I think now that it would have been better if Dave had known I was on scholarship; he might have understood, as opposed to agreed with, why I acted as I did. (Aspeth Montgomery could have gone out with him and gotten away with it, it could have been ironic. But my parents’ car was barely nicer than his Chevy Nova.) Of course, I didn’t imagine then that I could have had a real relationship with any guy. I thought that by virtue of being me I was disqualified.

None of which justifies how I acted. I was wrong, I screwed up-how else can I say it? But there was plenty I learned from Dave. Later, after all that happened between Cross Sugarman and me, I even saw Dave as practice for Cross, as preparation. He made me ready, as Conchita had once made me ready for a friendship with Martha; there are people we treat wrong, and later, we’re prepared to treat other people right. Perhaps this sounds mercenary, but I feel grateful for these trial relationships, and I would like to think it all evens out-surely, unknowingly, I have served as practice for other people.

Or maybe I’m off base and Dave was nothing so reductive or symbolic as a path to Cross. Maybe Dave was just himself, and it was all supposed to turn out differently. If his sister hadn’t needed the car that Sunday, and if we’d gone ahead on our date as planned-maybe it all hinged on that. I had envisioned the ways our dinner might go wrong, but what if, just as in the ether of my imagination there exists our awful date, our good date exists as well? We meet behind the dining hall. He’s wearing a wool sweater, he’s relaxed, we talk easily. He does the considerate things, like holding the door as we enter the restaurant, but none of the things that might freak me out: He’s not wearing too much cologne, he doesn’t slip on ice in the parking lot, he doesn’t try using his own fork to feed me dessert. Even though it’s not a fancy restaurant, there are candles on the table. The light flickers. The food is good. Neither of us is too talkative or too quiet, and maybe a few times we even laugh, and it’s real laughter. I am thinking the whole night that what matters most is if we kiss at the end; I don’t realize that what really matters is that I have entered this world, that I’ll come to understand much earlier (much earlier, that is, in this imaginary life than in my real life) what dating is-not necessarily the biggest deal. Not obsession or nothing, love or disinterest. There is middle ground. In the winter, especially, sometimes it’s just nice to dress up a little and go out into the night with another person.

7. Spring-cleaning

JUNIOR SPRING

M artha was nominated to be senior prefect at a class meeting held during morning break in late May of our junior year, but I wasn’t there because I’d been summoned to Dean Fletcher’s office to discuss the fact that I was flunking math. I actually ran into Martha just after the first bell signaling the end of morning break had sounded-we were in the third-floor hall, she on her way to Art History and I on my way to Spanish-and she said, “What did Fletcher say?”

I shook my head. “I’ll tell you later.”

“Was it that bad?”

“No,” I said.

Martha looked at me.

“It was kind of bad,” I said.

“You’re supposed to meet with Aubrey tonight, right?” Aubrey was my math tutor and-humiliatingly, in light of the fact that we were juniors-a freshman.

I nodded.

“Make him explain polar equations to you again. He needs to be clearer.”

“Martha, it’s not Aubrey’s fault that I’m failing.”

The second bell, the bell that meant You should now be in your seat, with your notebook open and your pen poised, went off. Martha winced. “I want to talk about this more,” she said. “But try not to worry too much.”

I nodded.

“Seriously,” she said. “I know you can pass.”

I continued nodding.

“Say something.”

“Like what?”

She laughed. “Okay, that counts. I better go.” Then she was hurrying down the hall to Art History. When I pushed open the door to the Spanish classroom, the heaviness of the door and my own dread felt like the same thing.

But Martha hadn’t mentioned the nomination. And, in fact, I first heard about it from Nick Chafee, who said at lunch, “What do you think of your roommate?”

“In general?” I asked.

Nick looked at me like I’d said something extremely peculiar, which I didn’t think I had. “No,” he said. “For being nominated.”

“Nominated for what? You don’t mean Martha was nominated to be senior prefect?”

“No, she was.”

“Are you serious?”

“Dude,” he said. “Calm down.” This was something I hated being told, especially by a boy. My voice might rise half an octave, I thought of telling him, but there’s no need to take cover-I will not leap from my chair to embrace you, I will not even shriek with delight. Though, if ever I were going to shriek with delight, this would be the moment.

Because being senior prefect, even being nominated for it, was not a small thing. Each grade had two prefects, a boy and a girl. (The school had had to make it both-it was a rule that started the spring before my freshman year-because when each grade had only one prefect, it was always a boy.) In addition to running roll call in the morning, the senior prefects led the disciplinary committee, and after graduation their names were engraved on white marble panels that hung in the dining hall, and the letters were painted gold. To me, the panels were the best part; they were also, as it happened, what had intrigued my own parents when I’d shown them Ault’s dining hall the year before. Another bonus was that the senior prefects always got into Harvard. Two years earlier, when Driscoll Hopkins’s early application had been deferred, everyone had been shocked, but then she’d been accepted during regular admission.

Martha’s nomination shouldn’t have been a surprise-she was smart and dependable and nice to everyone, plus she’d served as a class representative to the disciplinary committee since the beginning of junior year-but, in fact, it was astonishing. Because the thing was, Martha wasn’t cool. She was exactly the kind of girl who got overlooked, not rewarded, by Ault. And being a prefect was Ault’s biggest reward, a stamp of approval that would set you up, it seemed, for the rest of your life. (Your name would be on the wall of the dining hall forever. In gold.) Partly, being senior prefect was so desirable because, as with class prefectships for the earlier grades, you could not seek it out. You weren’t allowed to simply run for election. Instead, you had to be nominated, but it would be tacky and transparent to have your close friends nominate you, so basically that meant you had to wait for a nomination to fall from the sky, and then to be seconded. And once you got nominated, you never gave a speech or put up posters. In fact, the word campaigning was used as an accusation, not unlike ass-kissing. This desperate aversion to seeming like you wanted anything, or worse, to going after it, stayed with me for years after I left Ault. When I graduated from college, my father told me he was concerned that I didn’t express enough enthusiasm in job interviews, and the comment shocked me. Enthusiasm was a thing you were supposed to show? But wasn’t it a little disgusting, didn’t it seem the same as greed and neediness? Of course you wanted the job, I thought, and the interviewer should know that because why else would you have shown up in his office?

“Who are the other nominees?” I asked Nick.

“Aspeth,” he said. “And Gillian, of course.”