Love Story by Erich Segal

right, Mr.
Barrett?’

    ‘Yes, sir, Dean Thompson.’
    It had not been easy to say the first
time. It was no easier repeating it.
    ‘I’ll need a scholarship for next
year, sir.’
    ‘Really?’
    ‘That’s why I’m here, sir. You
are in charge of Financial Aid, aren’t you, Dean Thompson?’
    ‘Yes, but it’s rather curious.
Your father - ‘
    ‘He’s no longer involved, sir.’
    ‘I beg your pardon?’ Dean
Thompson took off his glasses and began to polish them with his tie.
    ‘He and I have had a sort of
disagreement.’
    The Dean put his glasses back on, and
looked at me with that kind of expressionless expression you have to
be a dean to master.
    ‘This is very unfortunate, Mr.
Barrett,’ he said. For whom? I wanted to say. This guy was
beginning to piss me off.
    ‘Yes, sir,’ I said. ‘Very
unfortunate. But that’s why I’ve come to you, sir. I’m getting
married next month. We’ll both be working over the summer. Then
Jenny - that’s my wife - will be teaching in a private school.
That’s a living, but it’s still not tuition. Your tuition is
pretty steep, Dean Thompson.’
    ‘Uh - yes,’ he replied. But
that’s all. Didn’t this guy get the drift of my conversation? Why
in hell did he think I was there, anyway?
    ‘Dean Thompson, I would like a
scholarship.’ I said it straight out. A third time. ‘I have
absolutely zilch in the bank, and I’m already accepted.’
    ‘Ah, yes,’ said Mr. Thompson,
hitting upon the technicality. ‘The final date for financial - aid
applications is long overdue.’
    What would satisfy this bastard? The
gory details, maybe? Was it scandal he wanted? What?
    ‘Dean Thompson, when I applied I
didn’t know this would come up.’
    ‘That’s quite right, Mr. Barrett,
and I must tell you that I really don’t think this office should
enter into a family quarrel. A rather distressing one, at that.’
    ‘Okay, Dean,’ I said, standing
up. ‘I can see what you’re driving at. But I’m still not gonna
kiss my father’s ass so you can get a Barrett Hall for the Law
School.’
    As I turned to leave, I heard Dean
Thompson mutter,
    ‘That’s unfair.’
    I couldn’t have agreed more.

11
    Jennifer was awarded her degree on Wednesday. All sorts of relatives
from Cranston, Fall River - and even an aunt from Cleveland - flocked
to Cambridge to attend the ceremony. By prior arrangement, I was not
introduced as her fiancé, and Jenny wore no ring: this so that none
would be offended (too soon) about missing our wedding.

    ‘Aunt Clara, this is my boyfriend
Oliver,’ Jenny would say, always adding, ‘He isn’t a college
graduate.’

    There was plenty of rib poking,
whispering and even overt speculation, but the relatives could pry no
specific information from either of us - or from Phil, who I guess
was happy to avoid a discussion of love among the atheists.
    On Thursday, I became Jenny’s
academic equal, receiving my degree from Harvard - like her own,
magna cum laude. Moreover, I was Class Marshal, and in this capacity
got to lead the graduating seniors to their seats. This meant walking
ahead of even the summas, the super-superbrains. I was almost moved
to tell these types that my presence as their leader decisively
proved my theory that an hour in Dillon Field House is worth two in
Widener Library. But I refrained. Let the joy be universal.
    I have no idea whether Oliver Barrett
III was present.
    More than seventeen thousand people
jam into Harvard Yard on Commencement morning, and I certainly was
not scanning the rows with binoculars. Obviously, I had used my
allotted parent tickets for Phil and Jenny. Of course, as an alumnus,
Old Stonyface could enter and sit with the Class of ‘26. But then
why should he want to? I mean, - weren’t the banks open?
    The wedding was that Sunday. Our
reason for excluding Jenny’s relatives was out of genuine concern
that our omission of the Father, Son and Holy Ghost would make the
occasion far too trying for