Teach Me (9 page)

The
crashing sounds get closer to my door. Bleary-eyed from staring at
text all day, I open my door and peer out.

“Harpy!”
A drunken Nick rockets past in shorts, cleats, and a blinding yellow
soccer jersey, which I’ve
learned to call a football jersey lest I be subjected to long
lectures by my Brit classmates. “It’s
almost time for the game! Oxford United versus Portsmouth!”

“Are
they good?” I ask
MK, who’s trailing
him down our dorm hall in a much more sedate outfit. Just jeans and a
T-shirt in the same colors as the jersey, an indulgent grin on her
face as she watches Nick jump so high that the whole floor shakes on
his landing, which explains the source of the sounds I heard.

“Not
nearly as good as he’s
making them out to be,”
she replies. “Though
I’ve gotta admit, I
love you Americans’
enthusiasm. Come on, Harps, we’re
all going down the Bird and Baby to watch the match.”

“Oh,
I wish I could, but . . . ”
The stack of papers, still
untouched on my desk, call to me.
Harper,
they say,
you promised
Professor Jerkwad you would analyze us by the end of the night.
“I’ve
got work,” I tell
her.

Mary
Kate crosses her arms and plants herself in front of me, the very
picture of disapproval. “Harper
Reed, you are not standing here telling me that you crossed an entire
ocean to be with me for a semester, only to spend it holed up inside
your dorm room like you’re
still at home.”

“It’s
important work!” I
protest.

“When
else are you going to get this chance?”
she counters, throwing her arms wide. “The
chance to experience British culture at its best.”

“Also,
beer,” Nick butts
in, elbowing me aside in his crazed dance back up the hallway.

“Besides,
Patrick’s coming.”
Mary Kate’s eyes
twinkle.

I
roll my eyes. “Not
helping.”

“Look,
you only study abroad once, Harps. When are you going to live in
another country again? When are you going to live
here
,
and more importantly, right down the dorm hallway from
me
?”
She sticks her tongue out. “You
need to live a little.”

“I’m
really sorry, I just can’t.”
I shut the room door on her before she can protest further. I listen
to her humph loudly outside for a few minutes, before her footsteps
fade back up the hallway.

But
I don’t sit back
down at my desk. I stand there, staring at the folder, and all I can
think is that he probably wouldn’t
sacrifice his social life for me. Professor Kingston isn’t
sitting around feeling guilty for what he did this morning, for
sticking me with all the hard work, and dumping me like I was nothing
but some random hookup.

My
inbox pings, and my heart leaps in my chest.
It’s
him!
my heart cries,
even as my head insists there’s
no way. Not unless he’s
written a detailed apology for this morning.

I
open my email and sigh.
1
new message from F. Reed
.
Not him, just Mom. Subject line:
Hope
you’re
having fun!

But
it’s good to hear
from her. I click into the email.
Harper
darling, just wanted to write and let you know that we’re
thinking about you! Your father finally got around to sweeping up the
leaves today, and wouldn’t
you know it, the Loughlins’
dogs got into the mess, and then . . . 

I
scroll through her usual rambling stories about our neighbors and
extended family members, my smile growing wider and wider as I do.
Much as these stories can get boring sometimes in person, it’s
a nice reminder right now that some things—like
my mom—never change.

It
makes me miss her. Especially when I get to the last paragraph, all
about how proud of me she is, her star student, and how she misses
me.

Screw
homework, I need to say hi to her.

I
hit the call button, and luckily she must still be sitting at her
computer, because a moment later her smiling face lights up my
screen.

“Harper!
What a pleasant surprise.”
She leans around the computer to shout, “Honey,
Harper’s on!”
presumably at my father, though the deafening nearness of her mouth
to the speaker makes me flinch.

“How’s
your trip going, sweetheart?”

“Great!”
I tell her all about the last week since I’ve
caught up with her. I talk about Mary Kate’s
party (leaving out the details, of course), and about my classes, and
the exciting new research project I was picked to help out with (also
leaving out the details).

By
this point, my dad has appeared over Mom’s
shoulder, crouching down so he can make faces behind her back at eye
level. She swats him without interrupting my story, but that only
makes me crack up, and them too.

“I’m
proud of you, honey,”
she says. “But I
hope that courses aren’t
the only thing you’re
focusing on!”

It’s
so unexpected coming from the mother who raised me to work my ass off
for a 4.0 in high school that I can’t
help but stare. My father continues to laugh, probably at my
expression.

“She’s
right, kid. We didn’t
spend all this money to send you abroad just so you could live like a
nun!”

God,
I really hope my face isn’t
lighting up beet red at that remark. My poor, naïve
parents.

“Go
out and enjoy yourself,”
Mom adds. “What time
is it, almost seven-thirty? Shouldn’t
you be out having dinner with your friends?”

My
stomach growls, right on cue. “Um,
I guess. But I was trying to finish this assignment . . . ”

“I’ll
let you in on a little secret, Harps.”
Dad leans closer to the microphone, and assumes a gimmicky stage
whisper. “No one
expects you to get perfect grades over there.”

“My
professors all but told me our study abroad semester was the one time
we could slack off,”
Mom added. Then she pursed her lips. “Though,
I mean, not
too
much. Don’t start
smoking reefer or whatever the kids do these days.”

I
snort. “Yeah,
because that was totally my plan. Go to a foreign country and get
arrested for drug use.”

“Welllll,
you know, some drugs . . . ”
Dad swallows the rest of that
sentence with an innocent smile as Mom turns to whack him upside the
head again.

I
rest my hand over my heart. “I
promise I’ll enjoy
myself. Responsibly.”

“That’s
all we ask.” Mom
blows a kiss, and I say goodbye quickly before the conversation can
delve into sappy territory.

As
I turn off my webcam, though, I can’t
help but find the timing of that call downright suspicious. A quick
scan of my room ensures that there aren’t
any hidden cameras installed (at least, none hidden so poorly that I
can find them).

Maybe
it’s
fate throwing you a bone
,
I think. The universe cosmically yelling at me:
Stop
being a dumbass
! Not
everyone gets a chance like this, to live abroad and experience a
whole new country. I need to live up to it.

Besides,
it’s only 7:40 now.
If the football match ends by nine or so, I can easily finish tidying
up my notes and have something to submit to Kingston by the end of
the night.

In
a last nod toward productivity, I sweep the pile of notes into my
purse, just in case I get inspired while I’m
at the bar. Then I grab my keys, switch off the lights, and jog to
catch up to my friends.

I’m
not really in the mood for drinks, or even for a footie match. But
Mindy and Drew practically begged me to come out. Drew especially,
who didn’t want to
be the only guy among Mindy’s
circle of Latin grad student friends. He’s
not a professor himself, but as he runs the grumpy old man bar
closest to campus (aka the only one not perpetually flooded with
“just turned
eighteen” parties),
90 percent of his friends are professors like me.

As
usual, Mindy doesn’t
want to walk too far from the flat they share (which is probably why
they end up throwing so many grad/undergrad mixed ragers like the
Tarts and Vicars party last weekend), so they tell me to meet them at
the corner bar.

As
usual, the Eagle and Child is crammed with people. I sidestep through
the narrow corridors of the pub, which has always reminded me of an
odd melding of Victorian-era sitting rooms with the way I imagine the
interior of a gentlemen’s
club would look.

Not
that I’d know. My
father still holds to those kinds of outdated traditions, but I like
to think we’ve moved
beyond the need for expensively decorated private social clubs where
we decide the future of the country with more than half of said
country locked outside our closed doors.

I
peer into the first couple of side rooms I pass. Lots of undergrads,
and a few clusters of faculty that I duck my head to avoid. The last
thing I want is to wind up trapped in a conversation with a huddle of
deans in my present mood. I’d
probably tell them to go stuff themselves.

Somehow,
the much-needed release I found with Harper earlier has not helped me
move the fuck on. In fact, it’s
made me more obsessed than ever. Every flash of auburn hair I see,
I’m picturing hers
pulled around my fist. Every time I close my eyes, I can see her bent
over in front of me, and hear her desperate moans. All I want is to
get the fuck out of here so I can go home and relive that moment
again in private, since it can never happen again in real life.

My
hard-on is pretty pissed at me about that part. As far as it’s
concerned, Harper and I need to reenact that in at least a dozen more
positions, if possible.

Still
desperately trying to redivert blood flow to my skull, I finally
locate my friends in the very back of the pub, secluded in the room
that, according to the bronze plaque on the door that I’ve
long since memorized, used to be Tolkien and C. S.
Lewis’s regular
spot. Drew and Mindy are sitting with a handful of Mindy’s
friends, most of whom I recognize from brunches we’ve
gone out to. One of them, Sara, pats my knee the moment I slide into
the booth across from her. She’s
been doing that for months, anytime I’m
around. I don’t know
why she can never take a hint.

Even
now, I jerk my leg away, and it only makes her wink at me.

Have
a little dignity
, I
want to say. Instead, I slap Drew on the back. “How’s
it going, mate?”

“’Bout
as well as you can expect when we’re
down two already and not even through the first half.”
He points at the nearest TV screen.

“Bad
luck,” I agree,
though to be honest, I couldn’t
care less. Newcastle’s
my team, and we’ve
been playing even worse than Oxford this year, so he can cry me a
river.

“Jack!”
Mindy squeals, only just now noticing me. She reaches across to
squeeze my hand. Mindy’s
French on her mother’s
side, which shows in how often she’s
always touching and hugging people. Nothing sexual, just her
exuberant personality. “Where’s
your other half?”

I
blink at her a few times, convinced I must have heard wrong. Then I
figure I’ll go for
humor instead. “Afraid
I’ve left the cat at
home, tonight. Figured he wouldn’t
appreciate all the noise.”

A
few of Mindy’s
friends titter at my reply, yet she only shakes her head in
exasperation. “So I
take it you’re still
holding out on us,
oui
?”

“What
on earth are you talking about, Mindy?”

Her
eyes meet mine with no sign of guile in them as she says, “Hannah,
of course. She told me you two were thinking about going back on.”
The moment the words are out of her mouth, she must realize the
misstep. Her eyes widen, her perpetual smile dipping into a faint
frown. “I’m
sorry, did I misunderstand her?”

I
ball my hands into fists beneath the table and school my face into a
practiced, blank expression. “No.
No, I’m sure you
didn’t. Excuse me, I
need a drink.”

Sorry,
Drew mouths at me as I
rise to go. I shake my head, and hope it conveys what I mean.

Don’t
worry about it
.
Because he shouldn’t.
It’s not Mindy’s
fault that Hannah’s
using her to get to me.

It’s
not Mindy’s fault
that everyone around me seems to take Hannah’s
side.

It’s
not Mindy’s fault
that this morning only reinforced what I already knew, had been sure
about ever since the year Hannah and I went out—I’m
not the settling-down type.

Granted,
Hannah never made me feel even half of what Harper did in just one
quirk of her lips. I’ve
never lost control of myself with Hannah. I’ve
never fucked her like that, never nearly blacked out when I came,
never pushed her across a desk or forgotten myself so badly I left
marks behind.

Sex
with Hannah was so . . . well . . . 
British
.
Polite, gentle, orderly. No muss and no fuss.

No
heat and no fire.

But
what Harper and I did . . . If
we kept on like that, someone would get hurt. Me, or even worse, her.
Not physically hurt, because we clearly both enjoyed that. But
emotionally; fire like that would drag us both through the ringer.
Hannah and I didn’t
even have half that kind of chemistry, and look how badly our tepid
relationship messed her up. She’s
descended to the level of lying to my friends about being with me.

I’m
not delusional. I know it’s
my fault, my screw-ups, that drove her into becoming that kind of
person. After all the other serious relationships I’d
ended, I thought, here’s
a woman who fits me to the T. Every detail matches on paper. I told
myself if it didn’t
work with Hannah, clearly it would never work with anyone. Not long
term.

The
final breakup with her a year later proved that theory.