Higher Education by Lisa Pliscou Read Free Book Online Page A

coffee.”
    â€œShit.” She tilts away. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
    â€œI just did.”
    â€œSooner, dope, sooner.”
    â€œOh, look,” Clark says thickly through a mouthful of waffle and syrup. “Katherine got her hair cut. Looks awful, doesn’t it?”
    â€œI guess Halloween came early this year.”
    â€œWho’s that she’s with?”
    â€œI’ll bet he’s from Lowell. She always goes out with guys from Lowell.”
    â€œI hear she had mono last fall.”
    â€œReally? Somebody told me it was herpes.”
    â€œGoodness,” I say genially. “You boys certainly have your ears to the ground, don’t you?”
    â€œShe told everybody it was anemia.” Chuckling, Clark opens a box of Cocoa Puffs and pours it into his bowl. “Hey, Miranda. Didn’t you just get a haircut too?” He sprinkles three packets of sugar into his cereal and adds milk.
    â€œMe?” My maladroit self-barbering tends to result in odd little spikes and asymmetrical lines. People are constantly asking me where I get my hair done; most often I tell them that my haircutter is an East Village acupuncturist-cum-graffiti artist named Popo who also repairs Vespas on the side. Though I embellish the story more and more outlandishly in the expectation that someday someone will actually challenge me about it, no one has, but I’m cherishing high hopes based upon Popo’s recent appointment as Secretary of State. “A haircut? No.” I shake my head. “I got them all cut.”
    Clark laughs uproariously, pounding the tabletop and making the dishes rattle. “God, you’re a scream, Miranda,” he gasps.
    â€œPrettier than the painting, don’t you think?” Out of the corner of my eye I spot Dean coming into the dining hall. He shows the checker his ID card and goes into the kitchen.
    Clark wipes his eyes with his napkin. “What painting?”
    Roald returns with his grapefruit half and a cup of coffee. “Here’s your coffee, Miranda. Cream, no sugar, right?”
    â€œRight. Thanks.” I stand up. “Anybody want anything?” I turn and go off without waiting for a reply.
    In the kitchen Dean ponders the pastry tray. He’s wearing Levis and his bright-red windbreaker. His hair is damp and slicked close to his head in dark waves that will lighten to blondish brown as they dry.
    â€œI recommend the crullers.”
    He turns. “Oh, hi,” he says in his low, somehow silken voice. “But I think I’d rather have one of those chocolate twists.”
    â€œI hear they’re fabulous too.”
    â€œOh, really?” He hesitates, and then takes one and puts it on his tray. “Okay.”
    â€œGood choice. Oh, by the way.”
    â€œHmm?” He’s looking at the pastries again.
    â€œI tried calling you last night.”
    â€œI know. Kevin left a message.” He puts the chocolate twist back and takes a bran muffin.
    I find myself noticing a large jagged patch of cheek where he didn’t shave. “So did you have a nice dinner?”
    â€œYeah, nothing special. Went to Charlie’s.”
    â€œTalked Advo over cheeseburgers?”
    â€œThe usual.” He glances nervously over his shoulder. “Well, I guess I’d better be—”
    â€œYes.” I turn to look at the cereals. “Enjoy that bran muffin. It’s good for you.”
    â€œHey.”
    I swivel around by forty-five degrees. “Yeah?”
    â€œI tried calling you back, but you weren’t home.”
    â€œOh?”
    â€œIs tonight still okay?”
    â€œTonight?” I arch an eyebrow. “Oh, that’s right. We were going out for a drink, weren’t we? The Ha’Penny, did we say?”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œOkay.”
    â€œWhen?”
    â€œI get off work at ten. How about ten-thirty or so?”
    â€œCool. See you