And it Will Feel Like Truth — Day Seven
Russ starts showing up in class again. We’re in Psychology. He sits right behind me and the entire hour I am intensely aware of his presence. We start eating lunch together. I know he’s dating someone, someone from his hometown, but I’ve only seen her with him once or twice.
He comes into the library when I’m working the circulation desk and checks out Baptist History books. He stands there for a little while and we chat. We never run out of things to say but every single thought is alert and at attention. I’m cautious. He feels dangerous. Dangerous in the but you already have a boyfriend sense. Dangerous in why do I get goosebumps when he hugs me sense.
The entire time I’m buzzing.
One day, he stops by our dorm with what looks like a bong. I happen to be in the lower lobby when he bursts into the room. I raise an eyebrow at the plastic contraption in his hands.
“Is that….”
He laughs, his eyes full of mirth.
“…a cola bong.” He anticipates my question. “Do you want RC or Surge?”
“Do I want….what?”
“We’re so doing this, Elora. Come on.”
I glance around me. I’m not one to give into peer pressure, but this is seriously harmless. Baptist-grade fun. It doesn’t surprise me Russ is currently serving as a youth pastor, because this is reminiscent of lock-in games like dip a donut in chocolate syrup and dangle it above your friend who is and lying beneath you wide-mouthed and waiting.
But still. It’s Russ. And being around him makes the room feel charged with something I’m not able to articulate.
“I don’t know….”
He shakes his head, denying my hesitancy.
“Nope. Not an answer. RC or Surge?”
I smile slightly, and he knows he’s won. His face breaks into a huge grin and he does a quick fist pump, his eyes full of glee.
I choose RC.
He hands me two dollars, since he doesn’t have access to the vending machine around the corner, and I purchase one RC and one Surge. My roommate bumps into me in the hall and asks what I’m doing.
“Russ has a cola bong?”
I say it just like that — like it’s a question and not a fact. I’m still unsure what’s even going to happen here. I keep telling myself nothing. She squints then and raises her chin a little bit.
“Have you talked with your boyfriend lately?”
The question is pointed and I feel the gut punch of guilt. Just recently, she gave me the third degree about a guy I met online, a friend who frequented the same chat rooms and websites. We spoke often on AIM, and he now had our phone number. She didn’t approve. I was too innocent to even know some stranger on the internet could probably also be a stalker (which he turned out to be) and dangerous (which he was most definitely).
My eyes start welling up and I get frustrated. It’s what happens when I get super serious, and like my facial expressions, the tears always rat me out. If I’m crying in a conversation and it’s not a sad one or a happy one, it’s because I’m feeling my words in my core. The thoughts I’m expressing aren’t surface level ones. Something is happening within my molecular structure, and the shift personifies through tears.
“He’s calling me later,” I step around her and then turn, walking backwards. “And no, I haven’t heard from internet boy. We ended that when he got the cease and desist.” I rock the drinks in my hands and smile at her shocked expression. I don’t think she knew I could read into her question.
“You sure you don’t want to come?”
She shakes her head and opens the door to our room. I turn back toward the double doors and see Russ waiting in the hallway in front of the elevators. From his smile, I know he’s in the middle of a belly laugh, the one where tears pop up in his eyes but never fall.
I pause for just a moment, long enough for his eyes to throw a question my way, but I shake off the realization that I’m beginning to know his different smiles and walk through the doors, my own lips curling and reaching toward the sky.
I hand him the drinks and he motions me toward the couch.
“So here’s how we’re going to do this. I’ll pour the RC down this funnel, and you’ll put your mouth at the end. Lean over the trash can in case things get a little messy.” His shoulders start to shake with laughter and I give him a playful glare.
“What do you mean…messy.”
“I would just keep your thumb ready to plug the tube if you need to breathe or anything.”
I wait a beat and then frown.“This is such a bad idea.”
He laughs. “This is a very good idea. You’ll see.”
I lean over the trashcan and place my thumb against the cut plastic. My eyes shift from his hands to his face and I suck in my lips.
“Okay. I’m ready.”
He gets a mischievous glint in his eye and it makes the color even deeper, like a rich dark chocolate. I swallow and look away, planting my mouth against the tube and giving him a thumbs up.
Before I know it, there is soda coming toward me and a whole lot of fizz. Like, a lot of fizz. I hear Russ hollering at me in the background but everything is sweet and sticky and the bubbles are tickling my throat and when I look at the tubing all I see is foam and I know it’s going to get worse. I can’t do it anymore. I move my mouth away from the plastic but forget to plug with my thumb and RC is spraying everywhere. It’s on Russ’ shorts, on his legs, on me, on the couch, on the carpet — we’ve made a mess and now we’re laughing so hard both of us are crying.
“I thought we agreed you would use your thumb.”
“We did. I just…It came fast.”
I’m still coughing, still trying to get the tickle out of my throat. We grab some nearby napkins left over from someone’s fast food run and start cleaning as best as we can. The couch is stained, though. I can already tell.
“Sorry you’re sticky now.” I fall against a nearby cushion and motion toward his legs. “Still think this was a good idea?”
He looks at me then, and my stomach jumps into my throat and back down through my ribcage when I see the emotion in his eyes. Before he can answer, my roommate walks in, the phone hanging from her fingers.
“He’s on the phone,” she says. She steps in to hand me the receiver with the look of someone who believes she just interrupted something electric, and she’s not far off. I find myself thankful for her impeccable timing all over again. I jump off the couch with a quick bye to Russ and snatch the phone out of her hand.
“Hi babe,” I croon into the speaker. I only halfway see my roommate roll her eyes. I know I’m not innocent. The eye rolling is probably warranted. There was something in Russ’ look back there that I don’t have time to decipher because my boyfriend is on the other line. The one I love. The one I want to marry.
Keep telling yourself that, a voice echoes at the base of my skull. I ignore it. I walk through the double doors back toward our room and stake my place against the wall in the hallway. I slide down, feeling the stickiness of the RC against my legs next to the carpet.
It was nothing, I say to myself as I listen to the boyfriend rant about his pizza delivery. But I know better. It was most definitely something, I just don’t know how to categorize it.
