Forks, Knives, and Spoons Read online

  “Oh my gosh! I’m so sorry!” The surprise in Veronica’s voice matched the shock on her face.

  The guy, though, wasn’t upset. “Hey, where are you going? Stay with me, we can keep each other warm.”

  His buddies joined the chorus: “Come back! We all want a hug like that!”

  Veronica went directly to the meeting spot, hoping Amy or Kate had had better luck. Her worry and perplexity escalated into fear and distress. Noticing her approach, Amy wordlessly shook her head as she curled her hair around her finger. The three sat on top of the wall where they could view the lawn and the street full of people. By then, most of the students had given in to a seated position, and the girls looked over their heads in silence.

  “Holy shit!” Kate blurted out, then pressed her hand over her mouth.

  Veronica and Amy followed her eyes to where a fireman was leading Eric out of the building. He was bare legged and wrapped in a purple blanket. Jenny was on his other side, snuggled up against him under the blanket, wearing fluffy slippers and matching naked legs.

  THE HALL PHONE WAS ringing again. Veronica could hear it in their room halfway down the corridor. Clearly, no one was out there to answer. She put down Amy’s school newspaper article on protecting yourself from assault and went to stop the ringing.

  “Hello?”

  “Veronica? Veronica, is that you?”

  “Why are you calling me again, Eric? I told you to stop calling. It’s over.”

  “Wait—don’t hang up—please—just wait,” he pleaded, and when she didn’t speak or hang up, he continued. “I’m sorry, Veronica, I’m so sorry, you know that. I want to make it up to you. I swear it was just a stupid mistake. I was drunk and I was an idiot. It meant nothing. I’m sorry.”

  “Eric?”

  “Yes?”

  “Don’t call me again,” and Veronica slammed the receiver onto the pay phone with a satisfying clank. A dozen white notes fluttered on the message board, drawing her attention. Veronica. Veronica. Veronica. They were all addressed to her and they all said the same thing: Eric called.

  She angrily untacked each one and stabbed the pushpins back into the cork. The handwriting varied. How many people had he talked to in the past week? Crumpling them into tight balls, she threw the messages into the overflowing wastebasket on top of the soda cans and Varsity Pizza boxes. Feelings of anger, disappointment, and embarrassment collided and she brushed a tear from her cheek as she returned to the privacy of her room.

  AMY DIDN’T NOTICE HIM at first, but he saved her when he found her. She was huddled in her usual spot in the computer lab, tucked into the corner with her back to the wall, an intentional position to hide her ineptness from the computer-proficient. It was where she sat for hours each week trying to tap out a program in a language she barely understood. It was in that seat that she first noticed his kind face and gentle voice offering to help, handing her a lifeline.

  Most of the early-morning classes were reserved for under-classmen. The first week of classes, filled with eagerness, Amy was up, showered, and ready to go like she had done in high school. As the weeks passed, on early-class mornings, Amy brushed her teeth and managed to comb her hair, but it was a minimal get-ready routine, leaving pajamas strewn on the floor and her bed unmade.

  On the day that she met Matt Saxon, it was raining. Mindlessly, she threw on the college-girl uniform of fitted leggings topped with a baggy sweatshirt. She lugged her bag onto her shoulder and groggily headed out. Computer programming was the worst class for Amy’s nontechnical brain to face first thing in the morning three days a week. It was the worst class for her to face any time of day, on any day of the week. Every Monday the professor assigned a programming assignment that was due each Friday. Panicked about the work, the first week of class Amy launched a habit of heading straight to the computer lab after lunch on Mondays to get started. She needed to work a little every day to finish on time.

  Amy knew no one in her class, not a single familiar face. She focused on taking notes, writing down every word the professor said with the hope it would help her solve the programming riddle that week and see her through the required course. She had used computers at her dad’s office to type up high school papers, and she played Pac-Man and Space Invaders on the TV Atari, but doing anything more with computers, let alone writing code, was completely foreign.

  She swiped her student ID, leaving the dreary fall day, and entered the dim and humming computer lab. Wide, boxy beige machines filled rows of tables, leaving just enough space for a keyboard in front and a notebook to the side. Dot matrix printers lined the far wall with hole-trimmed paper dangling expectantly from them.

  The lab was nearly empty except for the room monitor, who sat behind a desk and enforced the sign-in policy, and two guys to the left of the room with their backpacks lying open on the floor beside them. Amy drifted to her usual computer terminal in the corner, trying to muster the motivation to make another attempt at the week’s project.

  Unaccustomed to feeling incapable of doing assigned school-work, Amy felt panic pulsing in her throat as she logged on to the mainframe computer, typing in “AMYork,” and settled her open textbook on her lap. She pulled out her five-and-a-quarter-inch floppy disk and tucked the photocopy of the lesson under the keyboard. She stared at the black screen dotted with the few lines of cryptic orange characters she’d typed on her first attempt. The blinking cursor taunted her, waiting for the next commands. She flipped through the text, then through the stapled assignment, and looked back to the computer screen. One stinking comma missing and the whole program wouldn’t run. Amy twisted her hair around her finger. She was stuck.

  Perhaps he sensed her frustration, or perhaps her head in her hands and the audible sighing broadcast it. Near tears, Amy felt someone beside her and lifted her face from her palms to see a tall guy with thick, ruffled black hair standing over her. He had broad shoulders, and beneath his glasses she could see his eyes were lined with thick lashes and framed by even thicker eyebrows. Without a word, he smiled, revealing a dimple on his left cheek. He pulled out a plastic chair, dropped his red backpack, and sat next to her.

  “It looks like you could use some help” was all he said. Tears fell down Amy’s cheeks. Embarrassed, she nodded and apologized while wiping at her face with her fingertips.

  “I’m sorry, I just . . . it’s that . . . I just can’t get this,” she stumbled, grateful for this very sweet and not-so-unattractive spoon. Computer geeks were the only people she ever saw in the lab, which she had privately dubbed Spoon City. They debated the merits of Tandy vs. Commodore vs. Wang, and conversations revolved around something called electronic mail, DOS, and WYSIWYG, which no one outside of there would understand.

  “I’m Matt Saxon,” he said, scooting his chair closer to the table. “You’re Amy, right?”

  She flinched, visible in her surprise. Then she smiled and tried to recover from the rudeness she felt in her reaction. “Um, yeah, I’m sorry. Have we met? How do you—”

  “I’m in your programming class,” he answered, “bright and early, or cloudy and early, Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.”

  Amy tried to place him.

  He continued, easing her discomfort. “I sit a couple of rows behind you, the professor called out attendance the first weeks to learn names . . . Anyway, I’m Matt.”

  “I’m Amy, well, you know. Amy York.” She was acting as unsure in the interaction as she felt in the computer lab. She took in his faded jeans bunched behind his knees and hanging over the tops of his maroon Converse high-tops. The edge of a red-and-black-checkered Velcro wallet peeped out of his rear pocket.

  “Thanks,” she said, her voice almost a whisper, “thanks for helping me.”

  He was already leaning over to determine the depth of her problems. Amy noticed his masculine hands easily tapping along the keyboard. She took in his dark wavy hair, casual in its untidiness, and his wide shoulders tugging at the seams of his Rolling Stones T-shirt.
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br />   Matt patiently began his instruction. As they worked in the slow and deliberate way that Amy needed, she felt her stress trickle away. He was making sense to her in a way she wasn’t grasping in class. They finished her project and it was only Tuesday, leaving her with the next two days after lunch free, opening time she could spend with Andrew. She checked her watch; he would be leaving accounting class in a few minutes—maybe she could catch him there.

  With her confidence regained, she thanked Matt, gushing a stream of gratitude.

  “Thanks, Matt. Thank you so much. I can’t thank you enough. Can we . . . can I meet you here next week?” Amy packed up her bag, still uttering thanks. “Would you mind helping me again?”

  He smiled his answer, and thus began their weekly tradition. She noticed that when he smiled with his lips still together, they formed a small heart in the middle. She picked up her umbrella, then looked up at Matt. She had to tip her head back slightly to look at his face, and peering into it, she felt embarrassed that she hadn’t noticed him in class. Was she seeing him now because of his kindness? she wondered. Was his personality outshining his shaggy appearance? Maybe, she decided, but he was good-looking. Not in the Chase-hot way, but he had a handsomeness that suited him in his dark coloring, nearly black eyes, and long, straight nose. She even found his slightly crooked teeth endearing. Matt stepped aside so she could leave her corner, his eyes available each time she glanced up.

  “See you tomorrow.” He smiled fully, the heart of his lips open, beaming warmth into the dim computer lab. “I’m here any time you need me.”

  “Thank you,” Amy said again, her voice full of relief.

  Hurrying from the computer lab, Amy headed toward the School of Management building in hopes of finding Andrew. She stood scanning faces as a rush of students filed out the main doors. Spotting him, she started toward him then stopped abruptly, causing a few people to bump into her.

  “Sorry,” she uttered distractedly. Andrew was laughing, his hand comfortably on the arm of a beautiful brunette, and Amy turned to leave before he saw her.

  “Hey, Amy!”

  Too late, she thought as he approached with the girl, who looked like she could be an actress in one of Amy’s favorite romantic comedies.

  Andrew reached for Amy and pulled her into his tight hug. Amy softened, enjoying the smell of his Benetton Colors cologne and forgetting that the beauty was waiting beside them. When Andrew released her, his smile wide across his face, he introduced them.

  “Amy York, this is Bree O’Connell. Bree and I are friends from back home.”

  “New Jersey,” Bree added.

  Amy greeted her politely, a rush of disappointment mixed with longing for Andrew sweeping through her core. Bree had gorgeous dark hair that muted Amy’s by comparison. Her lush look merged Irish green eyes and fair, model-smooth skin with deep accents of thick eyelashes and naturally arched eyebrows.

  “Come with us to Schine for a cookie,” Andrew invited, and started in the direction of the student center, expecting them to follow.

  Bree seemed to sense Amy’s hesitation and leaned close to whisper in her ear: “Don’t worry, Amy, we used to go out in high school, but we’re not together anymore. We’re just friends. Come on.”

  ANDREW HAD GROWN UP in Sparta, a middle-class New Jersey town with some affluence. His family was involved in the community. He was the only boy, the eldest with two younger sisters. From the time he was little, his father pushed him athletically and academically. Andrew was a natural; eager to please his dad and impress his sisters and everyone else. He was earnest, responsible, and excelled in anything he tried. Things came easily to him. Though his successes overshadowed his sisters, they adored him, as did the entire Sparta High School population, students, teachers, and administrators alike. Andrew Gabel was the local hero, the superstar featured weekly in the small-town paper, the Sparta Independent.

  He auditioned and got the lead in the school play, his presence instantly making drama a coveted activity and drawing others in his wake. He was a starting quarterback his freshman year, unassumingly usurping upperclassmen but endearing himself to them nonetheless with his charm and his game-winning arm. Andrew earned straight A’s and played the saxophone. He was president of his class throughout high school, led the student council, and, in his senior year, swept awards night to no one’s surprise.

  As his girlfriend, Bree O’Connell fit his profile. She was pretty and well liked, and though she was never quite an honors student, she was on the dance team and perkily cheered him on from the sidelines. Their breakup at the end of junior year caused a stir in the student body. He had caught her kissing Dave Nye, another football player, outside during the homecoming dance and called it quits. Bree caused a scene in the middle of the lunchroom, begging for him to understand her mistake, but his pride was hurt and he would not take her back, especially under all those watchful eyes. They hung out in the same circles—Andrew was in every-one’s circle—and eventually the incident scabbed over enough for them to be friends. From the outside, it seemed he did everything right, even handling his breakup smoothly, coming out the good guy and coolly being friends with his ex.

  At Syracuse, he was a blank, except to Bree. Without his stellar history as his tailwind, he set out to re-earn accolades and special status. In the absence of the adoring Sparta audience, he was just Andrew Gabel, one among thousands of other clean-slated freshmen trying to stand out. To Amy, though, he already stood out. Without knowing his achievements, her attraction to him set him apart from the tangle in the silverware drawer of freshman guys. In her eyes, he was already gleaming as a shining knife.

  “AMY, PHONE CALL.” KATE knocked and peeked in through the propped door. “It’s a boy,” she sang.

  Amy chuckled. She went to the lobby pay phone and lifted the receiver dangling from its metal cord. “Hello?”

  “Amy? Uh, hi, it’s Matt.”

  After a month of tutorials in the computer lab, their talk had expanded beyond school, and their time together spilled out into social settings: a meal at the student center, a night out at Chuck’s or Maggie’s. Matt made Amy laugh, and he listened attentively. He told her about his band at home and playing guitar with some guys in his dorm. She shared her articles before submitting them to the school paper and talked to him of her dream to be a journalist. In an easy way, their friendship grew close. They’d jotted their phone numbers in each other’s notebooks, but this was the first time he’d called her. Amy hoisted herself onto the wooden stool beside the phone and smiled hearing Matt’s voice.

  “Hey there! What’s up?”

  “So, um, I was wondering. Wondering if you would, well, this weekend is our fraternity golf tournament. It’s a fundraiser, and I was thinking, I was wondering, as friends, would you, um, come with me? Like, be my date? As friends, I mean, I know you and Andrew, but—”

  “Yes, of course I will,” Amy interrupted, rescuing him. “And, for the record, I don’t think Andrew will ever ask me out.”

  “With the way you described what happened at that party, and how much he’s around, I thought—”

  “Nope. Nothing. Anyway, I don’t golf but we’ll have fun.”

  Matt’s exhale was audible across the line. She pictured him rubbing his thumb along the edge of his jaw, across the stubble that seemed to appear as soon as he shaved. She felt an easy comfort with him and smiled, happy that he asked her.

  “Thanks, Amy, I’ll see you tomorrow. We can talk more about Saturday then,” Matt said with more confidence.

  “Thanks for asking me.”

  Amy replaced the receiver onto its cradle, thinking that their relationship proved that guys and girls can be just friends. As she gathered her books for the library, she wondered for a moment, a little smugly, what her father would say about that.

  AMY SLIPPED THROUGH THE WHOOSH of the double glass doors and into the hush of the library. She looked past the information desk, beyond the librarian bent over book cards, r
obotically stamping each one with a due date. The modern angles of the library battled with aging bindings. Fabric-covered books, their edges powdered with a dust that had become one with the paper, juxtaposed rows of sleek new volumes. High-tech microfiche machines stood beside wooden card catalogs and gray metal carts. Beyond the librarian were the guarded and undesirable first-floor study carrels. The rules there were strictly enforced, any breath above a whisper reprimanded. They were a last resort when all of the hidden stalls were occupied with studying spoons or flirting forks.

  With a brisk step, Amy slinked past the library watchdog toward the elevators. Reaching for the button, her bracelets clinked noisily down her arm and elicited an admonishing glare. On the third floor, she spotted Andrew from behind and sighed at his profile as he referred to an open textbook. She approached, enjoying the muscles of his forearm as he made notes. Amy plunked her bag on the floor and slid into the chair Andrew had set up for her.

  He turned and they sat knee to knee, looking at each other wordlessly. Amy felt something thick in the space between them, something vibrating in the silence. She tickled inside with anticipation, wondering when, if, how.

  Andrew smiled at her, first with his lips together, and then he let them part slightly. He leaned toward Amy; she felt a breath-catching quiver in her chest as his face hovered near. She leaned in, just a small shift. Andrew moved to meet her but held his lips in front of hers, close without touching, taunting. Amy felt his heat mix with hers, felt a tingle in her stomach that moved lower with the faint brush of his lips. He slid his hand beneath her hair, onto her neck, and pulled her to him. She felt the moisture of his breath and savored the sweetness of his touch. Her bracelets jingled down to her elbow as she reached for Andrew’s cheek, and they smiled without releasing their kiss. He cradled her head in his palms and ran a thumb along her hairline. Everything in her was responding; she was aware of every sensation in her body. Time slowed and the world narrowed to just the two of them.