Queen of Babble

But…

“What happened to your internship?” I ask. “The one at the prestigious primary school for gifted children?”

“Internship?” Andrew flicks ash off his cigarette. It falls in the rosebushes below. But ash is often used as fertilizer so this doesn’t necessarily count as littering. “Oh, that turned out to be a disaster of epic proportions. Did you know they weren’t going to pay me? Not a fucking cent.”

“But-” I swallow. I can hear birds singing in the treetops along the street. At least the birds sound the same here as they do back in Michigan. “That’s why it’s called an internship. Your pay is all the experience you get.”

“Well, experience won’t pay for pints with my mates, will it?” Andrew jokes. “And of course it turned out they had two thousand applications for the position…a position that doesn’t even pay! It’s not like it is back in the States, either, where you’ve got an edge over everybody else if you’ve got a British accent, since you Yanks are convinced anyone who says ‘tomahto’ over ‘tomato’ is somehow more intelligent…The truth is, Lizzie, I didn’t even bother applying. What would have been the point?”

I just stare at him. What happened to taking on a job for the pure challenge and experience of it? What happened to teaching the children to read?

“Besides,” he adds, “I want to work with real kids, not posh little geniuses…kids who actually need positive male role models in their lives…”

“So,” I say, my heart lifting, “you applied to teach in some i

“Oh, fuck no,” Andrew says. “Those positions paid shit. The only way you can make ends meet in this town is in food service. And I’ve got the best shift, eleven to eleven. In fact, I’ve got to run right now if I’m going to make it there in time…”

But I’ve just gotten here! I want to cry. I’ve just gotten here, and you’re leaving? Not just leaving, but leaving me alone with your family, whom I’ve never met-for TWELVE HOURS?

But I don’t say any of these things. I mean, here Andrew is, inviting me to stay, rent-free, in his family’s home with him, and I’m freaking out over his having to work-and the kind of work he’s doing. What kind of girlfriend am I, anyway?

Except I guess my expression must have given away the fact that I am less than enthusiastic about the situation, since Andrew says, reaching out to wrap an arm around my waist and bringing me up close against him, “Look, don’t worry, Liz. I’ll see you tonight when I get off work.”

Suddenly he’s grinding the cigarette beneath his heel and his lips are against my throat.

“And when I do,” he murmurs, “I’m going to show you the best time you ever had. All right?”

It’s very hard to think properly when a cute guy with a British accent is nuzzling your neck.

Not that there’s anything to think about, really. My boyfriend obviously adores me. I’m the luckiest girl in the world.

“Well,” I say, “that sounds-”

And the next thing I know, Andrew’s mouth is on mine, and we’re making out on the front steps of his parents’ house.

I hope the Marshalls don’t have any easily startled little old ladies as neighbors, and that if they do, they aren’t actually looking out their windows right now.

“Fuck,” Andrew breaks off our kiss to say, “I have to go to work. But look, I’ll see you tonight, yeah?”

My lips are still tingling from where his razor stubble chafed them. They’re probably about as swollen as Angelina Jolie’s by now, from all the pressure on them.

Not that I mind. I don’t have a lot of experience in the kissing department.

But I think Andrew may just be the best kisser in the world.

Plus I can’t help noticing that there appears to be something going on in the vicinity of the crotch of Andrew’s jeans that I also like very much.

“Do you really have to go to work?” I ask him. “Can’t you blow it off?”

“Not today. But I’ve got tomorrow off,” he says. “There’s something I’ve got to do in the city. But after that, we’ll do whatever you like. Oh God.” He kisses me a few more times, then rests his forehead against mine. “I can’t believe I’m doing this. You’ll be all right, yeah?”

I stare at him, thinking how good-looking he is, in spite of the hideous jacket, and how sweet and unassuming he is as well. I mean, he’s just so determined to follow in his father’s footsteps and teach all those children to read. Only he’s not going to settle for just any situation. He’s waiting for the right one to come along…

I am so lucky that I was taking a shower at the exact moment that girl’s potpourri caught on fire and that Andrew happened to have been the R.A. on duty at the time.

I think of the first time he kissed me, outside McCracken Hall (with me in my towel and him in those Levi’s that were faded in just the right places), his breath smoky-but from cigarettes, not the fire-and hot in my mouth.

I remember all the phone calls and e-mails between us since. I remember the fact that I blew all my money on a plane ticket to England, since I’m not moving to New York with Shari and Chaz, so I can live at home and be near Andrew in the fall instead.

And I say with a big smile, “I’ll be fine.”

“Cheers, then,” Andrew says. And gives me one last kiss.

And then he turns around and leaves.

One of the earliest known female arbiters of fashion was the Byzantine empress Theodora, the daughter of a bear trainer who beat out thousands of other girls for the hand of Emperor Justinian. Rumor had it she was helped in no small part during the talent portion of the Empress Hunt by her background in dancing and acrobatics.

Though it took a special act of legislation to allow Justinian to marry one of such lowly stature, Theodora proved herself a worthy empress, commissioning two royal spies to sneak into China and steal silkworms so that she could drape herself in the ma

History of Fashion

SENIOR THESIS BY ELIZABETH NICHOLS

5

“I never repeat anything.” That is the ritual phrase of society people, by which the gossip is reassured every time.

– Marcel Proust (1871-1922), French novelist, critic, and essayist

I’m here! I’m finally here, in England!

And okay, it’s not exactly what I’d expected. I really did think Andrew had his own place.

But it’s not like he LIED to me.

And maybe this is better than if the two of us had just holed up in his flat, making sweet love all night and day. This way, I’ll be forced to interact with his family. We can sort of test each other out, the Marshalls and I, and see if we are compatible. After all, you don’t want to marry into a family that hates you.

Plus, while Andrew’s out working, I can start my thesis. Maybe one of the Marshalls will let me borrow a computer. And I can do some research at the British Museum. Or whatever it’s called.

Yes, honestly, it’s much better this way. I’ll really get to know Andrew and his family, and I’ll get a good solid start on my thesis. Maybe I can even get it done before I get home! That would be so great! My parents will never even know there was a slight delay in my actual graduation.

Mmm…I smell something coming from the kitchen. I wonder what it is. It smells good…sort of. It doesn’t smell a bit like the scrambled eggs and bacon that are my mom’s specialty. Really, it’s just so kind of Mrs. Marshall to make breakfast for me. I told her she didn’t have to…She seems so nice, with her sandy-brown bob. She told me to call her Tanya-though of course I never will. Her eyes got kind of wide when I walked in and Mr. Marshall introduced me. But whatever it was that was freaking her out about me, she didn’t let on.