Kathy isn't enjoying her promotion to "education features"
writer at the pretentious regional magazine where her
career is currently stalling. Her 11-year relationship with
her college sweetheart has ended and rather than re-enter
the dating scene, Kathy plans to avoid dating altogether.
While denial is a powerful weapon, Kathy can't say no when
her ex-boyfriend Tim, now an online newsmagazine
journalist, calls with a juicy lead on a scandalous story
and asks for her help. Even at 32, Kathy still looks quite
young for her age, so Tim sends her undercover as a
freshman at a nearby private college.
Escaping from her life and having a second chance at being
a freshman doesn't seem so bad at first. She's armed with
some investigative advice, a plastic milk crate of
belongings and a synthetic fiber comforter for her dorm
room twin bed. While Kathy diligently spends seven weeks
befriending the girls and guys on her dorm floor, she's
searching for any clues to confirm the rumors of a
prostitution ring on campus that Tim's source has revealed.
College life has changed quite a bit even in the 10 years
since Kathy graduated, but the depressed roommate, bad
cafeteria food, boring classes and sexy Resident Advisor
seem to be staples of the freshman year experience. As her
deadline looms, Kathy is desperate to sniff out her story,
although the lies she has told and what she eventually
uncovers instead may have serious consequences.
Carol Snow dares to explore some "what ifs" of
college life in a novel full of zany adventures, reflecting
the wisdom of an adult revisiting the past and trying not
to make the same mistakes. The author's subtle digs at
ethics in journalism are right on target for her
character's development, but this story has plenty of
surprises. BEEN THERE, DONE THAT is insightful and fun,
with a hint of mystery and romance.
Plenty of 30-something women would be thrilled to look
like a teenager. But journalist Kathy Hopkins wishes she
could be taken a little more seriously - or, at the very
least, order a glass of wine without producing ID. Now her
youthful appearance is forcing her into an undercover
assignment she could do without: posing as a freshman at a
small liberal arts college where, rumor has it, a secret
prostitution ring is flourishing.
It could mean a career-making exposé. But right now,
pretending to be 18 means dealing with a Clay Aiken-
obsessed roommate, late-night parties that test her aging
body - and most embarrassing of all, a massive crush on a
guy who's just turned legal. Suddenly, Kathy's got the
chance to do it all over again, hopefully better this
time. Fortunately she's a quick learner.
Excerpt
Chapter Thirteen
Clay Aiken got to the room before I did. He was
everywhere: on the walls, on the dresser, on the ceiling
over Tiffany’s pink bed. There were pictures cut from
newspapers, magazine covers, and posters purchased from God-
knows-where. Clay, Clay, Clay: there was no escaping
him. He made me long for the unicorns and rainbows I’d
imagined Tiffany would favor. I dropped my suitcase and
laundry bag, stuffed with linens, on the gray industrial
carpet, sat on my bare mattress, and gawked at the room.
On the far wall, built-in brown laminate desks spanned the
length of the aluminum-rimmed windows. Tiffany had claimed
the desk near her window: it held an 8X10 framed
photograph of a collie and a closed laptop computer. On
the opposite wall were our built-in bureaus, also of brown
laminate. The beds, which ran along either side wall, were
the only pieces not bolted-down – not that there was any
place else to put them.
Richard refused to spring for a new wardrobe, so I brought
along a bunch of jeans and T-shirts, some of which I’d
owned since my (real) college days. I also packed my down
pillow and 500 thread count sheets because I didn’t think
I’d be able to sleep without them. I was tucking the too-
big sheets around my lumpy twin mattress when I heard a
voice.
“You settling in okay?” I jumped. I’d forgotten the door
was open. Peering in was a beautiful boy with sparkling
teeth and greenish gold eyes. He sported the kind of tan
that you abandon forever once you join the world of nine-to-
five. His wavy brown hair, tinged with blond, was about an
inch too long for Wall Street. His gray T-shirt and black
gym shorts didn’t do much to cover a lean, muscled body.
He left Clay Aiken in the dust.
“I’m fine,” I said. “Just trying to adjust.”
He scanned the walls. “You like that guy? What’s his
name?”
“Clay.” I scrunched up my face. “I have nothing against
him. He has a very nice voice. I just never imagined
myself living with him.”
He laughed. “Not an American Idol fan, huh? I’m
Jeremy Dunbar. The Resident Assistant. I’m in room 322 if
you need anything.”
When I was in college, all the boys were named Jeff or John
or Steve: nothing cute like Jeremy. Then again, I didn’t
have to put up with girls named Tiffany, so times weren’t
all bad.
She wasn’t anything like I’d pictured. No poofy blond hair
or fuzzy sweaters. She giggled, sure, but in a breathy,
nervous way – not from an irrepressibly bubbly nature. She
held her hands together as if hoping to build strength and
smiled too wide with a naked need for acceptance. Her
loose clothes were meant to hide a body that she probably
considered obese but that, in reality, was only ten or
fifteen pounds too heavy. She was the kind of girl who
suffered the ironic self-consciousness of those who are
rarely noticed. Her eyes were small and of an
indiscriminate color. A plain elastic pulled her medium
brown hair back from a round, pinkish face. Only her mouth
was beautiful, full and red.
“Tiffany?” I asked, just to be sure. She had been
misnamed. She would have had better luck trying to live up
a plain, strong name: Joan, maybe, or Ruth.
She nodded. “I hope it’s okay that I took a bed. I was
going to wait, didn’t want to be all, you know, grabby –
not that the side I took is any better, I don’t think --
but my mother said that was silly and you wouldn’t care and
we should just get settled. Mothers!” She smiled.
I rolled my eyes. “Tell me about it.” Too late I had
realized I was the only freshman moving in without
assistance. Where was my father, hauling crates? Where
was my mother, fighting back tears and admonishing me not
to stay up too late? Fortunately, my hallmates seemed too
intent on their own boxes, posters and looming independence
to sniff out imposters. I hoped Tiffany would assume my
parents had already come and gone.
She motioned to her pink bed. “If you want, we can
change.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I said. Both beds were pushed
against scratched, yellowed walls. Apparently, the paint
crews had never made it this far. Of course, paint
wouldn’t have added much thickness, which I already
realized was desperately lacking. In the room next door, I
could hear parents offering to take their daughter to a
nice restaurant. “Don’t take this the wrong way,” the girl
replied. “But you always tell me to be honest. And I
just, like, really want you to leave.”
“Okay, then, honey.” Her mother was trying to sound
upbeat, but I could hear her open a zipper: probably
getting a tissue out of her purse to surreptitiously wipe
away tiny tears. I felt like knocking on the door and
offering to go in the daughter’s place. I could help
buffer the parents’ loneliness while sparing myself from
whatever institutional atrocity the cafeteria was planning
to serve. That’s my idea of making good while doing good.
A skinny girl, her arms full of neon yellow flyers, knocked
on our open door. She had long blond hair and a nose that
turned up just a notch beyond cute. She wore one of those
tiny tank tops with straps that can’t possibly accommodate
a bra, assuming a person wore a bra, which, apparently, she
did not. She looked like a Tiffany.
“I’m Amber,” she chirped. (I’d been close.) “Your R.A.”
“I thought Jeremy was our R.A.” As the very
personification of a lie, I could only assume those around
me were similarly disposed.
“You get both of us! Lucky you!” She thrust a yellow
sheet in our direction. I stepped forward and took
it. “This is the orientation week schedule. See you both
at dinner!”
© 2003-2024 off-the-edge.net
all rights reserved Privacy Policy