any girl he looks at.”
“Can he?”
“I don’t know. I think he just talks a lot.”
“Does he talk much?”
“I’ve never had much to do with him. It’s just a feeling I have. Anyway—” he smiled at her “—he’s not the sort of guy you want to have anything to do with.”
She nodded, thinking how wrong he was. Wrong on several counts. For one thing, she was willing to bet that Don Gibbs could have nearly any girl he wanted. And that he didn’t talk about it, either.
And he was definitely wrong on the last score. He was precisely the sort of guy she wanted to have something to do with.
They had another beer apiece. Then Joe paid the waiter and they went out into the night, leaving Don Gibbs drinking his whiskey and sipping his beer. They drove back to her dormitory, and Joe parked the car in front of the dorm and walked around to open the door for her. He was the perfect gentleman, just as Chuck had been, and he opened the door for her and took her arm and led her up the path to the door.
He kissed her goodnight, but she decided that it wasn’t much of a kiss. His lips found hers and touched them briefly. Then he released her and took a short involuntary step back and grinned at her.
She forced a smile to her lips.
“I like you,” he said. “I like you, Linda.”
“I like you, too.” It struck her as a rather foolish thing to say, but it was true enough.
“Tomorrow night?”
She hesitated. “Yes,” she said, after a moment. “Tomorrow night.”
CHAPTER THREE
THE DAYS WERE A WHIRL and the nights were a jumble and the first week was gone almost before it had started. Up in the morning and a quick shower and you put on your clothes in a hurry and rush over to the caf for breakfast. The scrambled eggs are too soft and the toast is burnt and nothing is quite the way mother made it at home. The coffee is bitter and either too hot or too cold, and you have to practically pour it down your throat because you have to get to that eight o’clock English class.
Classes. English, with a tall, balding, stoop-shouldered professor named Bruce Irvine smiling sadly at you and telling you what books you were supposed to read. Pride and Prejudice and Madame Bovary and Crime and Punishment and Great Expectations and Daisy Miller. Five novels plus twenty poems and you had to read them all in the one semester and understand them, and each day in class Professor Irvine would talk about the books and poems as if they were old friends, his eyes sad and his voice soft and watery.
Spanish, with Professor Esteban Moreno, who looked very Castilian with high cheekbones and a thin black mustache, and who left Spain when Franco took power in 1937. He chattered at you in rapid-fire Spanish and you had to listen with both ears and your mind because otherwise you were completely lost in no time. And he spoke better English than you did, to top it off.
Western Civ, with Hugo Mills, a stubby little man who never smiled and who was very, very clever and very, very cynical as he lectured at you on the early years of the Roman Empire. You listened to him and he was extremely interesting and extremely amusing and seemed to know everything there was to know, but you couldn’t help thinking that the bitterness in his face and in his words came from knowing so much and never having done anything about anything.
Biology, with Martin Jukovsky, a quiet, mild-mannered little man who spoke so softly that you could hardly hear a word he said. But it didn’t really matter and after a while you didn’t bother to listen any longer, because you had already learned everything he was saying in high school and the class was a waste of time.
And sociology with Lester Birch. Gemeinschaft and geselleschaft, in-groups and out-groups, roles and patterns, variables and constants, normative norms and existential norms and you never had the slightest idea what in the world the tall, lean, fast-talking man with the piercing eyes was babbling
“Can he?”
“I don’t know. I think he just talks a lot.”
“Does he talk much?”
“I’ve never had much to do with him. It’s just a feeling I have. Anyway—” he smiled at her “—he’s not the sort of guy you want to have anything to do with.”
She nodded, thinking how wrong he was. Wrong on several counts. For one thing, she was willing to bet that Don Gibbs could have nearly any girl he wanted. And that he didn’t talk about it, either.
And he was definitely wrong on the last score. He was precisely the sort of guy she wanted to have something to do with.
They had another beer apiece. Then Joe paid the waiter and they went out into the night, leaving Don Gibbs drinking his whiskey and sipping his beer. They drove back to her dormitory, and Joe parked the car in front of the dorm and walked around to open the door for her. He was the perfect gentleman, just as Chuck had been, and he opened the door for her and took her arm and led her up the path to the door.
He kissed her goodnight, but she decided that it wasn’t much of a kiss. His lips found hers and touched them briefly. Then he released her and took a short involuntary step back and grinned at her.
She forced a smile to her lips.
“I like you,” he said. “I like you, Linda.”
“I like you, too.” It struck her as a rather foolish thing to say, but it was true enough.
“Tomorrow night?”
She hesitated. “Yes,” she said, after a moment. “Tomorrow night.”
CHAPTER THREE
THE DAYS WERE A WHIRL and the nights were a jumble and the first week was gone almost before it had started. Up in the morning and a quick shower and you put on your clothes in a hurry and rush over to the caf for breakfast. The scrambled eggs are too soft and the toast is burnt and nothing is quite the way mother made it at home. The coffee is bitter and either too hot or too cold, and you have to practically pour it down your throat because you have to get to that eight o’clock English class.
Classes. English, with a tall, balding, stoop-shouldered professor named Bruce Irvine smiling sadly at you and telling you what books you were supposed to read. Pride and Prejudice and Madame Bovary and Crime and Punishment and Great Expectations and Daisy Miller. Five novels plus twenty poems and you had to read them all in the one semester and understand them, and each day in class Professor Irvine would talk about the books and poems as if they were old friends, his eyes sad and his voice soft and watery.
Spanish, with Professor Esteban Moreno, who looked very Castilian with high cheekbones and a thin black mustache, and who left Spain when Franco took power in 1937. He chattered at you in rapid-fire Spanish and you had to listen with both ears and your mind because otherwise you were completely lost in no time. And he spoke better English than you did, to top it off.
Western Civ, with Hugo Mills, a stubby little man who never smiled and who was very, very clever and very, very cynical as he lectured at you on the early years of the Roman Empire. You listened to him and he was extremely interesting and extremely amusing and seemed to know everything there was to know, but you couldn’t help thinking that the bitterness in his face and in his words came from knowing so much and never having done anything about anything.
Biology, with Martin Jukovsky, a quiet, mild-mannered little man who spoke so softly that you could hardly hear a word he said. But it didn’t really matter and after a while you didn’t bother to listen any longer, because you had already learned everything he was saying in high school and the class was a waste of time.
And sociology with Lester Birch. Gemeinschaft and geselleschaft, in-groups and out-groups, roles and patterns, variables and constants, normative norms and existential norms and you never had the slightest idea what in the world the tall, lean, fast-talking man with the piercing eyes was babbling
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