Saving Elijah

kidding? I've been sleeping with my boyfriend for almost two years." She hesitated, looked from face to face-—mine, Sally Weiner's, Julie's. "So ... are you?"
    Julie waited just the right amount of time. "Well, I really don't remember."
    Nevertheless, she'd spent the first month of college meeting the challenge. She'd been through three boys already, two one-night stands, and an international relations major named Ralph Woo. He never said a word, had a triangular head that reminded me of Fred Flintstone's, and she inexplicably cried for a few weeks when he stopped calling her.
    "What in the world would that guy want with me?" I whispered now.
    "He is a major hunk," she said. "But have you looked in the mirror lately?"
    I blushed. In the last few years I'd undergone something of a transformation, physical and emotional. Trench mouth having cut my speed supply off at sixteen, I'd gained some of the weight back—the reason, Charlotte kept telling me, I didn't have the boyfriends she'd had when she was the Jewish belle of Atlanta. "I'm only telling you this for your own good." Right, Charlotte.
    Secretly, of course, I longed for the affirmation I thought a boyfriend would bring, while outwardly I began to court Charlotte's Wrath. I ate everything in sight, cultivated a wickedly foul mouth, wore the most ragged, filthy jeans I could find, cut my high school classes, cultivated a nihilist philosophy, and called myself a hippie. My grades plummeted. When Charlotte screamed at me, I said things like, "What's the difference? We all die in the end," or "You don't give a shit about my grades, all you care about is Dan." She decided to take me to a shrink when I told her I didn't even want a boyfriend because I was a lesbian.
    Amazing my mother could find one in Nassau County she hadn't yet seen herself, let alone one the caliber of Paula Lowe. Dr. Lowe was patient through the first two months, when I refused to talk. When I finally did, she gradually helped me detach from my mother's craziness and neediness so I could stop playing Charlotte's Game—a strategy that worked well enough to diminish the frequency of our scenes. I was left with a great love for my therapist, the knowledge of what I wanted to do with my life, and the certainty that if I ever had kids, I'd be calm, easy, and giving, the perfect mother, to make up for mine.
    Didn't matter. I had the mind-set of the fat girl no one could ever want.
    "He's looking at you right now!" My best friend was daring me.
    I spent the rest of class trying to think of a clever opening line. I was ready to forget it, but after class, he approached us, flashed his smile, and introduced himself, saying he was a senior. He did look older, twenty-one at least, to my eighteen.
    "You'd be perfect to play Gretchen," he said. "I'm in the Playmakers."
    "I've heard of you. I mean, them." The Merry Playmakers were one of the drama groups on campus. I'd seen posters tacked on bulletin boards around campus for their production of Oedipus Rex, scheduled for December. "Who's Gretchen?"
    "A character in Goethe's Faust. Ever done any acting?"
    "Not really." I was a psych major, and knew next to nothing about Goethe. I hoped I wouldn't have to make a response that branded me a total illiterate.
    "Gretchen is the beautiful young woman Faust falls in love with. Seduces. Next semester we're doing Faust, but it's going to be my own version."
    I was enthralled. Not only had he implied that he thought I was beautiful, he was writing a play that was actually going to be performed. I'd done some writing myself in high school—some self-flagellating poetry, a few pained stories—nothing I'd have ever shown to anyone.
    We'd come to the front steps of the building, where Seth's magnificent black poodle was patiently waiting. I'd noticed the dog on the way in. Seth bent down to pet it. "Hey, Meph."
    "Meph?"
    "Mephistopheles." He tossed his head of glossy black hair that reached midway down his back—his crowning glory. He laughed. "A poodle named Mephistopheles? Don't you think it's funny?"
    Julie laughed, too eagerly. "Definitely. Beelzebub would be funny, too." We'd been ignoring her, but I was too intent on him to pull her into our conversation.
    Seth eyed her as if she were an insect. Then he patted the puff of orange frizz on her head. "What's this called?" He grinned. "Hair?"
    Julie stared at him for a moment, said, "See you later, Dinah," and walked away.
    "You insulted her," I said.
    He reached out