“Oh, you were terrific,” I warble to Nick. “It’s a shame about your leg, though. Is everything all right?”
“It’s fine. Fibula. It’ll heal by Thanksgiving. At least the cast is below the knee, so I can get around all right.” Nick sinks his body into the chair next to mine, and because he is not burly, not muscle-bound, I become aware only then of his utter largeness, his rangy long frame and the layers of sinew and skin that cover it. His dark jacket stretches endlessly across his shoulders. Next to him, Graham—who a moment ago filled the chair and the room—seems diminished. “Thanks for your concern, though.”
I must have sounded like an idiot. He must think I’m some brainless boy-crazy girl, one of dozens sighing after him because he’s tall and handsome and plays football. Maybe he’s right. Maybe I’m no different from those boy-crazy girls, enslaved to the mating instinct. What do I know of him, really, other than that he’s tall and handsome and plays football, that he has unyielding eyes and moves like a leopard?
Graham calls for a menu, and Nick studies it briefly, while the waiter stands just behind his shoulder. Everyone is staring at us again, staring at Nick and his set shoulders and his plaster-wrapped leg.
“I’ll have the steak, I guess. Medium rare. Thank you.” He hands the menu to the waiter and reaches for his water.
Your move, Lily. Think of something. What would Budgie say?
“So, tell me, Mr. Greenwald. What are you studying?” I ask.
“It’s Nick. History,” he says. “And you?”
“English.”
We drink our water in tandem.
“That’s not the whole story, though. Is it, Nick?” Graham nudges him with his elbow. When Nick says nothing, he continues: “Greenwald’s been taking architecture as well, except his father doesn’t approve.”
“Why is that?” asks Budgie.
“Oh, he wants him to join the firm …”
“I don’t mean his father. I mean Nick. Why is he studying architecture at all?” She is genuinely curious. An architect, in Budgie’s eyes, is more a tradesman than a professional, covered with plaster and sawdust and blueprints, someone to be ordered about, someone whose bill can be conveniently ignored until the next time he’s needed.
“Because I like it,” said Nick.
Budgie is horrified. “But you don’t actually mean to be an architect!”
“Why shouldn’t he be an architect?” I snap. “Why shouldn’t he create beautiful things, instead of selling stocks and bonds or making lawsuits?”
Nobody speaks. Graham starts to smile, coughs, and reaches for his milk.
Nick squares the tip of his fork against the tablecloth, and does the same for his knife. “No, of course I’m not going to be an architect. Doesn’t mean I can’t study it.”
Budgie watches his movements. Her lips curl upward. “Of course not. Graham, what was that you were telling me about the other day on the telephone? Something about rocks?”
“The Grand Canyon,” Graham says affectionately, patting her hand. “I told you I thought we should take a trip there sometime. You can see how the layers of stone were laid down. Millions of years of geology.”
“Geology! You see? That’s what I mean. Studying something just because you find it interesting. It’s not as if Graham wants to be a geologist.” She makes a little laugh at the absurdity of it.
“And what if I do, honey? We could go out in the field, camping out in the canyons. It’d be grand.”
Budgie laughs again. “Isn’t he funny?”
Later, the boys escort us back to Budgie’s Ford and raise the top for the journey back to Smith. Budgie offers them a ride back to their dormitory. “I can’t let you walk back with that on your leg,” she says, nodding at Nick’s cast.
Nick looks at Graham. They shrug.
“Sure, why not?” says Graham. He climbs into the front passenger seat, and Nick manages to hold open the door while I creep in back. He throws in the crutches and then himself, folding that long body crosswise to fit inside.
“I’m sorry,” he says, easing his cast against my leg. We sit so close, in the back of Budgie’s little Ford, I can feel his breath on my cheek.
“No, it’s all right,” I say. “I’m small.”
He looks at me. In the yellow glow from the lamppost outside the hotel, his face is dusky and distorted, and his eyes are nearly invisible. “Yes, you are,” he says.
“Behave yourselves back there,” says Budgie, throwing the car into gear.
We rattle down the darkened roads, with Graham muttering directions to Budgie, sliding himself closer to her. His left shoulder moves next to hers. I can sense the flex of muscle in his neck, his back; I can see the playful tilt of her head. The contrast between the intimacy up front and the stilted silence between me and Nick is impossible to ignore. I glance at Nick, just as he glances at me. A pair of headlights flashes by, illuminating his face beneath his peaked wool cap, and he rolls his eyes and smiles.
“Right here, you silly female,” says Graham. “Don’t you recognize it?”
The Ford swerves to the side of the road, next to a large white clapboard house. “Well, it looks different by night,” says Budgie. She puts the car in neutral and drums her fingernails against the steering wheel.
No one moves.
“Here we are,” says Nick.
“Greenwald,” says Graham, “why don’t you take Lily for a little walk? Show her the campus a bit.”
“Oh, Jesus,” Nick mutters.
“Budgie?” I ask, in a small voice.
“Go ahead, honey,” she says. “I just need to talk to Graham for a minute.”
Graham gets out of the front seat, opens Nick’s door, and heaves him into the chilly night. I slide after, absorbing the warmth of Nick’s seat as I pass over.
“We’ll just be a minute,” Graham says to Nick.
“I’ll bet.” Nick looks at me. I can’t read his expression, not in this darkness, but I gather something like sympathy. “Come along, Lily. There’s a bench over this way.”
“Are you all right to walk like this?”
“Of course.” He brandishes one crutch. “It’s nothing.”
The air has chilled remarkably since the sun-filled noontime in the stadium. I cross my arms over my woolen cardigan and trudge along next to Nick Greenwald’s crutches as they swing and plant along the lawn. I wish I’d brought a coat. I hadn’t known we would be staying so late. “It really is awful of them, on a cold night like this,” I say. “Couldn’t they have saved it for the telephone tomorrow?”
“I guess not. Here’s the bench. Sorry, it’s probably frozen.” He swings himself down and props the crutches between us.
“I suppose Budgie is just too irresistible.”
He shakes his head.
“Don’t you think so?” I ask, surprised. Budgie seems to me, on a purely objective basis, to be the exact fleshly representation of male desire. The boys sure agree. I’ve seen it myself, time and again, the way they fall over her, offering Hershey bars and steak dinners, offering their arms to cross the street, offering to carry books, to dance and fetch drinks. Offering whatever she wants.
“Look,”