Forks, Knives, and Spoons Read online

  “Oh, man, I’m sorry, Amy.”

  Veronica held the hair back from her eyes and squinted toward them. “He’s hotter than you described.”

  They laughed.

  “Yeah, but he’s such a fork. Damn, my father was right.”

  Veronica linked her arm around Amy’s elbow as they followed the radiant couple toward the stairs, and Veronica played along.

  “Okay, so Chase is a fork, Andrew is a knife. When’s the spoon going to show up?”

  “Oh, I bumped into one today,” Amy said without hesitation as they descended the dreary brick stairwell toward the chilly night air.

  “IT’S SO GROSS DOWN here,” Veronica said as the elevator deposited them in the basement, her pockets jingling with quarters. Amy trailed behind hauling her drawstring mesh bag full of dirty, smoke-smelly clothes.

  “We really could’ve waited at least a few more days, you know,” Amy protested one final time.

  “I told you last time, we’re doing this once a week.”

  “Well, I will be happy to not smell cigarettes on everything we wear out.”

  “I knew the optimist in you would win,” Veronica needled.

  The unfinished cement walls of the laundry room were pocked with small bubble holes and striped with lines where the cement had oozed. They filled the machines as the fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, their cold light making the girls feel vaguely dizzy. Sitting cross-legged and face-to-face on the wooden bench, Veronica recognized Amy’s reporter face.

  “Is Eric your steak knife?”

  Veronica thought about the boyfriend she had left behind and Amy’s Steak Knife Theory, and she couldn’t bring herself to connect the two. “I’m sorry, Amy, but I really can’t compare Eric to a utensil.”

  She felt a pang like the faint smell of mildew around them for rejecting Amy’s labels, but Amy was undeterred.

  “That’s okay, I’ll take notes and help you figure it out.” Before Veronica could explain that’s not what she meant, Amy continued, “I was telling Kate and Jenny and a bunch of girls on the floor about it the other night. Listen to all the details we’ve added to the UCS.”

  “The UCS?”

  “The Utensil Classification System,” she said, like it was a known and generally accepted acronym.

  The machines whirred behind them like a drum roll as Amy took a deep breath and began with the first definition. She started with the perfect guy: “A steak knife is right in the middle of the knives, in the center of the center group. The ideal. The fulcrum of balance. The steak knife is sharp and edgy in just the right amounts—bright and shiny, strong and confident, capable, dependable, and trustworthy.” She ticked off the qualities as if listing what she wanted in a man.

  “Given this some thought, have you?” Veronica teased, but Amy barely stopped to hear her. Veronica imagined she was just as excited as her father had been explaining the UCS and relented as her friend shared her faith in the system.

  “He’s durable, reliable, and has a solid handle; he can cut through games and crap. A steak knife also works as a team player, he knows how to get along with others, and, really, he is anything a girl defines as her perfect guy. He fulfills ‘the list.’”

  It seemed most girls had a list, even if they didn’t talk about it. Countless hours in high school were spent enumerating the traits wanted in a boyfriend or future husband. Whether on paper tucked somewhere safe, crafted neatly in the back of a diary, or stored privately in her head, girls had a list and Amy’s mention of it released a burst of laughter from Veronica.

  “Oh my God, yes! I have a list.”

  “I knew it. That’s your steak knife. Now, a butter knife is plainer, he’s kind of missing a little something that the perfect steak knife would have. He’s softer around the edges, a little weaker. A butter knife is closer to a spoon, so he may be a bit insecure or just less edgy.”

  As Amy illustrated different types of guys, Veronica found that, as ridiculous as it was, she could picture high school friends and college boys falling into some of Amy’s categories.

  “Then there’s the butcher knife who’s almost a fork. Bold, single-minded, severe. A butcher knife hacks instead of using finesse, he comes in for the kill without any fanfare. He has a hard time seeing around his big blade to pay any attention to how other people feel or think.”

  Veronica laughed wildly and chimed in, knowing she was encouraging this silly system: “So the less cocky forks are like salad forks, and the real bohunk assholes, they’re like . . . like pitchforks!” They had veered out of silverware altogether and onto a farm. That is where the biggest forks belonged, after all.

  Amy picked up the thread: “And there are the huge geeks who are like serving spoons, and the really timid or dorky guys are like teaspoons. They’re kind of small and they do what other people want without standing up for themselves. You know, like a teaspoon just serves by scooping or stirring.”

  Shaking her head at herself for playing along, Veronica challenged Amy with a utensil she hadn’t yet defined: “And what about a slotted spoon?”

  With barely a moment’s hesitation, Amy invented a new description: “He’s is a loser who makes excuses all the time because he’s lazy. He’s really picky about jobs so he never has one. He blames it all on other people and lets good opportunities slip through his slats because he’s unmotivated or, oh, I know, because he’s a burnout, stoned or wasted, and doesn’t care about responsibilities.” At her own definition, Amy collapsed into hysterics. “I know that guy. I definitely dated a slotted spoon two summers ago. He was a very cute slotted spoon who I had high hopes for in that I-can-save-him kind of way. That didn’t last long.”

  Despite herself, Veronica laughed with visions of fork, knife, and spoon guys dancing in her head. How was it that sloppy Amy had created an art form of organizing guys into the silverware-dividing tray, while neat Veronica tried to keep them in an uncategorized jumble?

  Amy swiped her fingers across the lint screen, then fed another quarter into the dryer to remove the lingering dampness in her clothes. Pensive, Veronica hugged her knees to her chest and asked, “What if there’s someone else out there for me?” She paused and lifted her thick red curls off her neck, the steamy laundry room heat making the strands stick to her back. “Do you think I’m missing out on the whole ‘college experience’ because I’m still with Eric?”

  Veronica was truthful and a realist. She was a rule-follower and she had a knack for pulling things back to center and grounding worries in logic. “I mean, I love him and we have fun together.” She rested her chin on her knees and with a softer voice continued: “I don’t know. He’s from the ‘right’ family, his parents and my parents golf and do charity stuff together, we have fun, but sometimes, I feel like he’s . . . distant.”

  “Can you see yourself with him, happily ever after?”

  Veronica let her lips creep into an almost-smile. “You and your romantic comedies and happy endings.” Then breathing in the soapy air, she nodded thoughtfully. “Yeah, sometimes I can picture us in the future, Mr. and Mrs. Eric Sheridan Jr., but I still have a lot to figure out and, of course, we’re still young. I want to live in New York City, have a career, and live in my own apartment, away from my parents and away from Newport.”

  Veronica popped up, opened the dryer door, and folded her staticky sheets and clothes, tucking them into her basket as she went. She winced as Amy gathered her warm clothes from the machine and crumpled them into her laundry bag.

  Leading the way to the elevators, Amy pointed out a white spork kicked into a corner. “V, a spork.” She closed her eyes for a moment, then stated, as if reading the definition directly from Webster’s, “A spork is a cocky spoon; a nerd who acts like a fork.”

  Veronica just shook her head.

  As Veronica and Amy crossed the eighth-floor lobby to their room, they passed Jenny. Her tanned legs hung sideways over the edge of a couch and a cluster of eager boys jockeyed to be nearest to her. S
he bit her pinkened lip and threw her blond head around, giggling with interest at every word the boys uttered. Veronica and Amy rolled their eyes at each other. When they were safely out of earshot, Amy said, “She’s collecting a whole place setting,” and Veronica had a hard time disagreeing.

  VERONICA STOPPED IN FRONT of the mirror, a routine pause in her pacing, and adjusted the clip holding the curls away from her face. It’s only Eric, why do I feel so nervous? She touched her stomach and talked aloud to herself, “Butterflies, shoo.”

  Amy had already left to spend the two nights with Kate, and the small room felt vast without the security of her friend. Another lap and back in front of the mirror, she tucked a stray curl into her pulled-up hair.

  At last the digital clock radio on her nightstand turned 7:30. Considering Eric’s call from the rest stop, he would arrive soon, so Veronica moved her waiting downstairs. She began a new course of pacing in the lobby, looping past the mailboxes and around the couches. Past the mailboxes. Around the couches. Finally, she spotted Eric in the glass doorway. She rushed over then greeted him with a reserved kiss. His preppy madras pants were paired with a button-down shirt, wrinkled from the drive; a cotton sweater hung loosely over his shoulders. His slightly formal style both contrasted and fit his round, youthful face, and his cheeks had their usual rosy blush.

  “I’m happy you could come.” Veronica squeezed his hand, the butterflies still flapping around. “I missed you.”

  “Missed you, too,” Eric said, looking around the lobby. “It’s different from Brown.”

  Eric stayed closer to their Newport home and attended both of their fathers’ alma mater. Eric Sheridan Sr. and Gerald Warren had been Phi Kappa Psi fraternity brothers at Brown and remained comrades and colleagues decades later.

  “Want to go out? I can show you around, we can find some friends, get some food.” Veronica proffered her suggestions politely, still sensing the unfamiliarity as she signed him in and led him up to her room.

  Eric patted his neatly parted hair and scanned Veronica’s new home. “Man, I can’t believe you brought that awful prom picture, I look terrible.” He picked up the frame and examined it closely before putting it down behind the other photos.

  “So, should we go out?” Veronica repeated tentatively.

  “Nah. Let’s just hang out here. Can we order in some pizza?”

  An hour later, they were dressed comfortably in dorm wear, sitting feet to feet on Veronica’s bed, laughing easily together, the butterflies having flown away.

  “Okay, pizza should be here soon, let’s head down.” Veronica hopped off the bed and slipped into sneakers.

  “The guy can wait. You don’t always have to be so prompt and organized, you know, Roni.” The comment stung, but his use of the familiar nickname was a salve; he was the only one who called her Roni. He smiled as he stood to follow her and wrapped an arm around her waist as they stepped into the elevator.

  “Hold the elevator.”

  Eric put his hand out, stopping the door, and they watched as Jenny bounded toward them. Veronica made introductions and noticed Eric’s gaze venture to the rounds of Jenny’s breasts, pressed against her white T-shirt.

  “Very nice to meet you, Jenny,” he said, stepping closer to Veronica with noticeable deliberation. “Where are you from?”

  “Oh, me? Southern California. It’s so different here already and I’m a little worried about the winter. I’m not used to wearing so many clothes.” Then, in pure Jenny fashion, she touched Veronica’s arm and in a mock whisper said, “You never told me your boyfriend is such a hottie.”

  Veronica stiffened, both threatened and proud, and was grateful that the doors opened to the lobby. She noticed a subtle smile on Eric’s lips, and when Jenny had bobbed away, he draped his arm over Veronica’s shoulder. “You’ve got a hottie, you know that?” he bragged. “Don’t roll your eyes, you’re stuck with me, you know. It would ruin our parents carefully constructed plans if they didn’t become in-laws.”

  She relaxed into his lightness, feeling their comfortable connection return. As he paid the pizza guy and collected their food, Veronica asked, “How is it living in Providence? Do you go home a lot?”

  “Nah, I’ve only gone home once to have Linda do some laundry for me.”

  They returned to the elevator and he stabbed at the eight button.

  “Your mom hates when you call her Linda, and seriously, when are you going to learn to do your own clothes?”

  “Why? I’ll never need to do it myself. I’ll just pay someone to do it.”

  Veronica winced at his arrogant remark. She hated those entitled expectations of so many of her friends back home. They arrived back at her floor and she opened the dorm room door for him.

  Once settled, Eric picked up a triangle of pizza and asked, “Hey, I almost forgot, have you met a kid named Scott Mason? He rows for Syracuse, he’s a Phi Psi, too.”

  Veronica shook her head and dabbed grease from her slice. Eric not only dutifully went to their fathers’ alma mater but was also pledging their fraternity.

  “A rowing buddy of mine knows him from home. Cool guy. He was at Brown for a regatta so we hung out a few nights.”

  “I’ll look out for him,” Veronica said.

  After they finished eating, she tidied the mess from their dinner, sweeping crumbs from her comforter into the empty box.

  “You can throw this away down by the bathrooms,” Veronica directed, handing Eric the empty box, used paper plates, and napkins.

  ERIC SAUNTERED DOWN THE hallway to his left. He bent the corner of the box to fit it into the garbage can, and as he turned to head back to room 808, he heard the click of a door and saw Jenny leaving the room at the end of the hall. She was walking his way for the second time that night. This time, she bounced, unsupported, in a baby-doll nightie that barely covered her hips. Her nipples poked at the pale lavender silk and hinted at the dark circles around them. She smiled at Eric outside the bathroom and stood blocking his path.

  Eyes wide, he froze, stunned and unable to retrieve words. He forced himself to look at her face, at the blond hair that hung loose around her bare shoulders, and away from the rest of her.

  “Oops,” she purred as she let the hand towel drop from her basket. In deliberate slow motion, she bent to retrieve the purple towel without bending her knees. The silky fabric fell to the side, revealing the curve of her bottom. Eric stood paralyzed, hoping his baggy sweatpants would conceal his rise.

  “Night, Eric, sweet dreams.”

  As the bathroom door eased shut, he hurried back to Veronica.

  ON SATURDAY NIGHT, Amy and Veronica grabbed their bathroom buckets and headed to claim a shower. It was almost nine o’clock and the bathroom air was filled with the scent of shampoo, steam, and the drone of girls’ voices. Amy tugged the white plastic shower curtain to close the sliver of space on the left only to create a peek hole on the right side. Hot shower air met the cooler bathroom air, luffing the curtain like a sail. However she adjusted it and tried to stick it to the moistened tile walls, it refused to conceal all of her and she settled for even space on both sides of the curtain.

  “SHIT!”

  “OUCH!”

  “Who forgot to yell ‘Flushing!’?”

  Amy heard the screeches just as her skin burned, forcing her out of the water flow.

  “Oops, sorry,” came Kate’s sweet voice around the corner. “It was me. I’m really sorry, you guys.”

  Amy peeked her sudsy head out from the curtain to acknowledge her apology. Kate had a familiar, gentle face; her thin hair hung flat and straight to her chin, and her bangs cut a line across her forehead. Rinsed off, lotioned up, and back in their room, Amy got ready hiding behind the wall, out of Eric’s view.

  “Can I borrow your houndstooth blazer?” Veronica asked Amy.

  “Sure, over there.” Amy pointed with her hairbrush, shouting slightly above the hair dryer. She flipped her head upside down, trying to blow height i
nto her roots and bend into her hair’s straightness. Then she set it in hot rollers, smudged on a little eyeliner, and glossed some pink on her lips. Veronica cuffed the sleeves of the oversized men’s blazer and used a final spritz of hairspray to tame the volume of her hair. After reining in the curls, she turned to Eric.

  “You’re really not coming with us? Just for a little while?” she pleaded. She and Amy had been looking forward to this party, and Veronica couldn’t believe that Eric just wanted to sit around in a dorm room instead of going out—it wasn’t like him.

  “No, I’m fine. Go. I won’t know anyone. You girls have fun and I’ll be waiting when you get back,” Eric assured her. “I brought a problem set and a paper that are due Monday, I’ve got to get them done. Don’t worry about me, I’ll keep busy here.”

  After uncoiling the rollers and admiring the temporary curls, Amy pulled on her pointy-toed cowboy boots under her slim jeans, belted high at her thin waist, and tucked in her favorite mismatched plaid shirt. “Ready to go?”

  Veronica answered by kissing Eric, then sticking a twenty into her pocket. Out they went, coatless and bagless, up the hill into the chilly Syracuse evening to the Sigma Chi fraternity party. It was still only late September, but the night temperatures had dropped.

  Amy and Veronica spilled into the fraternity house, oozing into the spaces between people. Amy spotted Andrew at the foot of the grand staircase. She grabbed Veronica’s wrist, pulling her forward, and admired him as she touched his shoulder, solid beneath her hand. His face brightened at the sight of her and he pulled her into his full-body, hold-on-tight hug. Even knowing she wasn’t an exclusive recipient, she melted into his hold.

  “How’s the first party as a pledge going?” Amy wondered into his ear.

  “It’s awesome! We’re taking shifts serving beer and I’ll be cleaning up after.”

  Whitesnake’s “Is This Love” wailed through the house as Andrew, doing his pledge duty, delivered red plastic cups full of beer into their hands and then turned to introduce them to a cute guy standing beside him.