In the Middle of Somewhere (11 page)

“Um, I’m sorry, Bernard, what was that?” I say. Clearly I’ve been nodding along with the meeting as I thought about Rex.

“You’re all right with heading the committee?” Crap. Way to not repeat yourself at all, Bernard.

“Yep, yep, sounds good,” I hear myself saying since I can’t think of any way to admit I’ve been zoning out.

“Wonderful,” Bernard says, and ends the meeting as I sit there, dazed.

I gather my things and make a beeline for my office to get my jacket. All I want is to go home, take a shower, and listen to music with a bottle of wine. I’m slipping on my jacket when Jay Santiago pushes my door open. Jay is maybe ten years older than me, in his early forties, and seems like a nice guy, though I don’t know him well.

“The first-year personal essay committee,” he says.

“Huh?”

“The committee Bernard stuck you on while you were staring out the window. It’s for first-year students’ personal essays. You pick a first place, second place, third place, and two runner-up essays and then they read them at an end of the year open house while their parents drink wine out of plastic cups, eat pepper jack cheese cubes, and brag about their kids to anyone who’ll listen.”

“Whoa, grim,” I say. But it could be worse. I actually like reading students’ creative writing. It’s kind of cool to see who they are outside the classroom, what they think is important on their own time.

“Yeah, I did it last year, so if you need any pointers, just let me know.”

“Will do,” I say. “Thanks, Jay.” He nods good-bye.

I
WALK
the long way home—well, it’s two blocks longer—so I can pick up some wine and get a pizza since I have nothing edible in my house. As I walk out of the store with my box of wine, though, there’s shouting coming from behind the store. It’s kind of a park, I guess, a patch of grass and a bench and a few trees.

Two guys are messing with a kid sitting on the bench. He’s maybe sixteen or seventeen, with longish, light brown hair and checkerboard Vans. You could ID him as a skater kid from thirty paces even if his feet weren’t currently resting on a skateboard. I can’t really see his face, but he’s skinny, and definitely smaller than the guys messing with him. They might be the same age, but they’re of the polo-shirt-and-boat-shoes variety, with lingering summer tans and muscles honed by football and fathers who expect certain things from them. I know the type.

Would I be intervening if it weren’t “fag” that the polo shirts were calling the kid? I’m not sure. But I was that skinny kid and I’m sure as hell not going to watch him get the shit beat out of him the way I did, even if these guys don’t look quite as hardcore as the ones who used to throw me up against crumbling brick walls and threaten me with busted bottles if I ever looked at them in the hallways.

The kid isn’t reacting to the polo shirts at all. Not sure if he’s scared of a fight or just knows they won’t actually throw a punch, but I walk over anyway. When I get a little closer, I can see that he’s smiling. It’s a mischievous, self-possessed smile. It’s a smile that’s going to get this kid a lot of ass in a few years, or in a lot of trouble, depending on who he’s smiling at. Right now, I’m banking on the latter, because the polo shirts do not seem amused.

When I’m ten feet away, the one in the salmon-colored polo shirt—seriously, kid, salmon?—throws a punch. Whatever skater said to him was too low for me to hear, but now they’re both on him, pushing him down on the bench.

“Hey!” I yell. “Get the fuck off him.” I pull salmon polo shirt off, bobbing to the side so the punch he throws goes wide. Both polo shirts step away and stare at me oddly, but I can’t tell if they’re scared of getting in trouble or are about to start in on me too.

I’m still dressed for teaching, in gray pants, a gray and black striped shirt, and the vintage black wingtips Ginger gave me as a going-away present, but my sleeves are rolled up to the elbows, showing some of my tattoos, I’m carrying a box of wine, and, as it’s the end of the day, my black hair is probably a mess. I must look like some kind of drunken hipster poet or something.

“Get the fuck out of here!” I yell, pointing toward the street, before they can decide.

“Screw you, asshole,” and “Fuck off,” the polo shirts say, but it’s halfhearted and they’re already leaving, shooting the kid poisonous looks from under the stiff brims of their baseball caps.

I smirk and set my wine and my messenger bag down on the bench. It felt really fucking good to yell at those assholes, especially since I’ve wanted to do it to students all week.

“You okay?” I ask the kid. I lean down to look at his face. There’s a red mark on one high cheekbone that will definitely be a bruise tomorrow, but he mostly just looks a little dazed. He has big brown eyes and his olive skin is spattered with freckles. He has a small, straight nose that will probably make him handsome in a few years, but now just looks cute. In fact, the only thing that keeps him from being pretty is that in contrast to his expressive eyes, his brows are straight, dark slashes that turn his otherwise sweet face serious.

“Omygod, you’re the guy!”

“Uh, sorry?”

“You’re the professor! The gay one from New York!”

“Holy shit. I am from fucking Philadelphia, for the love of god. And how does everyone know I’m gay? Not like I care. Just, seriously, you all gossip like a sewing circle.”

“Philly, right on,” he says. “I dig Kurt Vile and don’t laugh but I totally love Christina Perri. And, like, cheesesteaks. Right?”

“Right, as in, you’re listing things from Philadelphia? Yes.”

“Cool, cool.”

“So, are you okay?” I gesture to his cheek.

“Pshh. Those closet cases are just jealous because they know I’ll never make out with them. I’m fine.” But his lower lip is trembling a little. I sit down next to him and try not to look like a pedophile as I rest one elbow on my box of wine. I remember after I’d get in a fight all I really wanted was for someone to sit with me.

“So, Kurt Vile, huh?” I say, keeping my voice casual and tilting my head back to look up at the darkening sky. “What do you like about him?”

“Well, he’s kinda hot,” the kid says, testing the waters with me.

“He’s not as hot in person,” I tell him. “He’s kind of vapid.”

“No way; you’ve met him?” The kid’s eyes go wide and his genuine enthusiasm takes five years from his age.

“Yeah. I used to work at the bar in a club. He played there all the time. Nice guy, just kind of a space cadet.”

“Whoa,” the kid says. I hope I didn’t just sound like a music snob.

“I like Christina Perri too,” I offer. “Her voice is awesome and her songs are kind of addictive, even though they’re a little bubblegum. She uses interesting progressions. My best friend, Ginger, tattooed her once, said she’s really cool.”

“Hey,” he says, turning on the bench to sit cross-legged facing me. His face is serious again. “Thanks. For getting rid of them. I mean, I coulda handled it. Probably. I just. Thanks.”

“No worries,” I say, and hold out my hand. “I’m Daniel.”

“Leo,” he says, shaking it.

“Short for Leonardo?” I ask.

“No, short for leotard,” he says, rolling his eyes.

“Smartass.”

“You love my ass,” he says, winking, and there’s that mischievous smile again.

“You must be okay if you’re trying to pick up a guy twice your age. I’ll leave you to your bench.”

“Well, whattaya say?” He inches closer to me, clumsy and enthusiastic. “Want to make out?”

I think he’s kidding, but….

“Leo,” I say, breathing out through my nose and trying not to sound 876 years old. “You’ve got to be careful. You don’t want to go around flirting with older guys. With strangers. Okay? You’ll get into trouble.” I am such an incredible hypocrite right now.

“Maybe I want a little trouble,” he says with an eyebrow waggle.

I take him by the shoulders firmly, the bones delicate under my hands.

“You don’t,” I say, as seriously as I mean it. “Not that kind of trouble.” Something changes in his eyes and he drops the smirk.

“Got it,” he mutters, looking down at his dirty Vans. I feel like I kicked a puppy. I pat him on the shoulder and grab my bag and my wine.

“I’ll see you around, okay?” I say. He brightens.

“Yeah, cool, man,” he says. “I work at the record store. You should totally come by!”

“Wait, there’s a record store in this town?”

“Um, well, they don’t only have records. But still! On Willow, near the alley behind the library. Come
on
, please come visit me some time. I get
so
bored.” He’s giving me a look that’s equally dangerous to the smile, only this one is puppy dog, through and through.

“Sure,” I say. “I’ll definitely check it out. Night.” I wave at him and turn to go. Leo jumps up, nearly tripping over his skateboard. Skinny arms snake tight around my shoulders and I catch a whiff of sweat and clove cigarettes before he lets go. God, it’s such a familiar smell.

“Thanks,” he whispers again. Then he grabs his board and runs away.

“S
EE
,
BABYCAKES
?
He wasn’t blowing you off by asking for your number,” Ginger says.

I’m slightly buzzed on cheap red wine—the kind of buzz that happens after one and a half glasses of wine on an empty stomach after not enough sleep—and lying on my back, staring at my ceiling as Pink Floyd pulls me so deep into my bed that I don’t ever want to come out.

“Yeah, I know that
now
. But I still convinced myself of it, which made me think how dumb I would be to get involved with him.”

“Clarify, please.”

“Well, if it made me feel that shitty to think he didn’t want me when I’d only seen him, like, three times, then it’ll be that much worse when he loses interest a few weeks from now.”

“Oh, that’s logical,” she says. “So, the more you like someone, the stupider it is to actually date them because the more it might, hypothetically, hurt if the relationship ever ends.” She snorts. “Wow, you’re smart. That’s, like, Nobel Prize material. Daniel Mulligan’s theory of dating relativity.”

“Shut up,” I mutter.

“Oh, come on. What’s really going on?” she asks.

“Tomorrow,” I say. “I think I might have an actual date.”

“Aw, baby’s first date!” She pauses. “Does he know you have no idea how to go on a date?”

“I can go on a date,” I insist.

“You’ve never been on one,” she says.

“What about—”

“Getting picked up at the bar where you work and blown in an alley does not a date make, pumpkin,” she says sweetly.

“Fine,” I mutter.

“Tell!”

So, I start to tell her about what’s happened this week.

“Wait,” she interrupts me. “Is that ‘Shine On You Crazy Diamond’?”

“Yeah.”

“Put it on speaker so I can listen too,” she says. “I was just thinking I haven’t played this album in way too long.”

I put my crappy phone on speaker and turn up the stereo. Then I tell her about everything that’s happened with Rex as
Wish You Were Here
soars in the background.

“That’s awesome, babycakes,” she says. “So, are you going to finally—
you
know—uuuuggghhh,” she moans. “This song is so fucking good it’s making me cry right now.”

“Ha-ha,” I say. “You totally wish I were there.”

“I do!” she wails. Ginger’s very sensitive, but it makes her uncomfortable. “And thinking of you maybe, actually, possibly going on a date with a nice guy… I can’t do that and listen to Pink Floyd at the same time without getting emotional. I’m only human.” She sings this last to the tune of the Human League song and I groan.

“Music social foul: no singing a song when another song is playing.
Double
music social foul: don’t ever fucking sing anything while Pink Floyd is playing. What’s wrong with you?”

“I should be shot,” she says. “I should be dressed in a
Dark Side of the Moon
shirt and shot into space so I can never disrespect Pink Floyd again. And not even a concert T-shirt, but one of those ones they sell in head shops that white boys with dreads buy. But enough about me. What are you going to wear on your date?”

“I dunno. I mean, he’s already seen me in a suit and jeans and a T-shirt. Oh, and half-naked. Oh! And carrying a half-dead dog. So, I don’t think it really matters.”

“It matters because if you look like you made an effort to look nice then he’ll think you care about the date and if you don’t then he’ll think you think it’s no big deal.”

“Um. Is that true?”

“Yeah, totally true.”

“Huh. So, what do I wear, then? I don’t want to dress up. I’m going to his house to watch a movie.”

“Mmmm.” I can hear Ginger mentally flipping through my (very limited) wardrobe. “Wear the black jeans you got last year, your boots, and any shirt that doesn’t have writing on it.”

“Uh, okay, if you say so.”

“Ooh, no. Specification: wear the maroon button-down I gave you that that guy left at the shop after puking like a tiny wuss and running outside without it.”

“The sleeves are too short.”

“Cuff and roll, baby, cuff and roll. It’s hot. It draws attention to your forearms.”

“You like my forearms?”

“No, not yours in particular. I mean, they’re fine. Just, it’s a sexy body part.”

“I totally agree. I just didn’t know girls liked them too.”

“Oh, yes, Daniel. All girls like forearms. Every single one. No really, I’ve asked all of us and we all agree. We don’t even agree about whether or not the long arm of the law should be able to reach into our vaginas, but we agree about forearms.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, Ginger, have you been fighting with the pro-lifers again? They’re gonna bomb your shop.”

“They make me want to get pregnant just so I can get an abortion and make a YouTube video of it to send to them.”

“All right, the maroon button-down and black jeans. Thanks. I’m going to ignore the thing about forearms, since I think you know what I meant.”