Chapter 9: English Class Bards

Connie Steffano sometimes felt younger than her roommates, and sometimes older -- almost parental.

Chronologically, of course, she was younger, 16 where they were 18. Then too, she had spent the previous three years in an all-girls school. Except for the typing and driving courses the previous summer, she hadn’t had any males in her classes since grade school. Now there were men in this dorm, if not -- when they were obeying the rules -- on this floor. All three of her roommates had attended coed high schools.

On the other hand, they had -- at most -- summer-camp experience living with other girls. (Well, Kim had shared a room with a younger sister.) They felt the ‘suite,’ with two bedrooms of two girls each, destroyed the privacy they so much wanted. Connie had lived in an unpartitioned room not much smaller than one of the bedrooms with five other girls. “What you have to remember,” she told them, “is that you don’t tell any of our secrets. Tell your best friend your own secrets if you want. Don’t tell her mine.” They agreed readily; Connie thought it was too readily.

The dorm didn’t have room inspections to see that all the clothes were put away properly -- which Connie felt was a mixed blessing. She’d hated those at St. Wigbert’s, but her roommates were such slobs.

Lisa, with whom she shared a bedroom, clearly thought she was being generous when she offered to let Connie watch her TV with her. Connie would have appreciated silence more. When did Lisa expect to study?

Then she had second thoughts. She remembered all the conversations at the pool. The kids she’d get to know here were immersed in TV. The People magazine Connie had read on the plane hadn’t really brought her up to speed; it assumed too much background knowledge. They had a week before classes began; Connie would watch for that week, taking notes. That would clue her in on a good many of the conversations she’d hear. Later, they’d probably be talking about their classes.

Since she’d be taking notes and she wanted to keep writing verse, she figured she might as well write a limerick about each show. They’d be easier to remember than prose notes.

The first day in the dorm, there were some orientation meetings. They had counselors, one senior counselor for the boys, one for the girls, and a junior counselor on each floor except the ones the senior counselors lived on. Confusingly, the junior counselors were seniors; the senior counselors were grad students. Jenkins was a huge building, seven floors counting the one marked ‘G.’ The boys lived on floors 1 - 3, and the girls on 4 - 6. The building had elevators; the stairs opened only from the outside except on the ground floor. And Connie was going to have to learn to call boys and girls ‘men’ and ‘women’; the counselors and staff did.

It took Connie a couple of days to figure out why Jenkins looked so odd to her from the outside. She’d known taller buildings, but those stood among other tall buildings. Jenkins stood off by itself, a hike from the classroom buildings. The downtown was an uncomfortable walk beyond those, and the bus service was abominable and expensive. Well, she had plenty of time now; freshman orientation took a few hours in the morning and a few in the afternoon with a large gap in between. Only dorm events occurred in the evening.

That gave her plenty of time to go into town Monday and find a bank. There, she established an account with Andre’s check. The woman dealing with her was used to seeing newly-arrived college students; the Connecticut driver’s license as Connie’s only ID didn’t bother her. The bank even cashed a traveler’s check so Connie would have money to buy her food in the cafeteria.

Tuesday, she went to the university library, but she couldn’t check out any books until she had registered for classes. Still, she acquainted herself with the amenities. That evening, she typed letters to Andre and Helen. Mostly, it was just giving them her complete address and telling them that she’d not been eaten by wolves on her trip here. Maybe it was that she hadn’t been eaten by vultures; the trip had been mostly by air.

She typed and sent a letter to Joe, as well.

Wednesday evening, there was a mixer in the social room on the ground floor of Jenkins. For the first time in public, Connie wore a stuffed bra. It didn’t seem to attract boys -- she meant men -- to her side. On the other hand, she didn’t really expect a B cup to impress them.

When they started to play dance music, she got on the floor by herself. Kent had taught her the fast dances and, more important, taught her that doing the dance that was strictly called for by the music wasn’t a social necessity. Connie enjoyed herself, and nobody seemed to snicker at her.

One thing which had attracted her to the school was that the student body was more than 55% male. The residents at Jenkins seemed to be equally divided. The orientation sessions told her more than she wanted to know about the social life of the campus and, for those held at Jenkins, the rules of the dorm. What they didn’t seem to cover was class work. She knocked on the door of the counselor for her floor Thursday. Diane opened the door. You had to open your door from inside unless the person outside was a roommate who had a key.

“Problem?” she asked when Connie had entered. The “living room” Diane had for herself was a little larger than the one that four girls shared in a standard suite. Of course, a counselor was expected to entertain groups in that room.

“Not really a problem. I’m Connie Steffano, by the way.”

“Hello, Connie. I’m Diane.” Connie knew that. The counselors had been introduced to the residents several times, and Diane, as the only counselor who was Black, was especially memorable. Then too, Diane was telling her that last names were unnecessary.

“They’ve told us gobs about the social activities of the university, and that’s fine. But Tuesday I’m going to register, and they haven’t told us anything about classes.”

“There are class descriptions in the catalog. I gather that’s not what you’re asking. Your department, the department you plan to major in, can tell you about their requirements. More than I can, even if you plan to major in chemistry.”

“Well, I haven’t decided on my major.”

“You came here wanting the college experience?”

“Yeah. Which makes it silly to complain that all they talk about is the college experience, but I’m used to studying and getting good grades.”

“Not silly. Despite Hollywood, being in class is a big part of the college experience.”

At this point the door opened and a boy slipped inside. Connie recognized Jerry, one of the boys’ counselors. She was startled, but no more than the other two. “Oops,” said Jerry.

“Jerry,” said Diane, “this is Connie. She wants to know what classes she should register for. Connie, this is Jerry, the counselor for the second floor.”

“You’re probably going to take English,” said Jerry. “All freshmen do. And a social science. Do you have a major in mind?” They weren’t going to discuss that one of the counselors who was responsible for keeping the boys on their own floors was on one of the girls’ floors with a key to the room of the counselor who was responsible for keeping boys -- and men -- off this particular floor. They were going to deal with the questions Connie raised. Fine. She could expect them to deal seriously with her question. A St. Wigbert’s girl would break all ten of the Commandments before she’d reveal another person’s secret, but they probably wouldn’t know that.

“She’s here for the college experience,” Diane said.

“Well, the university tells you that more men than women attend, which is true but not complete. Aside from engineering majors, there are a few more women than men; significantly more if you only count undergraduates. How did you do in high-school math, Connie? It is Connie, isn’t it?”

“Yes. I wasn’t a star, but I didn’t flunk or anything like that. I was better in geometry than I was in algebra.”

“Can you do arithmetic in your head? What’s twenty-three times seventeen?”

She had to think for a minute. 230 plus 161. “Three hundred and ninety-one.”

“Okay. Well, economics doesn’t use more than simple arithmetic. They even use a special word to avoid saying ‘derivative.’ You have to take one of economics, sociology, psychology, or anthropology. It’s smart to get rid of that requirement your freshman year. The engineering majors usually end up taking economics. So, introductory econ is more than half male; introductory anthro and psych less than half male.”

Diane shoved his shoulder. “There is more to the college experience than men.”

“I’m sorry, Connie,” Jerry said. “Are you into women?” Diane shoved him again.

“Anyway,” Connie said, “you recommend economics. I’ll take English and second year French.”

“How did you do in science?” Jerry asked.

“I got good grades in general science, but I had to work for them.”

“And later courses?”

“I didn’t take them.” For that matter, St. Wigbert’s didn’t offer them.

“Well, you have to take a natural science. Again, you might as well get it out of your way your freshman year. Diane and I both took both chemistry and physics, but we’re chem majors. People who don’t know science usually take geology. And you’ll not like the sex ratio in there, although there are all sorts of men taking arts courses. There aren’t many women majoring in engineering, and most of those are dykes or tomboys who want to play against the boys, not date them. A woman taking engineering, a real woman, has her choice. That’s even true of science. Diane had her choice; she just has poor taste.”

Diane shoved him again. “I’m seriously reconsidering.”

“I have to take gym, don’t I?” Connie asked.

“One thing which surprised me,” Diane said. “The university doesn’t have a gym class, like my high school had. We have Phys-ed classes. So you can sign up for golf or swimming, or something like that. And then you can take one more class --, or not -- as you choose. Usually, people either get farther in their major or take something light.”

“And, as you’ve heard,” said Jerry, “there are lots of clubs and activities. Now chemistry, that’s all class work. But there’s guys who’ve graduated from this school and got jobs on newspapers ‘cause they’ve worked on the school newspaper. If you’re going to go out for one of the heavy activities, team, chorus, drama club, it’s probably not wise to also take a fifth course. And, unless there is something which really draws you, you might consider taking four solid courses and seeing how that goes. That’s one of the blessings of the quarter system -- maybe the only one. You’ll make another choice soon enough.”

“But, basically,” said Diane, “the courses we’ve mentioned, English, social science, natural science, those are one-year courses. Start one and you’ll either finish it or you’ll have wasted your time.”

“But,” Jerry put in, “freshmen can change the times or the professors. If you want to take quantitative analyt, you take it from Stein. If you want to take freshman English, you have your choice.”

“And which is second year French like,” asked Connie.

“Probably like more like freshman English,” said Diane. “You had French in high school, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Then you know more about it than either of us do. Hope we’ve been some help.”

“Oh you have.” Connie got up and headed for the door. “I still have loads of uncertainty, but that’s mostly uncertainty about what I want.”

Diane let her out. Jerry moved behind the door without being ostentatious about it. “Thanks, Diane,” Connie said from the doorway. Thanking Jerry just then would have been a mistake.

Tuesday, she enrolled in English, French, economics, and geology. The university having an indoor pool, Connie signed up for swimming Mondays and Wednesdays at 2:30.

Economics, geology, and French met MWF, as the catalog said. Economics was at 9:00, geology lectures at 11:00, and French at 1:00. Jerry was right about the ratio of boys to girls in economics class. Still, there were more girls in that class than in any class Connie had ever been in before. The class was in a lecture hall which Connie guessed could have held the senior class of St. Wigbert’s. She saw Beth and Lisa waiting to go in as she went out.

French was held in a room of reasonable size. Geology was split. The lecture section was in a large hall, maybe half or a third as large as the Economics hall; the discussion section she attended, on Mondays at 3:00, was held in a room the same size as the one in which she took French.

“What’s your class at 10:00 Wednesdays?” she asked Lisa that night.

“First year anthro, aren’t you taking that?”

“I’m taking economics. Meets an hour earlier in the same hall.”

“Word is, anthro is easier.”

English was scheduled for Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays at 11:00. Connie had never had a Saturday class before then. At least she could sleep in. The classroom was of ordinary size. Connie had noticed that Benson students drifted in to classrooms later than a St. Wigbert’s teacher would have tolerated. Surprisingly, when she got to English a few minutes early, the front two rows were filled, all girls. Boys, and more girls, drifted in over the next few minutes. When the clock at the back of the room showed exactly 11:00, the teacher entered. According to the schedule, he was Bruce Walters. The schedule didn’t mention that he was also a dream boat, long blond curly hair, a trim figure -- not much taller than Connie, but looking somehow athletic, a voice to drool over.

And, fairly clearly, the front rows were drooling over his voice. Connie had just decided to get to English classes earlier when she found that that was not going to work. “When I call the roll,” Walters said, “speak and hold up your hand. This sheet,” he held up a clipboard, “has those seats marked on it. This way, I can take attendance without going through this roll call every day. If your seat is filled, you’re here. If not, you’re not here even if you participate in class.” The girls in the front row clearly had better connections to the grapevine than Connie did.

Connie gave up on her plan to wear different styles of makeup to different classes. Not only did she need to go from one to the other, but the classes had overlapping attendance. Even French, which had more sophomores than freshmen, had a couple of students who were in geology with her.

How it benefited her to attend a heavily-male economics course, Connie couldn’t see. You walked in, took notes, and walked out. After an hour of stupefying lecture, she barely noticed the men -- a word she was learning to use -- in the classroom, and they didn’t seem to notice her. Connie doubted that they would have noticed Marilyn Monroe.

The swimming class broke into three parts Monday. Connie found herself in the intermediate section. The beginners were really beginners.

When Lisa didn’t have the TV on, she had friends visiting. Connie took to studying in either the suite’s “living room” or the social rooms downstairs. As far as she could see, these were intended for the entertaining that Lisa was doing in the bedroom. And Connie was used to reading while lying in bed. There were mixers for the start of the year. Connie attended, but didn’t seem to make many acquaintances.

She’d gone to church for purely social reasons. But, now that she no longer had social reasons, she found that she missed the services. She looked up Episcopalian churches in the Yellow Pages and walked to St. Matthew’s Sunday morning.

French class had been a struggle for the first two weeks. Their textbook was the second one in a series. The students who had taken French at Benson the year before had used the first book. So they already knew a few words that Connie didn’t. Connie knew a few words they didn’t, too, but the book introduced those carefully. In the third week, though, she started to pull ahead. Two years of high school French counted for one year of college French, but two years of St. Wigbert’s French seemed to have given her more than one year at Benson had given the others.

One of the things she’d wanted from Benson was a bit of anonymity. She was getting more than she had dreamed was possible. In English class, in particular, she sat in the third row while the girls in the first two rows unbuttoned their blouses enough to give Walters glimpses of cleavage. Except for taking roll, he didn’t seem to even look at Connie. She shook herself one night. Maybe she didn’t have a chance at Walters, who was married anyway according to the grapevine -- and married to a bombshell. He had something of a reputation, too, as a bad-boy poet. That should have warned Connie off before now; much as she loved Andre, she’d had her lifetime quota of bad-boy poets, maybe several lifetimes. There were boys in the class, though, and with all the attention of most of the girls going to the professor, Connie had a chance at them -- a better chance, she realized, if she called them ‘men.’

Anyway, Andre had told her long before that she was a good student and should let boys see her in the best light.

When Connie had reached that point in her thoughts, Lisa returned from some visit and turned on the television. “Look,” Connie asked, “don’t you have an earphone?” She was supposed to; the dorm rules said that any TV installed in a bedroom had to be used with an earplug if your roommate requested it.

“I do, but it’s so uncomfortable.”

“I’m trying to study.”

“You can study and watch TV. I do it all the time.”

She was tempted to tell her that Connie, unlike Lisa, wanted to actually learn something from the studying. Maybe another way would be better. “Look, the rules don’t say that you have to use the earplug if I convince you that I need the quiet. They say, ‘if I request it.’” Lisa plugged the earphone in and scowled at her.

Anyway, Connie had a plan to get to know boys. She took the opportunity over the next week to introduce herself to each of the attractive boys. It was entirely casual; what she wanted was names to identify them. Meanwhile, she worked hard on the English assignments.

When Walters handed back the first test on Thursday, Connie took surreptitious note of the expressions on the faces of some of her selected men. Three showed dismay.

“How did you do?” she asked Jack as they left the class.

“Horrible. You?”

“Not too badly.”

“Lucky you!” But he didn’t seem to want to continue the conversation.

“How did you do on the test?” she asked Neil Saturday.

“Not too good.” She could understand that. A guy who thought ‘good’ was an adverb might have a tough time in English.

“I think I have this Walters guy psyched out,” she said. “I’d studied most of the stuff which got on the test.” Of course, she’d studied the entire assignment; and, moreover, most of it should have been no surprise to anybody who’d had a basic education in high school. Still, she had studied what was on the test. And these guys would be more interested in short cuts than in grammar.

“That’s good.” So much for Andre’s advice to get noticed by being good in her subjects.

She did, however, have another choice. “I don’t see it,” she told the teacher of the economics discussion section on Monday. “I go to the store and it’s two for something less.”

“Well, yes. That’s because the store buys in large quantities. Your purchase doesn’t affect their unit cost for materials or doesn’t affect it appreciably. What happens is that they have to pay the guy on the checkout line, and he takes almost the same amount of time selling one item as he does selling two. See?”

She didn’t. Not that she would have changed her plans if she had. “Josh,” she said to a likely-looking boy as the class broke up, “I’m confused. Do you understand it?”

“Understand economics? No way! But I think I can see what he’s saying.”

And they found a quiet corner for Josh to explain rising supply curves to her.

Saturday, Walters assigned a paper to be handed in a week later. If Connie had struck out getting the men students in class to notice her, she had a lot of experience getting the notice of teachers. Why should she compete on the cleavage level with girls who had more cleavage than she had? She’d compete on a level they couldn’t reach. First, she had to find a suitable subject. “English Bards and Scotch Reviewers” was in the section of the lit book they’d covered not long before, if not something Walters had emphasized. She reread it that night, prepared to sleep on her idea.

Lisa turned her TV so Connie couldn’t see it. That helped Connie’s studying, though there was still a variable light against the ceiling. It gave another problem, though. Connie had developed the habit of pleasuring herself silently while Lisa was facing away from her and engrossed in a TV show. The silence was mostly for Connie’s sense of privacy; she could probably entertain a chain of boys while “Dallas” was on without Lisa noticing. Now, at every commercial, Lisa was likely to look -- glare as often as not -- in Connie’s direction.

Sunday, she stayed home from church. The weather was miserable anyway. After breakfast, she outlined what she wanted to say about Byron’s poem. Then, she turned a notebook -- French looked like it would have lots of space by the end of the year -- upside down and started on the back page. She put the ideas in her outline into iambic pentameter couplets, the same rhyme scheme and rhythm that Byron had used. It didn’t flow so well, but she was Connie -- she wasn’t Byron. For that matter, she wasn’t Steffano the poet, either. She was Steffano the doggerel writer; and that would have to suffice. She wrote her first draft on every third line, giving her lots of room for corrections.

Her first draft was much too short, would still be too short after she filled in the ideas she had skipped. But she had enough to see that she could finish it in a week.

Monday after the economics lecture, she asked Josh to explain what Professor Franke had said. “That was a help,” she said when he had, “too bad I can’t reciprocate. You aren’t taking French, are you?” Josh shuddered theatrically. “You’re probably taking English, but a smart guy like you would get that stuff. If you can understand economics, English must be child’s play.”