Principles of Love Read Online Free Page B

back of the old health center. Some alumni artist famous for his murals finally succumbed to the Hadley Hall pressure to donate his work — only he gave some sculpture he’d done while actually at Hadley. My dad says the kids make fun of it, and that seniors decorate it every graduation, but I don’t mind it — it’s like a metal fish trying to jump out of its iron ocean. The times I’ve jogged past, I’ve wondered if the fish is meant to be escaping from its metal pool or jumping up in a vain attempt to capture some prize that’s nowhere to be found.
    “This is my daughter, Love,” Dad says over and over again and I try to eat watermelon while being introduced. Several students say hi and I’m half-in, half-out of conversations, mainly floating from group to group, swatting mosquitoes away.
    I hate the feeling of being on show. It’s like I’m a pet or a diversion, like a newborn or something. The academics have to pay a little attention to me out of politeness to my father, but I can tell most are none too fascinated by yet another young woman, starting out at Hadley, even if she — that’d be me — is the headmaster’s daughter.
    “Love, this is Mrs. Gabovitch,” Dad says and I shake hands with the nearest conception of a hippy I’ve ever encountered.
    “Wow,” Mrs. Gabovitch says. “What a great vibe you have.” She waves her hands over the air in front of me and I wonder if she’s kidding then decide quickly she’s not. “I expect great things from you, Love.” She tucks her silky scarf into her gauzy blue and green mottled top. Five of her could fit in the outfit. “I’m dance, by the way.”
    This is how all the teachers introduce themselves. “George Philanopolous, History.” “Margie Kempner, Physics.” How would I sum up myself?
    I notice that little by little certain kids drift away from the picnic and don’t come back. There’s still a big crowd, some parents, kids, and teachers, but I tell my dad I’ll see him later. He nods and mouths your name here . I say it back.
    Cordelia grabs me and tells me to run — our ride’s about to leave. Without asking where we’re going, I pile on top of random laps in the back of someone’s Volvo. Against highway safety recommendations and my own recent Driver’s Ed knowledge, we hunch untethered, driving past the campus outskirts until right when I think my head will pop through the ceiling and we stop. Everyone filters out.
    Our destination turns out to be Josh Bradenford’s house, some upper classman who hosts regular parties. I wander from room to room with Cordelia alternating back-to-school hugs and explaining the Hadley Hall dating chain to me — who dated or hooked up or slept with, or wants to date, and so on. Beer sloshes from plastic cups decorated with out-of-date slogans; Happy Birthday, St. Patty’s Day Charm, Aloha, etc. I take a couple sips from a Happy Fifth Birthday cup and feel decidedly un-fifth birthdayish.
    “Hey,” this plus a nod from the hot boy who hugged me.
    “Hey,” I say back. I managed to speak! I’m improving.
    “It’s starting you guys!” comes a voice — and instantly herds of people moo their way to the back deck where four Twister boards are set up. I watch as simultaneous games of Drunken Twister are played. Excuses for the stray-hand-on-breast routine, the occasional break in the game to puke over the rail, and lots of sit-com style laughter and groping.
    Later, Cordelia finds me in the house, getting juice from the fridge. In the summer, I used to babysit and after the kids were asleep, I’d make some dinner and hang out like I lived in the house by myself. I had sort-of the same feeling now, minus being in charge of toddlers. I felt the urge to clean up after people, to put the house in order, to do something other than make an ass out of myself.
    “What’s up?” Cordelia’s swaying slightly, and tips some beer on her hand. “Good for the skin, don’t you know.”
    “I thought