Imperfect Chemistry (4 page)

I mull over my options before saying, “Maybe I can ask him about his experiences instead and get firsthand accounts of what it’s like to undergo that sort of heartbreak and why that triggered the need to engage with multiple partners. Maybe it’s because he now feels emasculated and insecure about his manhood.”

Ted snorts. “Having fun means doing more than interviewing man-sluts. You need to slut it up a little yourself, girlfriend. Look at you, you’re like a crazy cat lady and you’re only sixteen.”

“I’m twenty,” I correct him.

“Whatever.”

“I’m not sure,” I say, even though what they are suggesting is exactly what has been running through my mind. “But I’ll consider it.”

“Will you let us give you a makeover?” Ted asks excitedly.

“No.”

“Damn.”

“Why do you always have to be so stereotypically gay?” Bethany groans.

Ted gasps. “I am not!”

“Are too!”

“I like football,” he says, placing his hand on his hip. “That’s doesn’t fit into your stereotypes, you bitch.”

“It’s true,” Freya says to me. “And he’s a Raiders fan if you can believe it.”

I have no idea what she’s talking about and the conversation dissolves into Ted and Bethany arguing over who is the bigger bitch, him or her.

I think I’ve reached my capacity for social interaction for the day.

“I have to go now,” I say and turn away to leave.

“Wait!” Freya stops me with a hand to my arm. “What are you going to do?”

“I’ll knock on Jensen’s door tomorrow and ask him if he’ll assist me.”

What else would I do?

Her expression turns horrified. “You can’t just proposition him out of nowhere like that!”

“Why not?”

“Well first of all, have you ever even talked to him?”

My mind races through the past six months he’s lived in the duplex. I’d only seen him on a handful of occasions other than yesterday and usually avoided any type of interaction. “Once. The other day,” I admit.

“Before you start your interrogation, maybe talk to him a little, get to know him a bit, and then ask for help.”

“Okay.” That actually makes sense. The questions I will be asking are very personal, and it would be good to have him as comfortable as possible so there’s no risk of understating his answers. “Thank you.”

I turn around again and walk away, but not before hearing Ted say, “She is so weird. I think I love her.”

Small minds are concerned with the extraordinary, great minds with the ordinary.

–Blaise Pascal

The phone rings four times before there’s an answer.

“Hello?” Her voice sounds groggy. Did I dial the right number?

“Freya?” I ask.

“Yes? Is this a telemarketer? Because I don’t have any money to buy crap,” she croaks.

“No, this is Lucy. We spoke last night. And we also spoke on Wednesday at approximately 1:35 p.m. in the peer counseling clinic.”

“Yeah, sure I remember. What’s up Luce?”

“I was wondering if I could ask for your advice.”

“Uh, sure, sure.” There’s a rustling of fabric on the line as if she’s sitting up in bed. “Wait, how did you get this number?”

“From your file at the clinic.”

“Oh.” Pause. “You went through my file?”

“It was necessary before your session. I have a very good memory.”

Another pause and then, “Okay, shoot.”

“You mentioned last night that I should form a friendly relationship with Jensen before propositioning him. I’ve thought over your advice and I think it’s reasonable. What is the most expeditious way to accomplish this?”

“Um. Well, you could do something neighborly, like invite him to a party.”

A party. I grimace before answering. “What if that’s not an option? What else?”

“Let’s see,” she says. There’s more rustling and movement on the line and then, “You could ask him for a cup of sugar or something. Don’t neighbors do that?”

“What would I use the sugar for?”

“Why does that matter? I dunno, to make cookies?”

I consider this. “I could make cookies. Then after I make them, I could bring him some. That’s neighborly, correct?”

“Sure.”

“And this also affords two separate opportunities for conversation.”

“Right,” she agrees.

“Thank you for your time,” I say, and hang up the phone.

***

I’ve always enjoyed cooking. It’s a bit like science. You mix things together in a certain order in certain quantities to achieve the desired outcome.

I have plenty of sugar on hand, and although I hate being deceitful, it’s one harmless white lie and it’s the means to an end. I never considered myself particularly Machiavellian, but I’m willing to try nearly anything at this point. At about three o’clock, I head over to the neighbor’s door and knock.

No answer. I’m fairly sure he’s home because I can see his car, and I heard him entering his side of the building approximately an hour ago.

I knock again a bit harder and the door swings open.

“Hello,” I say. This is the first time we’ve been face to face and not just coming or going. He looks better than the last time I saw him. The gray circles under his eyes are gone and he’s slightly flushed, like he’s been exerting himself recently. He’s wearing a light brown shirt with dark smudges like he’s been rubbing dirty hands on it.
His fingertips are tinged with some kind of black substance. If his car wasn’t sitting pristinely in the driveway, I would think he had been doing something mechanical. 

Looking at the shirt makes me notice other things. Like I didn’t realize his shoulders are so broad. He’s attractive, in a conventional way. Although he has brown hair and brown eyes and that description seems rather dull and plain, his features are nice. He must have shaved recently. The scruff is gone revealing a patrician nose and strong jaw. His face is symmetrical. Humans find symmetrical features attractive
because it’s a sign of superior genetic quality and developmental stability.

He’s not smiling. He looks rather brooding, but it’s a good look on him.

“Can I help you?” he asks and I realize I’ve been studying him without speaking for an unknown quantity of time.

“Do you have any sugar?” I ask.

“No,” he says before closing the door. He manages to eke out a quick “Sorry,” before the door shuts gently in my face.

Well. That didn’t quite go as planned.

***

I rack my brain for the rest of the evening on how to initiate a discussion with Jensen, but to no avail. Not knowing what to do is a foreign sensation for me, but in this case, I am completely out of my depth. I have no idea how to make friends. I don’t socialize. The only people I have any type of relationship with besides my family is other students I tutor or lab with. And even then, it’s never social, it’s more professional.

For the first time in my life, I start to wonder about myself. What is wrong with me that this is so difficult?

The next morning, I decide to call Freya again. Maybe she will inspire another idea.

“Hello?”

“Freya?”

“Lucy. Why do you always call at the ass crack of dawn?”

I glance at the clock above my stove. “It’s seven thirty. Don’t you have class at eight?”

“Holy shit!”

Click.

“Hello?”

Two hours later I find Freya.

I’m leaning against the wall directly opposite the door when her class ends. She exits, speaking with another student. When she sees me, she says something to excuse herself and then heads in my direction.

She waves as she walks over, adjusting her bag. “If I didn’t already know what a weirdo you are, this would totally creep me out.”

“I need your help,” I say.

She purses her lips and considers me for a moment. “I missed breakfast and I’m starving. I’ll help you if you buy me some food.”

“Okay.”

We travel in silence to the cafeteria, mostly because Freya is walking so fast, I’m panting to keep up. Also, morning is a busy time on campus, and we have to weave in and out of the crowd of students heading to their classes to make it to the cafeteria.

She orders a large stack of pancakes with eggs and sausage and picks up a few single-serving boxes of cereal on the way to the register.

“Are you going to eat all that food now?” I ask as I swipe my card.

“No,” she says around a mouthful of apple. “I’ll save some for later. Starving college student and all that.”

We sit at a booth and while she’s shoveling food into her mouth, I tell her what happened yesterday when I knocked on Jensen’s door.

“Are you sure you want to keep pursuing this? You’re a cute girl and all, but this is Jensen Walker. He’s like a bluefin tuna in a sea of canned albacore. The likelihood of catching him on your line is slim to none. I’m sure we could find you another guy to harass.”

I hesitate for only a second, not sure I completely understand her metaphors before answering. “I’m sure. I’m not going to proposition him like you think I am. I’m going ask him questions. He’s the perfect candidate to help me further my emotional education due to the conflict he’s experiencing in his relationships. Plus, I think I might be attracted to him.” Not to mention the fact that I’m not attracted to anyone, ever. But yesterday, when I was staring at him, and the fact that he’s a bit of a mystery…

“You
think
you’re attracted to him? You
think
? Honey.” She wipes a bit of syrup off her mouth with a napkin and tosses it on the table, gazing at me with an intensity that would be frightening if she wasn’t five foot nothing and her voice was less squeaky. “The man is a god. Wooden posts find him attractive. Dogs jump six-foot fences for the opportunity to hump his leg as he passes. You’d have to be dead or blind to not find him attractive.”

I’m not sure I agree with her assessment. Is this what most people think of Jensen? I noted his features were symmetrical
and he’s conventionally handsome, but if I had known the female population held him in such high esteem I might have looked elsewhere. I may not understand most social conventions but I know when someone is out of my league, so to speak.

“What do I do now?” I ask her.

She finishes her last bite of pancake and grabs a flosser out of her bag and starts cleaning her teeth.

“Well, let’s see.” S
he throws the flosser on her plate after a moment. “You could lock yourself out of your house and use his phone to call the locksmith?”

I consider the possible consequences of this scenario.

“I’m not sure,” I say. “I don’t want to give him another opportunity to tell me no. Or what if he doesn’t answer his door?”

She begins shoving the small cereal boxes into her bag along with some extra syrup packets and plastic forks she procured from the condiment counter. “Well, you’re the brain here, what do you think?”

“I think I should just knock on his door and tell him what I want.”

She gasps in horror. “No! Not that again!”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s crazy.” She finishes stuffing her bag and slams it on the bench seat for emphasis. “And he doesn’t know you. He’ll think you’re a weirdo and he’ll definitely say no.”

I consider this. She’s probably correct. I should listen to her since she has friends and likely knows what she’s talking about, at least in comparison to myself.

Another thought strikes me, inspired by her suggestion. “What if he was locked out of his house and had to come to me?”

She raises her eyebrows at me. “How the hell are you going to pull that off?”

“I don’t know. Yet.”

She laughs. “Girl, you’ve got balls the size of Cleveland.”

“Is that good?”

“It’s badass,” she says with feeling.

I’m still not sure if she’s paying me a compliment, but I nod and smile. My mind is already contriving possible scenarios to put my plan into action.

Ask an impertinent question, and you are on your way to the pertinent answer.

–Jacob Bronowski

It takes almost a week of observation, watching out my peephole and listening for his car coming and going, along with carefully posed questions at various locales throughout campus that Jensen frequents. The time and effort is well spent on learning a few important things about Jensen Walker.

For one, there isn’t a horde of females coming and going as I was led to believe.

There is one female, a tall blonde, that goes to his house occasionally, stays a few hours and leaves. I suppose she could be a girlfriend of some type, but he never leaves with her so the odds are likely they are not exclusive. The observation makes me feel better. The thought of being one amongst many isn’t enticing. Perhaps Freya’s rumors are wrong—which I find likely—or perhaps he went through a phase of sexual independence but has now moved on. That theory is much more appealing.

He also leaves the duplex to go to class, and I am able to obtain his class listing from the school registrar, but other than that, he’s generally at home and he’s generally alone. It’s interesting. He moved into the duplex last semester and I seem to re
member him having people over—not enough to disturb me excessively—but he was socially active. During the summer months, he was gone, but since this semester began, I don’t recall seeing anyone over there except last week’s visitor.

I know he has friends. In fact, when I trail him around campus, he’s acknowledged or spoken to by approximately one out of every three people he passes. Despite this, his social calendar seems to be as sparse as my own.

The most important thing I discover during the week of observation is that every Sunday morning, he goes to get coffee from the stand that opens outside the library at seven o’clock. Even more important: he leaves his door unlocked. I’m not sure why he does this. It seems illogical to put your possessions at risk, even for a short time. If I were criminally inclined, this would be the perfect opportunity to sneak in and steal something of value.

The only variable I am unable to anticipate is whether he brings his phone with him. Looking out my window and through the peephole in my door isn’t enough to ascertain whether he puts his cell phone in one of his pockets when he leaves. If so, he may be able to use that to call for assistance when he gets locked out.

But there’s only one way to know for sure.

On Sunday morning, I set my alarm to wake me up at six thirty. Like the week before, he leaves his place at six forty-five on the dot. As soon as he rounds the corner at the end of our little alley, I bolt out of my house to his door, open it, reach inside and turn the lock then shut it again. I double check to make sure it can’t be opened, before running back inside my house.

Then I wait.

Per my calculations, which I obtain by walking the distance myself, it takes six minutes and seventeen seconds to walk to the library from the duplex.  On average, it takes two minutes thirty-four seconds for the employees at the coffee stand to make the drink and obtain cash for the purchase. That means I have at least fourteen minutes and fifty-one seconds of pacing. Longer if he walks slower or there are other’s in line before him.

It takes fifteen minutes and forty-two seconds for him to return and I watch through the peephole as he attempts to open his front door and fails.

“What the—?” He tries a few more times. Finally, he puts his coffee on the railing that runs against the porch and pats down his pockets.

I almost hear his heavy sigh, seeing his shoulders heave slightly as he runs his hands through his hair in agitation.

Then he turns around and walks to my door.

Suddenly nervous—at least, I assume that’s the emotion coursing through my system, it’s the only thing I can think of to describe my abruptly rapid heart rate and sweaty palms—I bolt down the hallway away from the door as he approaches, like he might sense me hovering on the other side. Why am I so panicked? No one is crying. My life isn’t in danger. The emotion is irrational and confusing.

He raps out a brisk knock. I try to take my time and pretend I was in the back and am now moving towards the door.

I open it slowly.

“Hey.” His hands are in his jean pockets under a thick sweater and he rocks back slightly on his heels. “I seem to have locked myself out. Can I use your phone?” The words create fleeting puffs of clouds in the cold morning air.

“Just…one second,” I say, finger in the air.

Then I shut the door on him.

What am I doing? I’m supposed to invite him in, come to his rescue, have a conversation, and get friendly. But I just…I can’t. I hate this deception. This isn’t me, and Freya might be right, but I just can’t do this. Not this way.

I race to my bathroom and grab a bobby pin. When I return and open the front door, Jensen is leaning on the railing with his coffee cup in hand, looking down the alley. 

I clear my throat and he turns.

I show him the bobby pin. “I’ll just…uh.” This is ridiculous. I’m never inarticulate.

Instead of continuing to speak in stilted phrases, I move to his door, kneeling in front of it and sticking the bobby pin into the lock. It only takes a few seconds to spring the pins and the door swings open.

“There you go,” I say, stepping back.

“Wow.” He seems surprised. “Thanks. How did you do that?”

“It’s fairly simple if you understand the basic locking mechanism.”

“All right.” I try to decipher the look he gives me, but I don’t excel at translating facial expressions. I think it’s a cross between confusion and uneasiness.

“It’s a good thing you didn’t engage the dead bolt,” I say. “It’s harder to flip.”

“Right.” He gives me a half smile that seems forced. “Thanks again.” He steps by me and through his doorway.

“Wait!” This is it. This is the only opportunity I’m going to have and I’m going to take it. I’m going to do this my way.

“Yeah?”

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Um, sure.”

“It will take a few minutes. Do you have a few minutes now?”

“I…guess.” The reluctance in his voice is nearly palpable.

I step forward, but he steps towards me at the same time and shuts his door behind him, bringing us too close together. I step back.

“Can we talk at your place? My place is…dirty,” he says.

“Okay,” I say and lead him to my side of the building. Once inside, I usher him into the small living room and motion for him to sit on the couch.

He sits and I pace in front of him, gathering my thoughts.

I stop and face him. “You see, I’m a scientist.” I start pacing again. I’m not sure why, but I still feel nervous, and the movement keeps me calm.

“Okay.” Now he sounds confused, but I suppose it’s better than reluctant.

“I have a doctorate in microbiology, with a focus in immunology and pathogens.”

“Wow. Really?” That seems to have captured his interest. It usually does, which is why I don’t share the information regularly. I don’t want people to be interested in me.

“Yes. I’ve been attending this university since I was thirteen, and I graduated from the doctorate program last year.”

“That’s…oh, I’ve heard of you.”

I stop pacing again and face him. “You have?”

“Yeah, my dad’s a professor here.”

I sit on the small coffee table and face him.

“Professor Walker,” I say, the name coming together in my mind and conjuring a picture of the man in question. “He’s a wonderful lawyer,” I add. I’ve never taken any of his classes, and we haven’t officially met, but he’s a large contributor to various departments. He teaches classes at the law school and he owns a prestigious firm in town.

“That’s not why I wish to speak with you. You see, I was given a grant last semester to study emotional pathogens. The idea is that emotion is transmittable, like a virus or cold. The problem is that I don’t really understand emotions.”

“You don’t?”

“No.” I shake my head. “Which means, I’m supposed to be testing a theory and I don’t even know where to start. I’m not good with people,” I say. I stand up again and resume my nervous pacing. “I never have been good with people. I’ve never
been very good with emotions in general,” I tell him. “And because of that, I need to learn.”

“Okay,” he says again, more uncertainly this time.

“My…friend,” I guess that’s what she is, I think rapidly while I begin pacing again, “My friend Freya, you see, she told me you’ve slept with half of campus. The female half.”

“Excuse me?” Oh no, he doesn’t sound happy. Maybe I should have left that part out.

“No, that’s not what I meant. I meant to say, I won’t be able to pursue this course of study unless I learn more about people and relationships.”

He’s still staring at me, his mouth slightly agape with an indecipherable expression on his face. Well. I have nothing to lose now.

“You see, after conducting statistical research, I discovered that the emotion most relevant to people in general involves relationships. Sex, love, lust, all of that, and I have very little knowledge about these things. But if this is what most people are experiencing, it’s what I need to study.”

He stands. “Look, I’m not sure what you’ve heard from your friend, but I am not some kind of gigolo.” He turns towards the door.

Oh, no. This is no good. Why did I say that? Why am I having such a hard time explaining myself to him? It was easy enough with Freya.

I move in front of him before he reaches the door. “Wait, no. That’s not what I’m asking.”

“I don’t want to pay you for sex.” That much is definitely true. “I want to understand human emotions which include attraction. I want you to teach me everything you know about it. You don’t have to do more than speak. I assure you I will keep everything in the strictest confidence.”

For a second he just stares at me, eyes hard, jaw clenched, and I think he might yell or leave, but then he laughs. He throws back his head and laughs so hard, I think he’s going to start crying or pull a muscle.

He has nice teeth, I think absently while he’s laughing. I didn’t realize how sad and serious he’s looked every time I’ve seen him until I catch this glimpse of rare humor. It’s even more attractive than his brooding face.

I’m still standing there, watching him when he finally calms down.

“You’re serious?” he asks.

I can’t speak anymore. I’m worried that if I open my mouth something else will come out that I haven’t foreseen. I nod and look down at my feet.

I don’t see his face when he says, “I’m sorry, I just…That’s the weirdest thing anyone’s ever asked me. I can’t do it.”

This time, when he steps around me to head to the door, I let him pass.