Higher Education (8 page)

“Well?”

“Hi, Jessie. How are you?”

“Well?”

“Well what?”

“Well, are you?”

“Well, am I what?”

“Don't be a dope, Miranda,” she says crossly.

“Oh.” I nod farewell to Raphael, who furtively grips his Lord & Taylor bag to his abdomen. “No, I guess I'm not.”

“Well, thank god. You dumbshit.”

“Hey,” I protest. “You've already called me a dumbshit today.” I snatch my hand away from Michael, who's begun stamping my forearm with the date stamp which he has set for June 24, his birthday. “Can't you think of another nasty name to call me?”

“You're absolutely right. I apologize.”

“Apology accepted.”

“Thank you. Shithead.”

“Derivative, but it'll have to do. Why am I a shithead?”

“Thanks for letting me know, shithead. What do you think I've been doing all day, out shopping for little pink booties?”

“Oh dear.” I clamp a hand across my forehead. “I'm sorry, Jessie. I'm really sorry.”

“It's okay, jerk.”

“It won't happen again.”

“Ha.”

“At least not this week.”

“That's more like it. Hey, cut that out.” I hear Sutter giggling in the background.

I let go of my forehead. “Tell Sutter I'll scratch his eyes out if he so much as lays a hand on you.”

“Miranda says hello,” she says loudly.

“I hate it when you translate.”

“Look, I've got to run. The commercials are over.”

“I understand.”

“Hey, are you still going out with the boy wonder tonight?”

“I guess so.” I steal a glance at Michael, who's now carving his initials into the desktop with his Swiss army knife.

“Well, have fun. If you can call it that.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“You know I think he's boring.”

“I don't see what—”

“Different strokes, though, I always say.”

“Don't be disgusting.”

“And speaking of scratching eyes out, hope you don't run into Jennifer on the way over.”

“Thanks for the good wishes.”

“You know it, dope.” She hangs up.

Michael's back to the date stamp, imprinting the back of my notebook with June 24, working his way downward in neat vertical rows. “Hey, are you trying to tell me something?” I lean forward to breathe at his nape again. “How many more shopping days is it, anyway?”

“Anythin' wrong?” He doesn't look up from my notebook.

“No, why?”

“Are you okay?”

“I'm fine.”

“Yeah?” Now he turns his head to look at me. His face is very close to mine, and I find myself studying the mossy green-brown of his eyes and the fine silky arch of his brows.

“Of course I am.” I stand up. “Can't complain. What time is it?”

“Ten-fifteen.”

“Darling, will you stop staring at me? I've got to run. I'm not paid for overtime, you know.”

“I was gonna ask you if you wanted to mosey over to Piroshka's with me for a cappuccino.”

“I can't tonight, Michael.” I'm twitching into my jacket. “But I'll take a raincheck, okay?”

“Sure, okay.” He stands up too.

I'm tossing my notebook, pens, and thesaurus into my bag. “Let's get out of here.” I wait at the door while he places the stamps and ink pad in a corner of the blotter and then pushes in the desk chair. He comes toward me and I hold the door open for him to pass. Instead, he pauses in front of me.

“Are you really okay?”

“I'm really okay, Michael. But I'm sort of late for something. And I just totally blew off a whole evening's worth of Soc Sci 33 reading.”

“
You're
worryin' 'bout Soc Sci 33?”

“
You
don't have a two-hundred-pound section leader breathing down your neck, do you?”

We walk into the hallway and I lock the door behind us. We're silent as we leave Emerson and descend the steps into Mem Yard.

“Michael.”

“What.”

“Knock knock.”

“Who's there?”

“Kant.”

“Kant who?”

“Canteloupe's always better than watermelon.” I look up into his face, trying to see if he's smiling. “Get it? Kant-elope?”

“Yeah, I get it.”

“Funny, huh?”

“Yep.”

“It's okay. You don't have to laugh if you don't want to.” There's a full moon tonight. Fat and pearlescent, it casts a spectral white light that shimmers off Widener's immense proscenium and smooth high creamy-colored columns. “Hey, I've been telling all the jokes tonight.” I touch his sleeve. “It's your turn now.”

“Sorry.” He moves his shoulders restlessly. “Don't feel like it.”

“Michael?”

“Yep.”

“What are you doing tonight?”

“Oh, not a whole lot. Gotta make a few phone calls, I guess.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Can you be a little more specific?”

“Sure. Somethin' like, No Ma, I don't know anybody in the admissions office, but if you want, I'll try sleepin' with the Dean's wife to see if it'll get Daniel off the waitin' list.”

“Michael.”

“Yep?” His smile is unnaturally bright, and all at once I'm assailed by the feeling that I'm forgetting something.
Shit. What is it
? Somebody over in one of the Yard dorms is playing “Stairway to Heaven” at full volume on his stereo. A couple passes by us, hand in hand, and then I realize that I'm supposed to be meeting Dean right about now.
What time is it
? But I seem to have missed a beat or two; already Michael is turning away.

“Well, so long, gal.”

“Michael.”

“What?”

His skin looks pale and luminescent in the moonlight. The sockets of his eyes are flooded with blue-black shadow and I can't make out his expression.

“You're coming to the master's tea tomorrow afternoon, aren't you?”

“Hadn't thought 'bout it.”

“It'll be a gas,” I say, cajolingly. “I hear there'll be brownies.”

“I'll think about it.”

“Good. I'll see you there.”

“Maybe.”

“Oh, come on. Cucumber sandwiches, and we can see and be seen by the beautiful people.”

“Now I'm changin' my mind.”

“Don't.” I still can't see his face clearly enough to read his intent. “So I'll see you tomorrow, okay? And don't forget you owe me a cappuccino.”

“No'm,” he says. “I won't forget.”

I tiptoe down the tiny cramped steps into the Ha'Penny and see Dean standing in front of the jukebox, looking at the song titles, his head bent over the arched glass panel.

Softly I say: “Got a quarter, buddy?”

“Oh, hi.” He looks at me with his quick enigmatic smile.

“Play ‘Brass in Pocket,' will you?”

“I was just looking.”

“Oh.” A rush of childish disappointment floods my chest for a second. “Me too.”

“Sorry I'm late.”

“Are you? I thought I was.” I look at my watch and laugh airily.

Dean glances down too, and then he bends closer. “How come your watch says twelve-thirty?”

“It's broken.”

“Those real sapphires?”

“I guess so.”

“Nice. Birthday present from your parents?”

I keep the smile fixed on my face. “No, my grandmother gave it to me. She said she liked her Timex better.”

“Oh. Can't you get it repaired?”

“I don't know. I never tried.”

“Oh.”

We take a table in the very back. “God, I love this place,” I say, slipping into my chair. “The cute little tables, the candles.”
The convenient amnesia of the cocktail waitresses
. “The ambience.”

“Yeah.” Dean takes a pack of Camels from his blazer pocket, taps one free, places it between his lips and lights it, accomplishing this all in one graceful motion. He takes a deep drag, and coughs. “Shit, my bronchitis.” He inhales again, more delicately.

“What can I get you?” Our waitress, a ponytailed brunette wearing pink-trimmed Tretorns, stands before us with her tray poised.

Dean looks at me. “You go ahead,” I say, unable to make up my mind.

“Dewar's and water,” he says. “Twist. Three cubes.” Then they both look at me again. Dean's knees, I note, are touching mine under the table.

“I—I—oh, well.” I smile weakly. “How about a greyhound.”

“Sure thing.” She winks at me and goes off.

In her wake there is a brief silence. I press my lips together, wondering if I've recently applied lipstick, and if so, what shade it might possibly be.
God, I hope it's not that loud fire-engine red I pilfered from Jessica's desk last week
.

“Did that girl just wink at you?”

“Did she? Oh, it's probably just a nervous tic.”

“Yeah?”

“It's a very high-pressure job here, you know.” I'm picturing the worn blue denim of his Levis against my own black trousers. Caught between a delicious sensation of clandestine exhilaration and doubt as to whether he's even noticed, I'm afraid to move my body from the waist down. I slide the pretzel basket his way. “Pretzel?”

“No thanks.” He's looking at me, his hazel eyes almost violet in the light, and my fingers stay curled around the basket. We remain like this for what feels like a long time. When somebody calls out my name I jump in my chair, and look around to see Pablo Esperanto coming toward us at full lope.

“Well, hi!”

Dean reaches for another cigarette, and I let go of the pretzels.

“Hey, hey.” Pablo waves as if we were in fact twenty paces apart. “What's going on, kids?”

“Hey, Pabs.” I show my teeth in a barbed smile. “What's up, dude?”

“Oh, just finished another silly rehearsal for a concert in Mem Hall I promised to do.” He sighs. “And the New York Philharmonic won't stop pestering me.”

“Really? Do you owe them money?”

His lips thin. “They want me to join.”

“Ah.” He's certainly got the physique for a concert pianist, I muse, with his tall slender body, fiery dark eyes, and long tapering fingers. Less attractive is his proclivity for describing in brain-numbing detail both his royal Castilian lineage and the contents of his parents' loft on Spring Street. “Why?”

“Maybe they think I'm good.”

“Ah.”

“So Deano. What's new?” Smiling now, Pablo looks down at me. He knows I know he's a good friend of Dean's girlfriend Jennifer. “Tell me everything.”

When Dean does not reply, I tilt back in my chair, gazing up into Pablo's swarthy face. “Oh, we've just been sitting here criticizing the English department.” Once again I'm trying to figure out exactly why Jessica dated him for all of three weeks. “What else do English majors talk about?” It occurs to me he might look awfully good in tails.

“Good question. You guys talk about grammar? Punctuation? Conjugating the verb?” He leers, revealing a set of large, rather yellow teeth.

“I like to think we're a little more highbrow than that.”

Just then our waitress muscles her way to our table, and with a superbly aimed elbow forces Pablo to step back a pace.

“Here we go. A greyhound and a Dewar's water.” She smiles at me as Dean pulls out his wallet. “New haircut?”

“Huh?”

“Oh.” She takes Dean's five-dollar bill. “I mean, I like your haircut.”

“Keep the change,” I say loudly.

“Thanks.” She plows off, dislodging Pablo by another good foot and a half in the process.

“Is she a bulldozer or a cocktail waitress?” he complains, rubbing his arm.

“Well, Pabs,” I say, before he can regain his balance, “it's been fun. But if you'll excuse us, we were right in the middle of a structural analysis of
Moby Dick.
”

“Oh yeah?”

“Melville. Herman Melville.”

“Thanks.” He flexes his hands a few times. “Well, I'll leave you two to your little extrapolations. And Deano. If I see Jenny tonight, I'll be sure and tell her you're in out of the rain.”

After Pablo has gone back to his table, Dean leans forward and looks at me. “Miranda?”

“Yes?”

“You owe me two dollars for the greyhound.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I said, you—”

“How about a toast?” I raise my glass high. “To structural analysis.”

“Yeah.”

He drinks, but I merely brush the rim of my glass against my lips. Then he's leaning forward again, and our elbows touch.

“Oh,” I say, feeling strangely flustered. “I mean, I love your leather patches.”

“Thanks.”

We fall silent, and suddenly I wish I'd ordered Perrier. I pluck an ice cube from my drink and slip it into my mouth. “So anyway.” The ice cube rattles against my teeth.

He sighs. “Yeah?”

“How's everything?”

“Oh, okay, I guess.” His voice is soft, moodier now. Impulsively I reach across the table and touch his throat.

He leans away, flashing me a startled look. “What was that for?”

“Sorry.” I lace my fingers together in my lap. “It's just a nervous tic.”

He lights a cigarette and inhales with a little whooshing noise. “I thought you were going for the jugular or something.”

“I'm sorry,” I say shrewishly. “It won't happen again.”

He coughs. “I was kidding. It was a joke.”

“Oh.” I'm trying to remember which movie actress I've just quoted. It would be nice if it was Katharine Hepburn, or even Barbara Stanwyck. Virginia Mayo, though, would be a drag.
Jackson would know
. Wincing a little, I brush my bangs out of my eyes.