Plurally Inclined - Parts IV & V

IV

The Ice Cream Shoppe is located down town, just off campus. A favorite with students and townies alike, ICS has a brisk business during the day, then draws the laptop crowd at night with Wi-Fi access.

On a tall curbside table, Heather, Zoe and B.J. share a large hot fudge sundae topped with nuts, whipped cream and a cherry. In spite of our history of anorexia and body image problems, Heather isn’t sweating the calories. She’ll burn off like a million calories later on the ice.

“B.J., honey,” Heather is saying in her best Mommy voice, “I know you get bored and all, but you can’t go running around like that in class.”

B.J. pops the cherry in her mouth and says, “Why?”

“Well, you distract me.”

“Why?”

Heather glances at Zoe, looking for the assist.

Zoe adjusts the designer shades in her hair and gives B.J. a piercing stare. “Because you’re funny as all get-out, and if Heather gets kicked out of class for laughing at you, she’ll lose her scholarship, and if she winds up on the street living out of a shopping cart, who’ll buy you jelly beans and toys and stuff?” One breath. Impressive.

“Tyler?” B.J. suggests. Tyler is a super nice guy, and our bestest bud in the whole world, but even he has limits.

“Tyler is our friend,” Heather says, “not our sugar daddy.”

“Why?”

Before Heather can think of a response, a scruffy Goth-Emo-Eurotrash-something guy walks up to Heather and shifts his backpack to the opposite shoulder, smiling. He doesn’t look or smell like he’s showered in a week. B.J. grimaces and holds her nose.

“Suzanne,” Goth Guy says, and then, in French, “how’ve you been?” He uses the familiar. Evidently they’re friends.

Heather and Zoe exchange glances. Zoe shrugs -- she doesn’t know him from Adam. Heather offers a pleasant smile. “Très bien. Et toi?”

“Will we see you at karaoke next week?” he asks, again in French.

“Karaoke...”

Zoe gives her a “don’t look at me” glance.

“Évidemment.” Of course.

“Fantastique!” He kisses Heather on both cheeks and struts off.

Heather and Zoe stare at each other, baffled. WTF was that?

“Is it safe?” B.J. asks. Zoe baps her hand away from her nose.

“There is not enough ice cream in the world,” Heather says, diving into the sundae.

V

The grassy quad outside the library is a favorite place for students to hang out on afternoons like this. There are round concrete tables here and there down Old Campus, but students are just as likely to lean up against a tree or lay out in the lawn.

Zoe looks totally Hollywood leaning with her back to one of the tables, shades down, elbows spread, catching rays. She’s watching Matt and some of his friends, stripped to the waist, tossing a football around.

Next to Zoe, Heather has her back to the quad, the college catalog open in front of her. Every so often, Matt glances her way, hoping to catch her eye, but she’s too caught up in what she’s doing to notice.

Meanwhile B.J. works on a crayon drawing of a dog-like animal with a pig’s snout and corkscrew tail.

“I’m thinking abnormal psych.” Heather says.

Zoe glances over the top of her glasses at Heather. “I’m thinking you’re out of your freakin’ mind.”

“That’s the point,” B.J. says without looking up.

Heather: “Not helping.”

B.J. changes out her crayon. “You never listen to me anyway.”

Zoe raises an eyebrow. “Oh, yeah? What about art? That was your idea.”

B.J. covers her face with her hands in embarrassment.

“I swear I didn’t know there’d be life models,” Heather says.

B.J. peeks out from behind her hands. “He had his peepee hanging out,” she whispers. Zoe covers her mouth and giggles.

A tall string bean of a guy and his whole-wheat girlfriend saunter up to the table and sit down across from Heather.

“Hey, Jules. Tyler,” Heather says while Zoe offers a casual wave.

Tyler’s been our friend for years now. He knows our voices, our personalities. Sometimes we imagine he can actually see us, the way he interacts. Julie is new to the group dynamic. We can tell she finds it hard to wrap her head around the idea of multiplicity, but she makes Tyler happy, so who are we to judge.

“Tyeeee!” B.J. says, sliding her drawing across the table. “See my puppy-hog?”

Tyler gives an appreciative nod. “Wow -- you drew that?” Then he remembers, “Oh, got something...” He opens his backpack, pulls out a small sack of jelly beans and slides them across the table.

B.J. gives an ear-splitting squeal of joy as she tears into the pack.

Julie covers her ears and smiles. “Excuses me while I turn my hearing aid down a notch.”

Tyler grins and nudges her with his shoulder. “So what’s the what?” he asks.

Heather glances up from her catalog. “Trying to figure out a schedule for next quarter. Core. French for Suzanne. I need electives -- getting absolutely no help from the peanut gallery.”

Julie glances at Tyler, then hesitantly says, “Have you considered drama?”

Tyler’s eyes flash back at her.

“What?” Julie asks. “She’d be a natural... I’ve heard it’s a great experience if you can fit it in.”

Zoe raises her hand. “I’m in,” she says. “Hey Heath -- Meathead’s checking you out.”

Heather tries a casual glance across the yard at Matt. They exchange smiles, and then Heather looks away, her face flushing three shades of red.

“I saw that,” Tyler says. “Did you see that?”

“I did,” Julie agrees. “Serious sparkage.”

Zoe yawns. “Violins played. The earth stood still.”

“It’s Matthew, not Meathead,” Heather says, rolling her eyes. “And I don’t know what y’all are talking about.”

Julie leans across the table. “You should go say hi. Seriously.”

Heather gives an uncomfortable shrug. “I couldn’t.”

Zoe lets out a loud frustrated sigh -- “You couldn’t. I sure as hell can.” -- and stands up, dusting off her rump.

“Zoe!” Heather pleads, but it’s too late. She’s already headed across the grass toward Matt and the guys.


Matt’s meaty friend, Kev, spirals the ball across the yard -- and Heather intercepts. She spins around and laterals it back to Matt.

“Nice catch,” he says, lobbing the ball off to one of the guys.

“Well, you made a pass at me, thought I’d toss one back.”

Matt cracks a smile. Anyone who knew us would see Zoe in Heather’s eyes and in her self-confident swagger, but Matt sees only the girl from his psychology class.

“Midnight Friday,” Heather says. “Buffy sing-along at the student center. Wanna come?”

“A what?

“They show the Buffy musical. People dress up, sing the parts.”

“The vampire thing?” Matt asks. “Didn’t know it was a musical.”

“You’d make a killer Spike,” Heather lies. Spike is the scrappy bleach-blond vampire from the TV show. Matt is taller, better built.

“Sorry,” Matt says, catching the ball and sending it flying again. “The Taus are having a kegger Friday. Live band. Jell-O shots. You should come.”

“It’s tempting,” Heather says without any real enthusiasm. “Ask me again when I’m twenty-one.”

She starts backing away. “Change your mind, I’m in three sixteen Lyman Hall.” She flashes a smile and strides off.

Kev steps up beside Matt. “Nice ass,” he says, watching Heather walk away. “What’s her deal?”

“No deal,” Matt says. “Had a question about psychology homework.”

“Yeah?” It’s one of those yeah’s that’s laced with meaning. Something along the line of “If you’re not interested, mind if I take a shot at her?”

Matt chuckles and claps him on the shoulder. “Not your type, man. Not your type.”

“Dunno,” Kev replies, glancing back at Heather. “Looks to me like she’s got a pulse.”


Back at the table, Zoe rejoins Heather, B.J. and Tyler.

“Oh my God!” Heather says. “I can’t believe you just did that.”

“Well?” Tyler asks.

Zoe shrugs nonchalantly. “He asked us out. We declined.”

“You what?”

“He’s Tau Kappa Beta.”

“So?”

“T.K.B? Tappa kegga brew?” Zoe sounds incredulous. “C’mon guys. Drinking’s for losers.” It also messes with our control mechanisms and we wind up doing stupid stuff we later regret.

Zoe glances around. “Where’d Julie go?” she asks, changing the subject.

“She had class,” Tyler replies.

“No she didn’t.” B.J. pops another jelly bean into her mouth. “We freak her out.”

“Hey, Squirt?” Tyler says, sounding more patronizing than he probably intends. “She’s trying. Give her a chance.”



"I gave her a chance, Ty.” Julie’s voice is frustrated and a bit whiney.

It’s late in the afternoon. The sun has dipped down below the line of trees to the west. Tyler and Julie walk in shadow towards south campus. “She weirds me out. Heather, Zoe, B.J., Suzanne -- I need subtitles.”

“Just be yourself,” Tyler says, his voice soft and soothing. “After a while you start picking it up. Like if she’s speaking French -- Suzanne.”

Julie stops, pouting. “Ty --”

“Come with us Friday,” Tyler says, placing his hand on her arm. “Heather doesn’t even like Buffy. It’ll be you, me and Zoe. Nothing to keep up with, I promise.”

Julie sighs. She takes his arm in hers and leans against him as they walk on.

Plurally Inclined - Parts II & III

II

Heather fidgets in her chair and studies the certificates and framed platitudes on the wall. It doesn’t look that different than our High School guidance counselor’s office. Across the desk from her, her student advisor, Ms. Pierce, a large, overly-cheerful woman, studies Heather’s permanent record.

“Graduated high school at fifteen. Two-year degree. Triple major. Four point oh. Extra curricular -- Pi Delta Phi?” she says, glancing over the top of her reading glasses.

“French Honor Society. I also work part time and skate competitively.”

Ms. Pierce removes her glasses. “Where do you find hours in the day?”

“I multitask,” Heather deadpans.

“Ah. Yes.” Ms. Pierce doesn't get the joke. “So, Heather, where exactly do you see yourself in ten years?

Heather knows exactly where she’ll be in ten years. “I intend to work with at-risk teens,” she says. She doesn’t say the obvious, that we want to be there for teens like us, so they don’t have to endure the same hell we went through.

“In what capacity?” Ms. Pierce asks. “School counselor? Social worker --”

“Psychiatrist.” That’s where we could do the most good. It’s the psychiatrists that drug you and lock you away and tell you that you’re crazy.

Ms. Pierce looks impressed. “So you’re pre-med? Given your academic record, I don’t see why that’s not do-able.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Right now, your course choices seem a bit,” Ms. Pierce searches for the right word, “Schizophrenic, shall we say.”

Schizophrenic! We want to shout. She obviously doesn’t know the meaning of the word. Heather smiles sweetly, nodding, trying not to look condescending.

“Fall semester I need you to really focus on your science. That’s what med schools will be looking for when it comes time to apply.”


III

“Old Campus” is pretty much what it sounds like. The original university buildings, built a hundred years ago, with marble staircases and balconies and ginormous columns. Hundred year old oak trees in spring greenery line the grassy mall. Walk north, you wind up down town. Walk south, you hit the library.

A couple of the buildings house academic offices, including student counseling. The rest are liberal arts buildings. The science and technology buildings are in what could be considered “New Campus,” if there were such a thing.

Heather strides toward the Psychology building -- a renovated brick monstrosity with “Never stop asking questions” emblazoned over the entrance. Noticing a classmate, Matt, sauntering up from the other direction, she cuts across the grass, hoping to casually intercept him.

Matt is a couple years older, a jock with chiseled features and perpetually tousled dirty-blond hair -- the kind just meant to run your fingers through. Matt is not the kind of guy that Heather usually hangs out with, or even notices. But when he’s around, she feels out of breath, her heart pounding in her chest. It’s like aerobics without all the sweating.

Heather discretely googled him earlier in the semester, during a discussion of the distinction between operant and Pavlovian conditioning. He was All-American in High School (whatever that means) and is on the university’s second string offensive line. In hindsight, Heather realizes googling a classmate might be construed as stalkerish behavior, but (as Zoe says) if God had meant for us not to check out hotties online, he wouldn’t have invented wireless access.

Matt and Heather converge on the building simultaneously.

“You look nice today,” he says, holding the door for her and offering a dazzling smile.

“Oh, um, thanks...” Her face turns bright red. Even her hair part is glowing. “So do you.”

Heather manages a shy smile before glancing down and slipping inside. So do you? This sounds lame even by Heather’s standards. She hopes that lightening will strike or perhaps the earth will open up and swallow her whole.

Establishing shot: A college classroom pretty much like fifty million other college classrooms. Beige walls. Risers. Rows of chairs with the arm that flips up and swivels over to become a desktop. Students in various stages of rapt attention. Heather is sitting a few desks and one level down from Matt. Her heart has stopped pounding, her breathing normal. She is bored as shit, but has a magazine smile plastered on her lips.

At the front of the room, Professor Marx sweeps back and forth like an actor on stage. Even though Marx is getting up there in years -- forty-five perhaps? -- he cuts quite a figure in his jeans and herringbone jacket. Rumor has it Marx has had affairs with his students. Hard to tell. The end flap of their psychology textbook sports a photo of Marx with his twenty-something wife and two young daughters.

“The most famous of these,” Marx says, “are Sybil and The Three Faces of Eve.”

Invisible to everyone in the class except Heather, B.J. -- sporting jeans and an oversized herringbone jacket -- follows Marx like a truculent shadow, aping his movements, punctuating his words with jabs of the meerschaum pipe in her hand.

“Merskey argues that Dissociative Identity Disorder is iatrogenic,” Marx says as B.J. tamps her pipe and tries to light it. “Patients create alter egos in response to therapy or to gain attention.”

B.J. takes a deep puff, gagging, convulsing in a fit of coughing. Heather stifles a giggle.

“Miss Lee?” Marx glares at Heather and she flushes red. “Something to share?”

“Oh, um--” she say, covering. “What about evidence that different alters exhibit differing clinical symptoms and that neuroimaging shows distinct states of self-awareness? I have a friend with DID --”

“The variance in symptomology is anecdotal and suspect. In the case of neuroimaging --”

The bell rings an obnoxiously long time, and students start packing up and leaving the classroom. Matt glances at Heather, actually starts toward her, but then --

“Miss Lee?” Dr. Marx calls from the front, and Heather glances up, expectant. “A word?

Looking disappointed, Matt shifts gears and heads outside.


“Dr. Marx?” Heather asks, approaching the desk where B.J. is kneeling, studying the tuft of hair growing out of Marx’s ear.

“I have a T.A. position opening up in the fall,” he says. “Thought you might be interested.”

“I thought --” I thought the T.A. positions were reserved for graduate students, she almost says, but decides not to look a gift-horse in the mouth. “Yes, Sir. I would.”

“Your friend -- the one with D.I.D?”

Precariously perched, B.J. twists up-side down to look up the tunnel of Marx’s nostril.

“Sir?” Heather bites her lip as B.J. leans so far she falls off the desk and thumps onto the floor.

“I understand that people with D.I.D. can be fascinating,” Marx says as B.J. pulls herself to her feet with the help of Marx’s jeans’ clad leg. “But they can... lure you in. Be careful, that’s all I’m saying.”

Plurally Inclined - Part I

Welcome to Lyman Hall. It’s early morning and the usual sounds of dorm life seep in from the hallway. Conversations shouted from the communal bathroom / shower. Hair driers droning. Stereos and TVs blaring a dozen different stations at once.

Our room is halfway down the hallway, diagonally across from the head, so we hear a lot more of the comings and goings (and people getting sick after a night of partying). It’s set up like the rest of the rooms on this wing. Two twin XL beds, dressers, closets. Combination desk / bookshelves. If you draw a line down the center of the floor, the two sides are mirror images, almost.

Cathy, our roommate, has the neater half. Van Gogh’s Starry Night over the bed. A few knickknacks on the dresser. Everything in its place. Thing is, Cathy has an advantage. She doesn’t actually live here. She makes pit-stops in between partying and boys and the occasional class. She also doesn’t have a dozen headmates who’re out and about making messes as quickly as we can clean them up.

In comparison to Cathy’s space, our side is cluttered and eclectic, the walls covered in posters. Buffy the Vampire Slayer (Zoe’s). Michelle Kwan on ice (Heather’s). The Eifel Tower (Suzanne’s). Lots of B.J.’s colorful crayon artwork. A corkboard on the wall by the desk boasts photographs, Post-It notes, a Battlestar Galactica Calendar, several strands of Mardi Gras beads -- usual stuff. A dorm-sized fridge with a portable television perched on top is squeezed between the dresser and the desk.

On the TV screen, Curious George and his dachshund pal Hundley are roller-skating through town. B.J., sitting Indian-style on the bed, giggles along with George and Hundley’s misadventures while eating Frosted Flakes out of a snack pack. (They’re grrreat!) She is four, going on forty, a tow-head with aquamarine eyes, the most precocious, artistic, and outspoken of all our littles.

With all the distractions going on, Suzanne, at the computer, is struggling to finish up our French homework. Suzanne is older, twenty-eight perhaps -- she doesn’t tell her age -- with dark hair and eyes. She is gorgeous in an anorexic super-model kind of way. And French. (Nuff said.) The most wonderful thing about Suzanne is her voice, a cross between Edith Piaf and Joan Jett, whom she uncannily resembles.

Suzanne reaches over and turns down the volume on the TV. Suzanne has been described as having chronic PMS -- spell that B-I-T-C-H -- but she seems to be having a good day. Taking advantage of the uncharacteristic good mood, B.J. reaches over and turns it back up.

By the dresser, Zoe, our resident fashionista, helps Heather accessorize for class. Heather is nineteen and a bit of a dork in spite of being smart as hell. She has long, straight blond hair and cerulean blue eyes. Hollywood would say she’s a bit chunky, but no one’s gonna call her thunder thighs. It’s all muscle from working out on the ice.

“Jade or Topaz,” she asks, holding up one ear ring of each.

Zoe gives her the once-over. She is a younger, idealized version of Heather. At seventeen, she’s sexy and confident and looks a lot like Sarah Michelle Gellar on the Buffy poster.

“Topaz,” Zoe decides.

In the corner, the inkjet printer whirs. Suzanne leans back in her chair, pretending to yawn, and taps B.J. on the far shoulder. When B.J. glances away, Suzanne snatches a piece of cereal and pops it in her mouth.

“Hey!” B.J. says, realizing what’s happened.

“You kids play nice,” Heather says, “or I’m gonna separate you.”

“Awww, Mama!” Suzanne says with her French lilt. She scans the paper that’s come from the printer and reaches it toward Heather. “Your homeworks.”

“Merci, Mademoiselle.” Zoe takes it and adds it to a stack of books and folders on the bed.

And then the door opens and Cathy slips inside.


Cathy is twenty and striking, even with wet-combed hair and no makeup. She will go far in life. Cathy is the sort of girl who’ll wind up as a broadcast journalist or married to a millionaire. What she lacks in looks she makes up in sexually explicit clothing. Her BFF is a Wonderbra.

Heather shovels a spoonful of cereal in her mouth and turns off the TV as Cathy studies her wardrobe. The room is empty otherwise. No Zoe. No B.J. No Suzanne.

“Hey, Heath? Ladies’ night at the forty watt. Don’t wait up.” Cathy stopped asking Heather if she’d like to come along back in the fall. Noisy crowds aren’t Heather’s scene. Also, she doesn’t own a fake ID and is too big a wuss to get one. Cathy respects this and doesn’t push it.

“Have fun,” Heather says. “And don’t worry about me -- all alone, slaving away over French conjugations.”

“Not a chance.”

Cathy appraises Heather as she gathers her books.

“I like the topaz,” she says. “It brings out the color in your eyes.”

Heather grins as she heads for the door. “Thanks.”