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What was up with that? Why is the professor flirting with me? That is so inappropriate.
Integrative Communications is the only class I have that’s not in room 103. IC is in room 207, and I’m looking forward to the change of scenery.
I walk around the podium, sit myself down in the front row and arrange a new area in my binder. The class slowly fills up behind me. A few minutes later, a woman with frizzy red hair and a big smile walks in clapping her hands.
“Hello, everyone, hello,” she says as people bustle to their seats. She cups her ear with her hand. “Sorry? I didn’t hear you.” No one speaks. “That’s your cue to say hello back.”
“Hello,” we mumble.
“Shy ones, are you? This is no place for shyness! One of the most vital aspects to speaking in public is confidence. Let me hear that confidence!”
“Hello!” we say. My hello is especially loud.
“Excellent! I can see I am going to have a wonderful time with you!” She smiles down at me and I smile back.
“My name is Cindy Swiley,” she says, and presses a button on her laptop. The title, Professor Cindy Swiley, flashes in red across the screen. “But you can all call me Cindy.” Professor and Swiley fade away, leaving a gradually expanding Cindy. “I’ll be teaching you Integrative Communications for the next six weeks.” New slide appears. “In this class, you will learn how to present. How to handle questions. How to speak without notes. You will be giving two presentations, one halfway through the class and one as your final exam. Your midterm will be videotaped, and then reviewed and critiqued by me. But I’m sure you’ll all do fantastic!”
I can’t wait! At twenty past four the bell rings. I pile my belongings together, then return to the computer terminal to check my e-mail.
Dear Ms. Roth,
Congratulations! You have been accepted to the Carry the Torch Committee. Please be in room 302 on the third floor of the Katz building on Friday at 9:00 a.m. for an informational briefing.
Yes! I would pat myself on the back, but I still haven’t purchased more of those antibacterial wipes.
4:30 p.m.
kimmy buys her books
I am wasting my day in a bookstore line. And it’s not even a fun bookstore. Where are the cappuccinos, the magazines, the scones?
The LWBS bookstore is one long, windowless room, filled with textbooks, course-packs, and nebbish royal-blue sweatshirts that say LWBS in block red letters. As if I’d ever buy one. Maybe a baby tee, but that’s as much school spirit as I’ve got.
There are seven people ahead of me. To add insult to injury, the line next to me is moving exponentially faster. Look at me, throwing around words like exponentially. What do I think I am, an MBA student?
This place is busier than a gym at six o’clock. Not that I have a choice. I have cases to read by tomorrow. My heart pounds at the thought of the never-ending treadmill of homework. My fingers are about to break off from lugging these hundred-pound books. I’m holding one course-pack per class, plus an extra one for Strategy. Even IC has one, which I don’t understand. Why do I need photocopied case studies to help me learn to speak in public? I’m also lugging to the cash register the must-have B-school eighty-five-dollar calculator and seven textbooks. SEVEN. All hardcover. All in the region of a hundred dollars. Each. And they don’t even sell used copies so I can’t skimp on last year’s editions. What bookstore doesn’t sell used copies? What a waste. I won’t even be able to resell them next semester.
True, my dad paid my tuition, but I’m using the money I’ve saved up over the last few years of working to pay for my books and living expenses. And my dad isn’t thrilled about his contribution. He wrote the check with a heavy hand and asked me repeatedly if I was sure this was what I wanted.
I told him yes, even though I have no idea.
I drop the books onto the floor to alleviate the cramp in my fingers and scan the room for Russ. Where is he? I hoped he’d be buying his books now, too. Not that I want to see him. I’m a tiny bit mortified that I’ve been throwing myself at him all week and he already has a girlfriend. He must think I’m a freak. Obviously a guy as gorgeous as him has a girlfriend.
I avoided making eye contact with him for the remainder of the movie. In the car home, I decided that dodging the subject made me look like I cared, and obviously that wasn’t going to help my cause. So I acted like I loved Sharon. Hurray for Sharon. Maybe Sharon and I can be best buds. We’ll bake cookies and braid each other’s hair. “So when do we get to meet Sharon?” I asked from the front seat of Jamie’s ten-year-old Hyundai Excel, putting on my best girly voice, all high-pitched and full of fake cheer.
“I don’t know,” Russ answered. “She lives in Toronto.”
Toronto? Does it count if they’re not in the same country?
I avoided him all day. I walked straight into Strategy and sat right in the front. Big mistake, since Professor Martin is psycho. Thinks he’s still in Vietnam. I tried the front row again for Economics and IC. Barely saw Russ until he and Nick passed me on the way out and Nick asked me if I wanted to join them for a four-twenty. Decided to play it cool and say no. And I have no idea what a four-twenty is.
There he is. My mouth goes instantly dry as if a vacuum has sucked out its moisture. He and Nick are standing by the door. Nick stumbles, and the two of them laugh. Then they scan the bookstore and shake their heads in what I assume is dismay at the jungle in here.
Russ spots me and I freeze. He smiles and twirls his index finger near his temple, which I read as his this-line-is-crazy gesture.
I nod. “I know,” I mouth. I hold up two fingers and then point at my watch. I’m trying to tell him I’ve been here for two hours.
He shakes his head again. Then he points to his eyes and then at my books on the floor.
Translation (I think): Can I look at your books tonight?
My mouth goes dry again. I’m glad we’re not face-to-face because I don’t think I can talk properly. He wants to hang out with me tonight. To do reading. Together.
Maybe he just doesn’t want to wait in line.
Or maybe (it’s possible) he’s looking for an excuse to hang out with me.
I nod.
He says something to Nick that I can’t read, winks at me, and then takes off.
There’s suddenly a huge gap between my massive feet and the person in front of me in line. I pick up my five-hundred-pound pile, then drop it a foot up.
Sigh. How come the good ones are always taken? Russ is so cute. So perfect. I have the worst luck.
The person in front of me is at the cash register. I push my books forward with my foot.
First Wayne leaves me for someone else, and now the guy I want is taken.
The skinny purple-haired undergrad at the register motions to me. I’m up. I pick up my stuff in two shifts. How am I going to carry these back to the dorm? A boyfriend would carry them for me.
“That’ll be eight hundred, forty-seven dollars, and twenty-two cents.”
Good thing I didn’t buy that baby tee.
Tuesday, September 16, 5:35 p.m.
russ goes to war
Dribble. Dribble. Big breath. I shoot, I…
Miss. Oh, man.
“You suck, Russ,” Nick says.
“Shit.” I jog toward the basket.
“You see that net, up there?” he says, pointing. “The ball is supposed to go through it. Through.”
“Yeah, thanks.”
“Had enough for today?”
I nod. Don’t think I can speak. “I’m too old for this.”
“Gimme a break. You just need some practice, dude.”
I empty a bottle of water down my throat and follow Nick outside the gym. The fall air attacks the sweat on my arms and face.
“Wanna go for a beer?” Nick asks.
“Can’t. Made plans to study with Kimmy.”
Nick raises an eyebrow. “So have you fucked her yet?”
I trip on my shoelaces. “Excuse me?”
He laughs. “You two have been spending a lot of time together. Just wondering what’s going on.”
“Nothing’s going on. I’m a taken man.”
He chuckles. “If you say so.” When we reach the second floor, he says, “Same time tomorrow?”
“You got it,” I say to Nick’s retreating figure. I climb the rest of the way on my own, thinking about his other question.
Kimmy and I have been spending a lot of time together. But nothing is going on. Nothing. Who’s to say I can only make male friends at school? I’m supposed to be networking. We’ve been hanging out for legitimate purposes. Studying. Reading. Working out. Nothing sketchy.
And she knows about Sharon, thanks to Jamie. I was going to mention it eventually, honest, but it’s not something you can easily work into the conversation without sounding like a hoser. Thanks for the movie invite. Did I mention my girlfriend Sharon really likes movies?
I unlock my room, grab a towel, shampoo and soap, and bolt to the bathroom. As the hot water pummels against my back, I tell myself for the umpteenth time this week that I’m not doing anything wrong. There is nothing wrong with having a close female friend.
I’m full of shit.
She wants me—didn’t she say so at the gym?—so, yes, it’s wrong to spend so much time with her. It’s wrong to lead her on when I don’t want her.
I’m so full of shit.
Last night I dreamed we were having sex in Professor Martin’s class. We were actually under the desk, our combat uniforms strewn all over the floor.
I am an asshole. I am the hugest asshole. (But it was a good dream.)
In the dream, under her khaki soldier’s clothes she was wearing what she’d been wearing when we studied together last Tuesday night: a black tank top with red bra straps peeking through. Instead of studying, I spent the entire evening imagining what the rest of the bra looked like. I was thinking the lacy, see-through kind. Maybe with a pair of matching red panties.
When I stopped by her room last Tuesday night to borrow her books, she suggested that we work together in one of the study rooms in the library. I thought, why not. Might be more fun. And there we were. Two people, a man and a woman, in an enclosed room. With the door closed. And no windows. And a big, brown table. I wondered if anyone had ever had sex on that table. I pictured us having sex on that table.
We were supposed to read two cases, one for Organizational Behavior, one for Stats. I skimmed the pages, but it was hard to concentrate when she smelled like vanilla and lemon, like something in my mom’s kitchen.
I shower slowly, enjoying the memory. Eventually I turn off the water, wrap my towel around me and return to my room. Then I pick up the phone. I told Kimmy I’d call her when I was done with basketball.
“Hi, this is Kimmy, can’t come to the phone. Leave a message and I’ll call you back.”
Her voice sounds sexy, smooth then rubbed with sandpaper. I leave a message and pull on the jeans that were crumpled on the floor, the ones that already have my belt in the loops and my change and credit cards in the pocket. My plans with Kimmy are for around five, and it’s five on the nose.
If it hadn’t been for Sharon meeting me, liking me, convincing me to go see a doctor about my skin and kicking my ass into the gym, a girl like Kimmy would never look twice at me.
Where’s my gel?
The phone rings. Must be her. At least she didn’t forget.
“I was waiting for you,” I say, finding the bottle under my desk and rubbing some in my hair.
“You were?” says a familiar voice. Sharon’s.
“Oh, hi,” I say, startled. Sharon. Sharon. My girlfriend. Remember her? The girl who was always there for you? I am such an ass wipe. “I had a feeling you were going to call.”
“Yeah? You must be psychic. What’s up?”
“Not much. Just got back from playing ball.”
“And tonight?”
I wipe the gel residue on my jeans. “Studying, maybe.”
“Good idea,” she says. I doubt that. Then she adds, “I miss you.”
Maybe she can sense my wandering eye. “I miss you, too,” I mumble.
Knock, knock. Oh, man. “Shar, someone’s at the door, I gotta go. Can I call you later?”
“Who is it?” she asks.
At the moment, I’m hoping Nick.
But no. Voice from behind the door. “Russ? You there?” Kimmy.
“One second,” I say to the door. Then I say to the phone, “I have to go.”
“Where are you going?”
“To study.”
Kimmy knocks again. “Russ? You inside?”
Oh, man. I have a pain in my arm, and I think I could be having a heart attack. Breathe. So I’ve been flirting. Big deal. No harm in flirting.
“Who are you studying with?” Sharon asks, relentlessly.
“Just some guys,” I answer. Now I’m lying. I’m not just flirting. I’m lying and flirting.
