1982

Most of my classmates went to some big-name place like Ohio State, but Wesleyan was the school for me, and Byler Hall was definitely where to live. We girls did stuff together, made popcorn, bought a six-pack one time, even. People who think that nothing happens at Wesleyan can think that all they want.

Two years in, though, and now I’d have to get serious about my coursework. A degree in English isn’t just the fun stuff -- Postmodernism in Liberation Fiction being totally awesome -- but there are also the classes you’ll never use, like a 101-102 science sequence. I shouldn’t have put it off. It would be Chemistry, as 101 covered stuff I’d supposedly studied back in high school. Who cares a wit about valances?

The first lecture, however, made me realize I should have knocked off the requirement while the subject was still fresh in mind. I’d totally forgotten about liters.

Lab was once per week, the first order of business being safety: Never suck a pipette. Give me a break! Maybe I should have tried Astronomy.

Only when we were told to pair up for our first experiment -- something to do with weights of chemicals, I believe -- did I look around for another girl, but by the time I realized that the few candidates were already grabbed, it was down to me and a guy in a Wesleyan sweatshirt. Why would anybody wear one to Chemistry?

Well, it’s just once a week, I figured, and my mother said I sometimes needed to be more forward. “Need a partner?”

When he looked at me, I saw it. Not something you’d catch if you didn’t yourself know the flash of relief when you realize that you’re not alone. Those who’ve always been chosen wouldn’t understand.

“Sure. I mean if you need one,” he answered, as if at this point we’d any choice.

“I’m Holly. Holly Rennick,” remembering my manners.

“I’m Arthur,” sticking out his hand as probably his dad had instructed. “I had this stuff last year, but my dad said to start from scratch to get off to a good GPA, You?”

“Two years ago and never thought of it since,” I admitted as we headed toward an open bench. He probably thinks I’m dumb, a Junior taking a 101.

“It’ll come back. So how come you’re in here.”

“English major.”

“Pre-med,” he confessed. “My dad’s a doctor.”

“Cool.” My dad’s a minister. So’s my grandfather, but I didn’t say it.

“I guess,” his half-hearted response, then changed the subject. “Heard of Toni Morrison?”

He read her? “Absolutely. You wouldn’t like American Lit if you only had Washington Irving.”

“I sorta’ feel like she’s writing about me, in my head, I mean.” He paused, probably remembering that I was in English. “But maybe I missed some stuff.”

“Prof. Gillespie includes her in Creative Writing. We see how her characterization pulls things together,” but held it to that, not wanting to appear tutorial.

“Anyway, my dad’s a doctor,” explained my lab partner. “Got a calculator? I’ll figure out how much of this stuff we’ll need, and we’ll write it in our book. Not exactly the precise answer, just close, so it doesn’t look suspicious.”

This guy seemed like the sort you’d want for a lab partner.

“Just happened to have one,” showing him mine with a tinge of pride. “It says it does exponents.”

My lab partner nodded and then indicated his backpack. “You’re pretty dressed up. Want my lab coat? Graduation present from my grandparents.”

“I’ll buy one at the bookstore.”

“Tell you what, save your money.” his reply. “Whoever mixes the chemicals wears it and whoever takes the notes dodges the explosion.”

We laughed.

Chem 101: metal oxides, equilibrium constants, LeChatelier’s principle. Must have been French. Total waste of time, but maybe I found lab a little fun as we’d see things happen. Though safety glasses, of course.

Measuring and note-taking, you chitchat. I’d been in Girl Scouts and he’d been in Boy Scouts. We’d both been in band -- flute and trumpet. Despite his wizardry in the fabrication of credible experimental results, actually doing the experiment gave us more time to talk.

Once he brought brownies. “So we don’t starve, waiting for the precipitate.” His mom had sent them by mail, a mom-type thing. I ate mine, even if it was somewhat dry, and we brewed Constant Comment in a beaker. As our test tube failed to precipitate anything, Arthur had to compute what we supposedly observed. The tea, my task, on the other hand, came out just right.

“A girl’s touch,” I told him, realizing too late that I should have said “woman’s.”

One time we were recording temperatures to see if energy was being released -- “Exothermic,” I’d work into an essay about social conflict -- and I, the note-taker, borrowed his pen, one of those fat ballpoints that make you want to doodle.

“Holly, how ‘bout you keep it and write a story about chemistry someday,” he said afterward.

How’d anybody write a story about chemistry? Na plus Cl makes table salt? It was fun, though, that he thought of me as a writer.

“You keep my highlighter, then.” I couldn’t think of why he’d need it, but wanted him to have something of mine. “Maybe to draw the line where you’re going to operate.”

I think he was as pleased as I was.

When converting a carbonate to a chloride -- according to the handout, anyway, as I was more and more leaving the science to my partner -- I leaned toward the flask, and as he reached for the stirring rod, his arm brushed my front.

“Sorry,” he blurted, turning crimson, though it wasn’t for more than a second.

“We’re lab partners,” elbowing him to show that I wasn’t offended, him not the type who’d do it on purpose.

Leaving the lab, my backpack was twisted, and for a moment his hand was on my shoulder as he straightened it. Absolutely nothing, and yet it left my heart pounding.

That’s when I told him about the fitness equipment in the gym. Everybody goes there. I showed him my schedule. Monday, Wednesday and Friday. 8:30. Every week. Rain or shine. And, sure enough, we ran into each other the next day by the entrance.

At Wesleyan, you run into each other everywhere. I’d be climbing the steps to Appleton and down would race Arthur. “Hey, there, Holly. Bye.”

“Hey, yourself, Arthur. Fire’s that-a way.”

Sometimes I’d get to Appleton a little early and wait on the steps to tell him about the fire.

In the library, there’d be Arthur, laden with atlases “Hey there, Holly. I’m up by the globes. Plenty of space if you want to spread out.”

We’d sit side-by-side in chemistry lecture so I could follow his notes for the +’s and -’s on the formulas. I’d had lectures in that hall before, but till now, sat wherever.

Concerning the midterm, Arthur wondered if we might want to drill each other on the material. I rather thought he already knew it, but didn’t say so. It was the hype about feminism that sparked my suggestion that let’s do it at the Women’s Center. The place says it’s about removing boundaries, I told him, so let’s see if they mean it. Plus it’s got a teapot. I hoped that he didn’t mind the Georgia O’Keeffe’s, but if he’s going to be a doctor, might as well get used to it.

It being the Women’s Center, I’d not worn my bra, but that wasn’t actually why I wasn’t, my Free the Captives tee shirt being good for showing my nipples.

“I’m really glad we’re partners, Holly,” he told me as we were fixing our tea, evoking a few odd looks from the Center regulars.

I was surprised -- not that didn’t mind being my partner, as we worked together well -- but that he’d say it.

“Arthur, that’s so sweet!” probably what you shouldn’t say out loud in a Women’s Center, but so what?

When he helped with my backpack, he straightened both straps, neither of which was crooked.

When Arthur wondered if I’d like to go to a volleyball game, I agreed before he got to “game.” I should have at least asked whom we were playing, but I didn’t want to appear uninformed.

For me, Dating 101 -- what we called it in Byler -- had been a theoretical subject. In high school, I’d been super busy with things like the yearbook to even notice that the prom was upcoming, and here at Wesleyan, there was lots to do with my dorm-mates. Once we even had a sleepover in the hallway, which makes no sense at all, which was why it was so fun.

Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea, even, I wondered, me being two years older. I could tell him that I seemed to be catching the flu, but my Byler-mates, however, said go ahead.

At Wesleyan, we’re the “Battling Bishops.” We should be named after some bird, or something the way I saw it. I told this to Arthur and he suggested perhaps the “Battling Bluebirds,” which made me laugh.

We won, even, but better than that -- as I reported to my dorm-mates -- we hugged.

Football was a different story, homecoming against Wabash. We didn’t have a chance, but we didn’t care, as we’re about education, not tackles. Autumn skies, autumn foliage. The marching band. Couples toting blankets. Arthur and I didn’t bring a blanket, of course, but our hands, his left and my right, brushed as we entered the stadium.

It was the long pass -- a Hail Mary, Arthur called it -- that got us Battling Bishop believers on our feet, the ball lofting into the hands of our man already speeding for the end zone.

I hugged Arthur in the frenzy, the band having concluded “Battle on, Bishops” before I realized I’d not let go, and stayed that way through the extra point, the cheers around us.

When the word afterward got around -- Wesleyan not being where public hugs go unnoticed -- my dorm-mates gave me high-fives. “Gotcha’ a boyfriend, Holly?” Nobody even cared that he was a freshman.

Arthur said that it was so embarrassing, how he’d be walking across campus and some girl he hardly recognized called out, “Hey, Arthur, some pass, hunh?” but I knew he liked it.

As far as Dating 102, I let Arthur kiss me when he’d drop me off, but just a not-too-long kind. The bench in the grove behind the library was where we attempted the longer ones. As the bench was known for being that kind of bench, the rule said to make a warning noise when approaching. At Wesleyan, everybody knows the rules.

Agape House on the edge of campus, was where Wesleyans could maintain a Christian tie without being churchy.

“So, Holly,” my father would casually ask. “Make it to church?”

“All the time, Dad. Agape House.”

“That’s great,” pleased that I was staying rooted.

At Agape we’d have pizza and discuss ecumenicalism or maybe environmentalism. The type of gathering was a bit new to Arthur, but he liked pizza. I liked the others seeing us together.

What Agape House also offered was a place to hide away, opposite to what might be otherwise expected in a place open to all seekers. At day’s end, the last ones there knew to lock the door behind them. If two couples found themselves waiting for each other to get their coats, the girls would decide who got to stay. It being a Christian place, probably not many babies were conceived on the couch in the gathering room, but a lot of bras were said to get unhooked.

It took a while more before Arthur would actually feel me up, but I knew we’d get there. I had on a mohair sweater when he finally got up the gumption. You can tell by how a guy turns sideways to you that there’s maybe something that he doesn’t want you noticing. It makes making out more even, actually.

In class, we’d just submitted our last experiment, one about electrochemistry which only increased my anxiety about Chem 102, and we’d wandered to the bench behind the library. We made the noises and nobody answered.

“You know, Holly, you’re really cute,” he told me, putting his arm around me. “You really are!”

“Thanks.” The guy was so sweet. I’m hardly cute, but at least I maybe felt a little bit cute around him.

He paused another moment, then plunged ahead. “But I don’t want to mess things up.”

“Like how?”

“You know, us doing something we shouldn’t.”

“I’m with you,” I assured him

The west side of Byler, out of sight from passersby, was what we called the Wow Wall, as you could back into the ivy for a “wow,” was where I ran my thigh between his, causing him to twist aside, but now knowing I could tell.

After that, our legs were part of our making out, at which point he was totally defenseless.

“Oh Jeez, Holly, I didn’t mean...” when I made him come in his pants. Accidentally on both our parts, but when you both know, you can’t pretend otherwise.

“Beats getting me pregnant,” my effort at trying to make light of it.

“It won’t happen again,” his pledge.

I gave it some thought. “You’d rather make me pregnant?”

“No, no...” at which point he caught that I was putting him on.

“You’re my partner, silly,” I let him know.

When next we were at our bench and it was dark, I’d not have thumbed his buckle if my hand hadn’t happened to have been on his belt, and undoing it is what happens when you thumb it. The same can be said for the button and the zipper.

It’s not like you really want to and it’s not like you have to do something because everyone else does, but my being maybe the only girl in Byler who’d never held a penis was getting to be a downer.

But more than that, if I were to be a writer, I’d need to draw on some of my own experiences, maybe not explicitly, but on the emotions. One can perhaps pull ideas out of the air for an erotic story, but good prose is more than about dimensions and what-have-you. It’s about leaving things to the reader.