The Truth Is a Theory Read online

  Allie leaned into her friends. “I heard they give out awards for the best fall.”

  Megan hung onto Allie’s belt as they snaked forward in line.

  Once filled, their red plastic cups doubled as a handy shield as they shuffled back through the house; taking a sip gave them a chance to sneak a glance around. Without a natural place to stop and hang out, they made their way back down the hill and out onto the lawn. They gulped their beers fast, mostly for something to do, and searched for recognizable faces scattered around them in the dark.

  “This marching up and down that hill could get old fast.” Allie held up her empty plastic cup.

  “It’s called dancing for our dinner, or in this case, drink,” Zoe said.

  “Next time we either need to stay up there a while, or come back down two-fisted,” Allie said.

  “Better yet… ” Zoe grabbed the arm of a skinny guy scurrying by with a full pitcher of beer. She held out her cup and clearly expecting cooperation, said, “Would you mind filling us up?”

  “Very nice,” Allie said after the boy walked away. “I could almost hear you purr. You didn’t even have to stroke his,” Allie cleared her throat, “ego.” She smiled.

  “Listen and learn,” Zoe said.

  “Got it. But he was an easy mark. You’ll get extra points if they’re cute.”

  Zoe turned towards the glare of the fraternity castles. “I think the cute ones are all up there.”

  Allie and Megan followed her gaze up the hill. After a moment, they pivoted back to each other with a long exhale. The party in the dark mote of the field now felt like a gathering of outcasts. Unfamiliar faces clustered in cells all around them, blackness obscured groups beyond that. In the distance, someone turned on a boom box and several bodies began to sway, the shadowed anonymity emboldening the roll of their hips. Watching, the girls shrunk into themselves.

  Their little huddle of three suddenly didn’t feel padded enough against the strangeness of this new social scene. Their conversation sputtered, then stalled completely. They drank their lukewarm beers and shifted their weight from foot to foot.

  In seconds, the black silence enveloped Allie, and an all-too-familiar dread gripped her. The darkness took shape, became clammy stone walls inching towards her, pressing close. Her stomach churned, sour and queasy. She began to sweat.

  No, not now.

  Her heart revved, a trot before the full-out stampede. She shook her head, her hair swished across her shoulders and back. She tried to focus—she could harness this brewing explosion—but panic crawled up her throat and started to squeeze. She couldn’t fill her lungs.

  She fumbled for an idea, any idea to get them moving, talking.

  “Hey guys.” Her words croaked in between them. “Let’s liven this up a bit. What do you say we go up there and see if there’s anything other than bad beer?”

  Breathe in. Breathe out.

  Megan picked at her fingernail. “Should we? I didn’t really see any freshmen hanging out up there.”

  Zoe took a step closer to Allie. “Oh come on. It’s not like there’s a rule about it or anything. Let’s go.”

  Allie gulped the cool night air and put one foot in front of the other, leading the way. With each step, the motion, the plan, eased her breath back into a manageable rhythm. “And maybe we should play a game,” she said, riding the relief of an averted disaster. “We each have to introduce ourselves to some guy who resembles a celebrity.”

  “Any celebrity?” Zoe said.

  Allie nodded. “Although we have to say who we are looking for right now, before we start.”

  “Okay… ” Megan drew out the last syllable.

  Allie gave Megan a quick hug. “Come on, it’ll be fun!”

  “Okay, I’m in, I’m in.”

  Not knowing the distinct personality of each fraternity, they wandered into a second house, identical to the first in atmosphere and furnishings, and stood together in a tight little circle.

  “I’m looking for James Bond,” Zoe said.

  “Roger Moore or Sean Connery?” Allie said.

  “Doesn’t matter, it’s all about the attitude. And of course, the gadgets.”

  “Bond’s too pretty for me,” Allie said. “I’m going for the swashbuckling, disheveled hero-type. Let me know if you see Harrison Ford anywhere.”

  “I certainly wouldn’t mind finding a Tom Cruise clone,” Megan said, “but seeing as I don’t think there’s anyone here in Ray Bans and an Air Force uniform, I’m keeping my eyes peeled for Rob Lowe.”

  Zoe cocked her head and flipped both her palms up.

  “St. Elmo’s Fire? About Last Night? You know the type—cool on the surface, but kind of lost underneath? Stretched out sideways in the back of the class like his legs don’t fit underneath the desk?”

  “So Allie wants to be saved, and you want to be a savior,” Zoe said.

  “And you’re a Bond girl,” Allie said.

  “Although I’m the cool spy chick who betrays him at the end and ends up breaking his heart.”

  “I thought James Bond never got his heart broken,” Megan said.

  “There’s always a first,” Zoe said.

  “Here I go; Indiana Jones is over at the keg,” Allie said.

  They spun to inspect a guy who vaguely resembled Harrison Ford.

  “That’s quite a reach,” Megan said.

  “Picture the brown fedora and magic whip. Better?”

  “Go,” Megan said.

  “Okay, if he counts as Harrison Ford, then I see Roger Moore over in the corner.” Zoe tilted her head towards a blonde football player.

  Allie touched Megan on the shoulder. “Are you okay, or should I wait until your charming/lost guy makes an appearance?”

  “Don’t worry, clearly the parameters on ‘resembles’ are a little loose.”

  Allie squeezed Megan’s arm.

  “Wish me luck,” Zoe said as she walked away.

  ————

  Megan, now standing alone and feeling foolish, looked around for any handsome guy with brown hair, and then dismissed the first one as too intimidating. She debated hiding in the bathroom for a few minutes instead of completing her task, but in the end, not wanting to be a wet blanket, she chugged her cup of courage and walked towards two frat brothers standing with a girl in the corner. Just as she was closing in, one guy walked away and the remaining one leaned into the girl. It was too late to turn and walk away.

  “Hi, I’m Megan Riordan.” Her cheeks flamed as they eyeballed her. “Sorry, it’s a game, I had to introduce myself.”

  They sneered.

  Her forefinger raked at the cuticle on her thumb. She tried to call up Zoe’s sweet purr from earlier. “So, what frat is this?”

  “We’re just in the middle of something here,” the guy said. His words swatted her like she was a fly.

  She spun around and fought the electric impulse to run. She race-walked back through the house, wondering how her friends had done with their assignments, and hoping that they hadn’t seen her being dismissed so quickly. In a corner she spied Allie, who after days of singing about Dana, was now enjoying a flirty rapport with her celebrity, and by the way she kept throwing her head back in fits of laughter, he was either a stand-up comedian or she was putting on a very good show of interest. In her animation, her hand kept batting his arm and actually grabbing it at times for emphasis, or perhaps balance.

  Across the room, Zoe was standing comfortably in a group of four guys, none of whom was James Bond. Okay, at least I wasn’t the only one who failed.

  “What happened to James?” Megan whispered to Zoe as she slid into the little circle.

  “M called.”

  The four brothers—their tee shirts branded with Greek letters—leaned in, Casanova-like, jockeying for position, replenishi
ng any empty cups nonchalantly. It was refreshing after her recent snub, and Megan folded into the conversation as the loud music and sweaty bodies around her began to merge.

  ————

  Inside the first fraternity house, Gavin was sprawled on an overstuffed chair, legs long, arms relaxed and open as if he was holding the whole party on his lap. Tori had deposited herself on his chair arm, a queen to the right of her king, as stiff a fixture as the arm itself.

  Gavin had watched Zoe come in earlier with her small entourage; he told himself he hadn’t necessarily been waiting for her, although he had been unusually aware of who was coming and going through the front door. So he’d also noticed her leaving the house a few minutes later with a full beer. He wasn’t planning on following her; in fact, he wasn’t really planning anything. But just like in the cafeteria, his eyes were fastened to her and all the nerves in his body were on fire, something that hadn’t happened in a very long time. Usually girls pursued him and he coasted along on autopilot. Hey, the sex was always great—sex being sex after all—but so far he just couldn’t get excited about the before and after. He wasn’t sure what that said about him; he was guessing nothing good. So he tried not to think about it.

  He glanced up at Tori. From her post she had to lean over to manage it, but she had her arm pasted around the back of his neck, publicly claiming him. And she’s not wrong. They had been seeing each other for a while, and he liked her, he did. She was uncomplicated, pretty; she floated weightlessly on his arm, and left not a ripple in her absence.

  Tori nuzzled his ear. “I’m going to get a beer, want one?”

  He needed to move. Zoe’s coming and going had made him restless. “I’ll get you one.”

  Tori smiled. He knew she felt pampered.

  He should have ended it last spring, a clean break. But there had been no reason to do it then, and he had half-hoped it would just fizzle out over the summer. He hated ending these things—hated the tears, hated the guilt, hated the indecision of whether he should stay and comfort after he’d just said goodbye. He had always been relieved in the past when his girlfriend would realize the relationship wasn’t going anywhere and end it for him—an easy, get-out-of-jail-free card. But occasionally, that lightbulb never clicked on for the girl and he would get bored, or even worse she would get too intense, and he would be forced to do it himself.

  He went to the keg in the corner exclusively for the brothers—better beer, no line. He filled two cups and headed back to Tori, grinning and trading one-liners with friends and fans as he walked. She was sitting in the same spot, guarding her nest, pseudo-listening to a brother whose back was to him. As Gavin approached, she craned her neck around the now unnecessary brother and beamed at him.

  Oh man, how am I going to end this?

  ————

  Allie needed air. She was drunk, underwater in a sea of people, the sepia scene around her undulating to the deep, throbbing bass of the music. An arm looped around her waist and the ruggedly handsome guy she was with—Billy, was it?—leaned in and whispered, “You okay? Want to go outside for a minute?” He peered at her; his eyes looked crossed.

  “Sure.”

  He took her arm and maneuvered her towards the door.

  “Ready to go?” Megan materialized next to her and touched Allie’s free arm.

  Allie took a moment to focus on Megan before pulling her arm free from Billy and stumbling towards her friend. Then as an afterthought, she tossed “bye, Billy” over her shoulder.

  He scowled.

  “You guys are going?” Zoe appeared as suddenly as Megan. “I might stay.” She looked around. “Oh, hell, I’ll go back too. We’ve got four years to do this, right?”

  ————

  Back in the dorm, Zoe bid Allie and Megan goodnight and headed to her dark room. She flicked on the bright overhead light and immediately noticed her sleeping roommate. She left the light on as she checked herself in the mirror, undressed, and slipped into her navy silk pajamas. It wasn’t until she had gone down the hall to brush her teeth and had come back again that she finally clicked off the light.

  ————

  Allie staggered with Megan down the hall towards their room. Halfway there, she stopped at the hall phone and tilted her head towards it. “I’m just going to call Dana.”

  Megan shuffled on as Allie, feeling shaky, stepped into the phone booth and closed the glass door. She held her breath—and the tears that threatened—as the ring echoed out across the miles. No answer. She exhaled. Probably just as well. She would have sobbed with the ache of missing him, and she was afraid he wouldn’t know what to say, afraid there might be silence on the other end of the phone. Or maybe he would have answered with something positive, “but it sounds like you had a great day!” which would have made her feel slightly crazy in her sadness. No, better to talk to him tomorrow when she was more composed. She hid out in the phone booth until she was sure her tears were locked down. Then she headed down the hall to her room.

  ————

  Megan climbed into bed and hugged her stuffed dog. The toy Labrador was a present from her oldest brother; she knew he was probably worried about her, his baby sister out in the big world, and his way of saying it was, “I thought you might miss the dog.” She did. She missed their dog, she missed her parents, she missed her brothers.

  But she was also excited, a fresh start, on her own, out from under the expectations that—because she was a Riordan, because her brothers were made of gold—were everywhere she turned, like well-placed jaw-traps that snapped closed around her ankle and bit.

  She turned over and closed her eyes. Tomorrow was a new day.

  Chapter 2

  Journal Entry #2

  July 15, 2000

  I live on a typical Westchester County cul-de-sac—majestic oak trees drape over white porches, slate walkways bear the rush of starched, knotted dads, and blond, toned moms. Speed bumps ripple down the road, a nod to safety and to the neighborhoods of years ago when kids and pets romped freely, only culled into family units at suppertime. Now kids have guitar lessons and soccer practice after school, pets are leashed, and drivers rarely heed the speed bumps—catching air over each rise in the road shaves precious seconds off the commute.

  But in the warm breathiness of a July evening, Lockwood Lane hums like it might have when I was young. The web-like heat amplifies the buzz, a full-sensory symphony of summer, complete with the mouthwatering smell of sizzling beef, the aerial ballet of hungry dragonflies, and the singsong crescendo of neighborhood freeze tag. Parents are cocktailing on patios, balls are rolling across the street, colored popsicles are dripping without prejudice down every tee shirt.

  I’m soaking it all in from afar, having just poured a fat glass of wine and exhaled my way onto a porch rocker. So often I’m in the throes of family logistics at this hour—dinner, baths, exhausted silliness—and I seldom take a deep breath and reflect. But tonight, Matthew and Gillian are with Dana, leaving the house, and me, meditating and still. My own twilight.

  This morning I broke a sweat just getting out of bed. I dumped ice in my coffee—which just made it lukewarm and watery—and listened to the weatherman hype a scorcher. The kids and I did not need convincing; we packed up and aimed for the swim club, with Megan close on our heels. I can still feel the sun’s intensity and smell the coconut-infused suntan lotion—applied way too late—radiating off of my skin. Although I’m vigilant about protecting my kids, I still have the beauty-trumps-health mentality about myself, and so after lathering them up, I couldn’t resist the narcotic lure of the sun and a chat with Megan, and I eased back on my vinyl recliner, my skin and my heart defenseless. With Megan, my soul is comfortably naked; we skinny-dip through all of life’s flash floods together. I don’t know what I’d do without her; she’s my touchstone, my lifeline, and I know that I am the same for her.

 
As we melted into our lounge chairs, stress dripped off us like the condensation on our water bottles, and our conversations, idle and deep, weaved in and around the magazine articles we flipped through. Matthew and Gillian, now six-and-a-half and five, have a whole gang at the club and they splashed just within our periphery all day. Right now they both crave and fear independence, a wonderful age when they still like me with them, but I’m not their sole entertainment. I treasure these days, as I know that soon they’ll choose their friends over me, blushing and perhaps even cringing when other kids spot us together.

  That may kill me.

  Today’s only tarnish was when Dana came to the house to pick up the kids. The awkwardness was palpable, stiff-backed, a dining room chair between us. We didn’t kiss or hug, and our bodies, as if unsure of the rules, twitched in the space where the embrace was supposed to be, a microscopic tilt towards each other and rapid snap back to the reality of the situation. In that moment, I think we both felt so alone, stripped of the togetherness that has cloaked us for so many years now. I wanted to reach out across the void and stroke his sandy-brown hair and his tanned and slightly grizzly face. But I held myself in check. That small gesture would have been an enormous step, as many gestures are. I’m not ready for that, not ready to begin again, or to take up where we left off. Nothing has really changed yet, not for me at least.

  I’m used to feeling lonely. I’ve actually felt lonely with Dana for a long time. Not at the beginning; at first our togetherness filled me up, spilled over me, over us. Like two people sharing an umbrella, we huddled intimately underneath our starry-eyed devotion to each other. And then at some point in our marriage, as our pace increased and the discrepancy in our strides became more pronounced, it just made more sense to use separate umbrellas, and I found myself isolated, holding my own against inclement weather.