STUPID AND RICH CLEVER POOR
What can you say about a twenty-five-year-old girl who
died?
You can say that she was beautiful and
intelligent. She
loved Mozart and Bach and the Beatles. And tne. Once, when
she told me that, I asked her who came first. She answered,
smiling, ''Like in the ABC.' I smiled too. But now I wonder.
Was she talking about my first name? If she was, I came last,
behaid Mozart. Or did she mean my last name? ff she did,
I came between Bach and the Beatles. But I still didn't come
first. That worries me terribly now. You see, I always had
to be Number One. Family pride, you see.
In the autumn of my last year at Harvard university, I studied
a lot in the Radcliffe library.
The library was quiet, nobody knew me there, and they
had the books that I needed for my studies. The day before
an examination I went over to the library desk to ask for a
book. Two girls were working there. One was tall and
sporty. The other was quiet and wore glasses. I chose her,
and asked for my book.
She gave me an unfriendly look. 'Don't you have a library
at Harvard?' she asked.
'Radcliffe let us use their library,' I answered.
'Yes, Preppie, they do - but is it fair? Harvard has five
million books. We have a few thousand.' Oh dear, I thought. A clever Radcliffe girl. I can usually
make girls like her feel very small. But I needed that damn
book, so I had to be polite.
'Listen, I need that damn book.'
'Don't speak like that to a lady, Preppie.'
'Why are you so sure that I went to prep school?'
She took off her glasses. 'You look stupid and rich,' she
said.
'You're wrong,' I said. 'I'm actually clever and poor.'
'Oh no, Preppie,' she said. 'I'm clever and poor.'
She was looking straight at me. All right, she had pretty
brown eyes; and OK, perhaps I looked rich. But I don't let
anyone call me stupid.
'What makes you so clever?' I asked.
'I'm not going to go for coffee with you,' she said.
'Listen - I'm not going to ask you!'
'That', she said, 'is what makes you stupid.'
Let me explain why I took her for coffee. I got the book
that I wanted, didn't I? And she couldn't leave the library
until closing time. So I was able to study the book for a good
long time. I got an A in my exam the next day.
I gave the girl's legs an A too, when she came out from
behind the library desk. We went to a coffee shop and I
ordered coffee for both of us.
'I'm Jennifer Cavilleri,' she said. 'I'm American, but my
family came from Italy. I'm studying music'
'My name is Oliver,' I said.
'Is that your first or your last name?' she asked
'I'm not going to go for coffee with you,' she said
'First. My other name is Barrett.'
'Oh,' she said. 'Like Elizabeth Barrett the writer?'
'Yes,' I said. 'No relation.'
I was pleased that she hadn't said, 'Barrett, like Barrett
Hall?' That Barrett is a relation of mine. Barrett Hall is a
large, unlovely building at Harvard University. My greatgrandfather
gave it to Harvard long ago, and I am deeply
ashamed of it.
She was silent. She sat there, half-smiling at me. I looked
at her notebooks.
'Sixteenth-century music?' I said. 'That sounds difficult.'
'It's too difficult for you, Preppie,' she said coldly.
Why was I letting her talk to me like this? Didn't she readthe university magazine? Didn't she know who I was?
'Hey, don't you know who I am?'
'Yes,' she answered. 'You're the man who owns Barrett
Hall.'
She didn't know who I was.
'I don't own Barrett Hall,' I argued. 'My great-grandfather
gave it to Harvard, that's all.'
'So that's why his not-so-great grandson could get into
Harvard so easily!'
I was angry now. 'Jenny, if I'm no good, why did you want
me to invite you for coffee?'
She looked straight into my eyes and smiled.
'I like your body,' she said.
Every big winner has to be a good loser too. Every good
Harvard man knows that. But it's better if you can win. And
so, as I walked with Jenny to her dormitory, I made my
winning move.
'Listen, Friday night is the Dartmouth hockey match.'
'So?'
'So I'd like you to come.'
These Radcliffe girls, they really care about sport. 'And
why', she asked, 'should I come to a stupid ice-hockey
match?'
'Because I'm playing,' I answered.
There was a moment's silence. I think I heard snow
falling.
'For which team?' she said. By the second quarter of the game on Friday night, we were
winning 0 — 0. That is, Davey Johnson and I were getting
ready to score a goal. The crowd were screaming for blood
- or a goal. I always feel that it's my job to give them both
these things. I didn't look up at Jenny once, but I hoped she
was watching me.
I got the puck and started off across the ice. Davey
Johnson was there on my left, but I didn't pass the puck to
him. I wanted to score this goal myself. But before I could
shoot, two big Dartmouth men were after me. In a moment
we were hitting the puck and each other as hard as we could. 'You!' said a voice suddenly. 'Two minutes in the penalty
box.'
I looked up. He was talking to me. 'What did I do?' I asked.
'Don't argue.' He called to the officials' desk: 'Number
seven, two minutes in the penalty box, for fighting.'
Angrily I climbed into the penalty box.
'Why are you sitting here when all your friends are
playing?'
The voice was Jenny's. I didn't answer. 'Come on,
Harvard, get that puck!' I shouted.
'What did you do wrong?' Jenny asked.
T tried too hard.' Out there on the ice Harvard were
playing with only five men.
'Is that something to be ashamed of?'
'Jenny, please. I'm thinking.'
'What about?'
'About those two Dartmouth men. When I get back onto
the ice, I'll break them into little pieces.'
'Do you always fight when you play hockey?'
'I'll fight you, Jenny, if you don't keep quiet.'
'I'm leaving. Goodbye.'
I looked round, but she had gone. Just then the bell rang.
My two-minute penalty had finished. I jumped onto the ice
again.
'Good old Barrett!' shouted the crowd. Jenny will hear
them shouting for me, I thought. But where was she? Had
she left?
As I went for the puck, I looked up into the crowd. Jenny
'Do you always fight when you play hockey?' asked Jenny.
was standing there. I took the puck and went towards the
goal line. Two Dartmouth players were coming straight at
me.
'Go, Oliver, go! Knock their heads off!'
That was Jenny's voice above the crowd. It was crazily,
beautifully violent. I pushed past one Dartmouth man. I
knocked hard into the other. Then I passed the puck to
Davey Johnson, and he banged it into the Dartmouth goal.
The crowd went wild.
In a moment we were all shouting and kissing and banging
each other on the back. The crowd were screaming with
'Go, Oliver, go! Knock their heads off!'
excitement. After that, we murdered Dartmouth - seven
goals to zero.
After the match I lay in the hot bath and thought with pride
about the game. I'd scored one goal, and helped to score
another. Now the water felt wonderful on my tired body.
Ahhhh!
Suddenly I remembered Jenny. Was she still waiting
outside? I hoped so! I jumped out of that bath and dressed
as fast as I could.
Outside, the cold winter air hit me. I looked round for
Jenny. Had she walked back to her dormitory alone?
Suddenly I saw her.
'Hey, Preppie, it's cold out here.'
I was really pleased to see her, and gave her a quick kiss.
'Did I say you could kiss me?' she said.
'Sorry. I was just excited.'
'I wasn't.'
It was dark and quiet, out there in the cold. I kissed her
again, more slowly. When we reached her dormitory, I did
not kiss her goodnight.
'Listen, Jenny, perhaps I won't telephone you for a few
months.'
She was silent for a moment. 'Why?' she asked at last.
'But perhaps I'll telephone you as soon as I get back to my
dorm.' I turned and began to walk away.
'Damn Preppie!' I heard her say. I turned again. From
twenty feet away I scored another goal 'You see, Jenny, that's the kind of thing you say. And
when other people do it to you, you don't like it.'
I wished I could see the look on her face. But I couldn't
look back. My pride wouldn't let me. v
When I returned to my dorm, Ray Stratton was there. He and
I slept in the same room. Ray was playing cards with some
of his football-playing friends.
'Hullo, Ollie,' said Ray. 'How many goals did you score?'
'I scored one, and I made one,' I answered.
'With Cavilleri?'
'That's none of your business!' I replied quickly.
'Who's Cavilleri?' asked one of the footballers.
'Jenny Cavilleri. Studies music. Plays the piano with the
Music Group.'
'What does she play with Barrett?' Everyone laughed.
'Get lost!' I said as I entered my room.
There I took off my shoes, lay back on my bed and
telephoned Jenny's dormitory.
'Hey, Jen . . .' I said softly.
'Yes?'
'I think I'm in love with you.'
She was silent for a few moments. Then she answered,
very softly: 'Oliver, you're crazy.'
I wasn't unhappy. Or surprised.
story retold by sky
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