Principles of Love by Emily Franklin Read Free Book Online

album,” I say and he opens his mouth to respond but Mr. Chaucer interrupts him.
    “Jacob — let me steal Love away from you for a moment.” The corners of Jacob — aka Quiet Boy’s — mouth turn up and he slides out of the room. Jacob. With a tiny bit of irony, I remember that Bob Dylan’s son is Jakob with a ‘k’.
    “Love?” this from Mr. Chaucer who no doubt can tell I’m in a hundred other worlds and yanks me back to the here and now. “Don’t think I noticed that you talked your way around the nameless introduction.” I shake head back and forth and sling my bag onto my left shoulder. I can never get a book bag or purse to stay on my right shoulder ever — another mystery of life. “Do it now.”
    “Huh?” I ask, eloquent as ever.
    “Don’t say Love — say anything else.”
    I’m halfway out the door at this point and I pause, balancing on the threshold. “I’m on the threshold,” I say, not entirely bullshitting.
    “Of…?” Mr. Chaucer waits for me to continue.
    The hall bell rings, the campus chapel bells chime, and I’m officially going to be late — again — and I shoot a pleading look at Mr. Chaucer, who shoos me out the door with a next time . And maybe I would’ve had something to say, found the right words if the bells hadn’t sounded, but I think — no, I know — that I’m not sure enough of who I am with my name at this point to be able to blurt out who I am without it.

Chapter Five
    I’ve seen pictures of New Delhi streets teeming with people, I’ve dealt with one horrible Manhattan rush hour commuter train ride. But the mass of bodies in the Hadley Hall dining hall makes those places feel calm. You’d think that people had never had factory-enhanced macaroni, never experienced the wonder of fro-yo (I’ll admit, I was psyched to see a coffee-vanilla swirl on offer today — but still, I didn’t scream or butt anyone out of my way to get a taste). Being the unfamiliar one in the dining hall sucks for so many reasons. With no clue what line to get in — I stand for twelve minutes, salivating at the thought of a tuna sandwich, only to find I’m in the utensil line. Nice. Salad stations, hot meal lines, drinks hot and cold, dessert table, cold cut bar. So many choices, I hardly have time to throw together a turkey wrap before rushing to my next class.
    I do, however, manage to have enough time for said turkey wrap to unroll and empty its contents onto my lap (shredded lettuce = my accessory of choice right now) and look lost as I wander around with my tray-as-shield looking for a seat. Not even my father, who takes advantage of the mayonnaise-laden potato salad, acknowledges me as I drift and bump from one place to the next. I find a chair in what is surely considered the arctic of the dining hall social sphere, but one which offers a good view. While pecking at the remnants of cold cuts on my jeans, I watch bouncy girls and their clots of friends nibble at non-caloric broccoli n’ salsa combos. I notice guys shoving fistfuls of deli meats as if they are contestants on a new reality show, and see the other aimless newcomers straggle between bonds of old friends.
    Four tables away (an acre in high school dining real estate), two girls eat sandwiches and frozen yogurt, talking and laughing. I want to be them. Not them personally, but part of their friendship. The closest girlfriend I have right now is my Aunt Mable — and she’s got decades on me. Someday I’m sure I’ll meet someone my age who can be as funny, freakish and cool as Mable is — but so far, I haven’t met her.
    “What’cha doing?” Cordelia shoulders me outside the dining hall where I’m breathing in the fresh air, just glad for a hint of personal space. She reads over my shoulder as I check my schedule. Free period. Cool. Except I don’t know where to spend it. Without structure, I’m left to more Love-as-a-pinball, rolling my way around campus (Beep! Bling!).
    “Me, too,” Cordelia says