THE RATLIFFE HOUSE – Chapter Eleven
THE RATLIFFE HOUSE – Chapter Eleven
I managed to make it to class just before Dr. Mosely arrived. The room was small, and the class was smaller— only twenty students. I took the last empty desk in the corner behind the blonde girl from yesterday, who gave me an annoyed look before continuing to talk to the dark-haired skinny girl beside her. Both were stylishly dressed and had British accents. In front of them was a good-looking guy with nice hair and tan skin in a pink polo shirt with a popped collar. I watched him join in the girls’ conversation, grateful to hear an American voice. He noticed me and smiled. I smiled back, but looked away as soon as the blonde girl turned to follow his gaze. No sense in making any more enemies today.
After class, I rushed over to the bookstore to grab my texts. The line was long, with only one cashier working the register. I tapped my foot, glanced at my watch, and added up the minutes. Stuck again. I’d have to spend more of my dough on another blasé meal at the cafeteria today; there was no way I could make it to the Ratliffe House for lunch and back for tutorials in time. I sighed, shifted my weight, and stared at the backs of the students in front of me. For a moment, the sight of a dark-haired man ahead in line made me hold my breath, until I remembered that Mr. Ratliffe already had his books, so it couldn’t be him. After that, I relaxed and let my mind wander, until it settled on the cute American guy from class. I smiled to myself. Maybe I’ll see him this afternoon.
After another long line at the dining hall just to get a cup of beef soup and a butter roll, I had all of five minutes to wolf down my meal before running off to tutorials, my book-laden backpack cutting into my shoulders. I got lost again—this place was like a maze! —and showed up a few minutes late. But hey, at least I was prepared, right?
My partner and the tutor were already there, in deep discussion. The other student wore a colorful headscarf and spoke with a light accent. Though she wore long sleeves and pants, her exposed face and hands were a creamy almond color, and she seemed friendly. I found out she was from Indonesia and her name was Annisa. Our tutor was Ms. Price, a middle-aged English woman with a soft voice and wiry black hair. Together we had a pretty amazing discussion doing a close reading of some Shelley and Byron. After Ms. Price dismissed us, I chatted with Annisa on the walk outside.
“Hey, do you want to go grab some coffee or tea?” I asked.
“Sorry,” she said apologetically. “I actually have a job here at the uni. Maybe another time?”
We went our separate ways, and without anywhere else to go, I began the long walk back to the Ratliffe House. It was late afternoon, and the large trees on the university grounds helped shelter my eyes from the intense sunlight. I wound my way through town—a right at the grocery, not a left, I noted—down the lane and up the steps to the cottage door. A twist of the key, a turn down the hall, and I was safe in my room, where I dumped my stash of books on the bed and settled in with the Romantic poets for company.
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By the next week I started to form a routine. Get up, grab some breakfast, avoid Mr. Ratliffe. Come back to the house, have a little lunch, and return to Ruxbury for tutorials or find a place to study at the house. Ideal study spots proved to be a tricky deal. I tried the sunroom first, but the light was really intense and the air could get kind of stuffy between the sun and the heat from the kitchen. Plus, the room was kind of noisy. Mrs. Scott, Mrs. Ashby, and Mrs. Khumari were always circulating through, and Mr. Ratliffe would occasionally wander in to get more tea or ask Mrs. Scott about something. I liked talking to the ladies, but whenever they saw me they kept asking if I wanted something to eat or drink. After a few sleepless nights jacked up on more caffeine than my first all-nighter freshman year, I learned to turn down the offers of extra tea.
I also tried the couches in the drawing room for a study spot. They were pretty comfy, but then Mr. Ratliffe would get calls on his Blackberry and start pacing around his office next door. Whenever he would walk by the open doorway and see me sprawled out on the couch he’d immediately turn and close the door behind him. I got the feeling that he thought I was eavesdropping on his work stuff so I decided to quit that room too.
The garden was too humid. The university library was too far away. Finally, I just settled for my room, reading on my bed, with the door cracked or closed.
My routine got to be a little lonely though. For tutorials I was only ever partnered with Annisa, who always had to work afterward, or Olivia, her friend Allegra, and Kevin. Olivia was the snooty blonde who sat in front of me at lecture, and Allegra and Kevin were clearly her permanent satellites. Whenever Olivia was around, the other two pretty much ignored me. Kevin seemed nicer than the girls, and would sometimes make a little small talk with me, but he kind of had that California rich-boy vibe.
If not for the ladies at Ratliffe House, I probably would have given up staying in England altogether. They were always so nice to me, asking how my day was and if I needed anything. Which made it so weird that they never protested the way Mr. Ratliffe acted. Meals were the worst. Dinner every evening, served at exactly 6:30, had become Debate Night with Adam Ratliffe.
MONDAY MONDAY MONDAY! IT’S THE TRIED-AND-TRUE MISOGYNIST ADAM RATLIFFE VERSUS FEMINISM AND THE HISTORY OF WOMEN’S RIGHTS! TONIGHT, ON PAY-PER-VIEW! I could practically hear the ring of the bell at Madison Square Garden.
“Miss Lucy, what is your opinion on the gender pay gap?”
“Miss Lucy, do you think there is a lack of female representation in government?”
“Miss Lucy, in your opinion, are the majority of product advertisements sexist?”
Every. Single. Night.
Between that and all his rules, I started to get pretty fed-up. The questions always felt so personal, and I didn’t think he really wanted to hear my opinion so much as to hear himself talk. He’d bring up some statistic he’d read, I’d try to argue against it, he would poke some holes in my argument, and dinner would be over—him satisfied, and me perturbed.
One day, I was having a snack in the kitchen while Mrs. Scott was making her afternoon tea. Mr. Ratliffe wandered in and, after greeting us both, began to pour himself a mug of hot water.
“How was your morning, Mr. Adam?” Mrs. Scott inquired.
“Oh, it was lovely. Today we were treated to a recording of The Vagina Monologues.” He paused, and stirred his tea with a spoon. “Do you know, Mrs. Scott, I never realized vaginas had so much to say.”
Mrs. Scott grinned and made an arch reply. “I suppose they do if they have a lot of experience.”
The joke hit me like a rogue chipotle pepper hidden in a burrito. In a split-second I was choking back a laugh so hard I started coughing up cookie crumbs. Mr. Ratliffe and Mrs. Scott glanced at me quizzically.
“Just went down the wrong pipe,” I sputtered, grabbing my water cup. “I’m fine.”
Reassured that I wasn’t dying, Mr. Ratliffe continued while I cleaned up my crumbs.
“Oh, there were certainly a lot of experiences,” he said, “except all the ones I heard seemed to be rather tragic. Or emotional. Or … messy. For instance, it seems some women enjoy staring at their menstrual flow in the toilet and fancying it looks like art.”
“Adam!” Mrs. Scott exclaimed.
“I’m being perfectly serious. My favorite was the one where a woman said ‘my short skirt has nothing to do with you.’ ‘You’, evidently, being a man.”
“Then what does it have to do with?”
“With feeling cold autumn air on her thighs. Which is odd, because every woman I know is always going on about how she hates feeling cold. But at any rate, her short skirt is certainly not about attracting a man.”
“That’s rubbish.”
Mr. Ratliffe took a sip of his tea. “Do you know, I wonder how women would feel watching a performance called The Penis Monologues. I think I could contribute something to the script.”
“And what would that be?” asked Mrs. Scott.
“I would write a monologue called, ‘My Fat Wallet Has Nothing To Do With You.’ And it would tell women that even though they might expect me to pay for their dinner or their children or their lifestyle, it’s actually incredibly hurtful and sexist. After all, my fat wallet is all about me.”
“Really, Adam,” Mrs. Scott chided.
“What?” he asked. “I think it’s very reasonable. But perhaps we should ask Miss Lucy’s opinion. Where did she go?”
I heard his voice in the kitchen, but I was already halfway in my room and shutting the door behind me.
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