now. "It's time to leave for the airport."

I looked up and saw gorgeous boyfriend standing over me like a towering cornstalk.

Seriously. That is his mascot uniform for being Corny, the mascot for Cornwall Falls College, the place that is now apparently kicking me out until further notice. There is nothing corny about that.

Wittenauer was dressed for the CFC FFGP (Cornwall Falls College First Football Game Parade), something I'd dreaded but would now miss horribly, to the end of my days. He'd tried to give up being Corny and put it to an all-campus vote, but he ended up winning, so he's still school mascot. He gets to hand off the costume at the end of football season and supposedly has an understudy this year, otherwise known as Baby Corn.

This college has so many ridiculous traditions that I won't mind leaving behind.

Anyway, back to gorgeous boyfriend. Tall, blond, Norwegian-German. Strangely committed to eating black olives, onions, and sausage on every pizza, even though you've told him several times you don't eat sausage. Still, the kind of person who would give you his umbrella if it was raining. If he had one.

But guys don't usually carry umbrellas, do they? I need a better metaphor.

OK, say you were on a long bike ride together. Really long, in the country, which had lots of hills. And you bonked because you completely ran out of energy and you couldn't make it back to campus. If he had one granola bar, he'd give it to you, even if he was really, really hungry, too. No questions asked.

Or here's another example. If you forgot about this ten-page paper you were supposed to write, OK let's say you didn't forget, exactly, but you just procrastinated until the night before it was due, and it was on Shakespeare, and you were kind of getting a B in the cla.s.s but wanted an A . . .

Wittenauer (only his parents call him Walter) would bring you to that all-night breakfast place so you could stay up and get it written. And he'd be there but he wouldn't let you talk to him until you had 2 pages done and he wouldn't let you have pancakes until you had 8 pages done.

That kind of person.

For Valentine's Day, he went a little crazy and left a trail of three dozen roses from my dorm to his. A bunch of people stole some of the roses, and some got stepped on, but still. Very romantic. He was really sweet like that. Still, I resisted getting involved involved, because even though Grant and I were broken up, I didn't think I wanted another relations.h.i.+p.

Wittenauer kept doing everything to win me over. Still, I resisted. For about another month. Which landed at just the same time Grant and I were supposed to be giving our relations.h.i.+p another shot and going away together. I panicked. Well, can you blame me?

Probably.

So, anyway. Me and Wittenauer: a morbid good-bye scene at the Milwaukee airport. Breaking down by the security line. Making out in public with a cornstalk.

"I'll come visit soon," Wittenauer kept saying. "Soon, soon."

More like: swoon, swoon. Security guard not sure what to do with me. She waved this packet of smelling salts in front of my nose that made me stumble even more, confused, down ramp to the gates.

Here I am. On the plane. Hating life. Hating everybody. Hating everything.

But loving Wittenauer. More than I can say.

Also, I keep trying but I can't stop crying. Annoying.

Is it weird that I still only call him by his last name? For a while I used "Witt" for short, but that sounded very pretentious, like an abbreviation for "Whitney." Walter's out, and Wally is not acceptable. Wall-E did nothing to make that name cuter.

Used to refer to him as WWIII, but he got tired of that. Tried W. Really, his name is impossible. What were his parents thinking? They are very nice people but did not think that through.

Of course, neither did Baroness Von Dragen.

Of all people, shouldn't she have had the power to change that dreadful last name? What's the point in being a baroness if you can't abolish bad names?

8/30.

Home in Denver. Mom gave me generous, gigantic hug when I met her at baggage claim. That took the edge off for a few minutes, until we got home and I just sort of stared at bedroom walls for a few minutes too long.

Have talked to Wittenauer about 89 times today on the phone, but still can't stop missing him and crying.