by Brea Brown
I jump about a foot. “Shit,” I mutter. “Nothing! I’m fine!”
“Yeah, that’s convincing,” she says. “Seriously, why are you late?”
I’m annoyed that I have to explain myself. The least Wanda could have done was send out a lousy email to the other admins that I’d be in eventually. “I had a personal errand to run,” I say shortly.
She accepts my answer without question. “So… what’s the latest with you and Jude?”
“What?” My head snaps up to look at her. She seems completely innocent, but she’s obviously heard something.
Marvin. Anyone who says men aren’t as gossipy as women is delusional. “Nothing happened, okay?”
Lisa furrows her brow. Zoe, hearing my tense voice, comes across the aisle. “What’s going on? What’d you do this weekend?”
“What is this, twenty questions?” I huff, grabbing my wallet and stomping in the direction of the break room. Of course they follow me, Lisa filling Zoe in on the way.
As I look for something in the vending machine to eat for a late breakfast, Lisa says, “Well, I was just asking about the Museum Board presentation tonight, but now I’m curious. What were you talking about?”
I don’t know how to get out of this one. Silence can only work for so long. She’s going to come up with more outrageous scenarios than what the reality is, anyway, so I answer (however minimalistically), “We worked together on it this weekend. I thought you were assuming something happened between us when we were here alone. But we weren’t alone. Marvin was here too.”
“Why would we assume that?” Zoe asks.
“Because you guys are always trying to make something out of nothing.”
“The preemptive denial,” Lisa muses. “Always a sign of guilt. I know that from being a step-mom.”
I shoot her a dirty look. “Or a sign that someone’s friends make her paranoid.”
Just then, Jude walks in. He sees Lisa and Zoe with me and says, “Oh. I thought… Never mind.” He runs his hand through his hair. “When you get a minute, can you come with me… er, I mean…” He blushes and punches his fist against his leg. I want to punch him for being so obvious. “Marvin wants us to look at the video when you get a couple secs—minutes!” He turns and mutters disgustedly at himself, “Oh, fuck me,” as he walks away, in the direction of Graphics.
I’m so annoyed by his display that I’m not even blushing, like I normally would be.
Lisa exchanges a glance with Zoe, but neither one of them says anything to me. Instead, they scurry off together, whispering. The most I can hope for is that it’s not all over the company by the end of the day that Jude and I are sleeping together. That’s the best I can hope for. The worst? I don’t even want to think about it.
Abandoning my breakfast mission, I stomp to Graphics, where Jude and Marvin are deep in discussion about the video.
“There you are,” Marvin says. “I was just about to show Jude the animation.”
I give him an expectant, impatient look that clearly communicates, “Roll it, already, Numb-Nuts.”
“Alrighty, then,” he replies, turning out the lights and hitting the button to start it. We wait through the stuff we’ve already seen, and then it continues with us “looking” up at the glass-and-beam vaulted ceiling.
After that, I don’t pay much attention. I don’t care. I’m just the admin. I know I’m only here because Marvin needed an excuse to look at my boobs. And he’s too lazy to walk past my cubicle, so he decided to have them come to him. I’ll be glad when this is over so I don’t have to talk to him again for a while. Until Sunday, that is.
“Buh-ruther,” I grumble aloud at that mental reminder.
“What?” Jude and Marvin ask at the same time, all eyes on me.
“Nothing,” I answer. “Sorry. It looks fine. I was thinking of something else.”
The two of them return their attention to the monitor. “See, I had the animation ‘walk’ in a circle, cutting through the gardens to get back to the entrance, so we can just loop it and play it behind you while you’re describing your design. That way, there aren’t any awkward jump-cuts or tiresome fades or other transitions that have been way overused.”
Jude nods, his finger curled on his chin. “Nice. Very good,” he says distractedly. I swear he’s looking at me out of the corner of his eye.
“‘Nice?’ ‘Very good?’” Marvin mocks. “I worked my ass off on this all weekend, and that’s what I get? It’s fuckin’ awesome, dude!”
Snapping to attention, Jude says, “Oh. Right. Completely. I agree. I was merely thinking of… what Libby said, er… wrote for me to say… My script! And how it’s going to sound in addition to this.”
He points at the animation and takes a deep breath. The intake of oxygen seems to help him concentrate. He looks straight at Marvin and says, “I doubt people are even going to be listening to me. Which is good! You did a brilliant job. I can’t thank you enough.”
Grudgingly, Marvin says, “Yeah. Well, okay.” Then he adds, “You know, you could show your appreciation by staying home from the baseball game Sunday. Huh-huh.”
Jude levels a steady look that makes Marvin take it back with a “Just kidding, dude.”
But then Jude quickly says, “No, uh… if that’s what you want. I mean, it’s the least I can do.”
“What?” I jump in, panic rising in my chest.
Ignoring me, Jude tells Marvin, “I have loads of other things I should probably be doing then anyway. Maybe I will stay home. Watch the game on the telly instead.”
With that, he thanks Marvin one more time for his help and walks out.
“That was easy,” Marvin says to me. “Looks like it’s going to be just you and me, babe.”
Without replying, I rush from the room, chasing after Jude. I don’t even care how it looks. “Hey, J— you!” I call, stopping myself before I sound like a lame Beatles cover band (again) but not before I sound like I’m broadcasting his religious beliefs. He half-turns but keeps walking. I catch up to him and fall into stride at his side just as we’re passing Leslie’s desk.
“What the hell was that about?” I demand in hushed tones, conscious of her nosy stare.
Without looking at me, he says, “I thought that would be preferable to both you and Marvin.”
“Are you kidding me? What made you think that?”
“You don’t seem to want to have anything to do with me. I’m saving you the discomfort of uninviting me.” We turn together and go into his office.
“I never invited you in the first place,” I point out, then rush on, “But I was glad you invited yourself, because it meant I didn’t have to be alone with Marvin.”
He shuffles some papers on his desk. “Well, invite someone else, then. I’m sure Zoe or Lisa wouldn’t mind being your buffer.” Abruptly, he changes the subject (sort of) but still refuses to look at me. “I thought you weren’t coming to work today.”
I abandon the comeback I was going to give him about his former remark and close my mouth at his latter statement. Finally, I say, “I had to get my car. Thanks for paying your tickets.”
“Not at all,” he replies formally. “Sorry about the mix-up… both of them.” He sits down at his computer and starts clicking his mouse, his eyes on the monitor. “Anything else?”
I can’t believe it! I’m being… dismissed!
“I… I guess not,” I stutter. “Unless you need help with your presentation?”
“Nope. Everything appears to be sweet as a nut, thanks to Marvin.”
His cold tone gives my heart the equivalent of brain freeze. But I lift my chin. “Okay. Good. I’ll just… uh…” I back through the doorway.
“Shut that, please, if you don’t mind,” he requests.
“Sure.” I pull the door closed and go directly to my desk, where I stay the rest of the day without talking to anyone.
12
I sleepwalk through the next few days, suffering from insomnia at night, L
FW an annoying haze of TV snow. By the time my session with Dr. Marsh comes around, I’m in an epically foul mood.
As soon as I sit down, he asks, “So? How did the assignment go?”
“Fine,” I answer shortly, handing over my list of compliments.
He takes the paper but doesn’t take his eyes from my face. “You don’t sound or look fine.”
I shrug petulantly.
Letting it go for the moment, he puts on his glasses and peruses the list, laughing out loud at a few of the statements. Finally, he sets it aside, along with his glasses. “Very good. I’m glad you took to heart my encouragement to be creative.”
I say nothing.
“What about the other part?” he prods. “Have you noticed a difference in the way people respond to you when you modify your body language?”
“Yeah, it’s been great. I’ve been hit on by a guy with halitosis, and I have a date this Sunday with another guy who has a garden hose hooked up to his armpits.” I cross my arms over my chest. It’s the most comfortable I’ve been in days.
“I’m sensing some sarcasm here.”
My response is a narrowing of my eyes.
He sighs. “Okay. Well, let’s start with this date. A guy asked you out, and you said, ‘yes’?”
“That’s usually how it works,” I answer. I don’t tell him that I was the one who actually offered the tickets; nor do I tell him the circumstances surrounding the offer. I just want to get Dr. Marsh off my back about my issues with men.
“Why did you accept, if you find him physically repulsive, as I’m getting the impression you do?” he asks, jotting something down in my file.
I stare at the college graduation photo. “Because I wanted to fulfill the assignment.”
“But that was extra credit. You didn’t have to do it.”
“I didn’t have to do any of it, really. But you know me well enough to know that if an authority figure gives me an assignment, I’ll do it. It’s hardly even fair.”
Not acknowledging that, he states, “Well, this date is a start. And it’s only a date.”
“Except I work with the guy. And he’s a leech. It’s not going to be easy to shake him.” I pick at a thread on my pants.
Dr. Marsh tries another subject. “Speaking of guys you work with—or their fantasy alter-egos—how are things going with you and Jude?”
“Which one?” I slip up and ask.
He raises his eyebrows. “You have a status report on both?”
“Never mind,” I reconsider. “Fantasy Jude and I broke up.” I’m painfully aware of how dumb that sounds.
More note-writing in my file. “Oh? What happened there?”
“He was too perfect. And he always agreed with everything I said. I got bored.” I chew on a hangnail.
“So does that mean you’re getting to know the real Jude a little better?”
“What is it with everyone’s obsession with me and Jude?” I ask hotly, shifting in my seat.
“Is everyone obsessed?”
“It feels like it! I can’t get any peace. If it’s not Lisa and Zoe, it’s Leslie. If it’s not Leslie, it’s Marvin. ‘What’s going on with you two?’ Nothing! A whole lot of it!”
“And this is upsetting to you?”
I’m not about to fall into his trap. “That people won’t leave me alone? Yes. That nothing’s going on with me and Jude? No. I just wish my life would get back to the way it was before.”
“Before what?” He leans forward.
I hadn’t planned to tell him. As a matter of fact, I had a specific plan to not tell him anything about last Saturday. But now I need a second opinion. Quickly (we’ve already eaten up several minutes of my one-hour session), I recap the events of Saturday, starting with meeting up with Jude and Marvin at work (which means I had to come clean about the “date” at the Cubs game this weekend) and ending early Sunday morning, with the pillow fight and my revelation. He listens intently, only interrupting when something’s unclear.
When I finish, he folds his hands in his lap and asks, “So… now things are strained between the two of you?”
“Ha! That’s an understatement. He wants nothing to do with me. He’s not even coming to the baseball game Sunday, like he promised. I’m stuck alone with Sweatstains McGee.”
Dr. Marsh stifles his laughter.
I ignore him and ask expectantly, “Well?”
He clears his throat. “What?”
“What do you think?”
“About what?”
“About Jude’s reaction to my confession.”
“Oh. You want my opinion?”
I nod, suddenly nervous.
“Well, I can’t tell you for sure what he’s thinking. His reaction could be interpreted two ways: he’s either turned off or he needs time to think about it.”
“I already know that. Which interpretation do you think, as a guy, is more likely?”
He shakes his head. “It’s hard to tell. I don’t know him.”
“You’re useless!” I practically explode. “And frankly, I think you’re lying. You know exactly what he’s thinking. You’re just protecting him. Because you guys all stick together.”
I stand up and pace the room. Anything to avoid looking at that damn picture on Dr. Marsh's shelf again. “You know he’s totally freaked out by the prospect of being the person I lose my virginity to. Not that I even asked him to be. I think it’s pretty presumptuous of him to think I was asking that, just because he took me to a concert and got me drunk. As if it were a foregone conclusion that I’d sleep with him! The joke’s on him, of course, because I’ve already slept with Fantasy Jude lots of times, and I’m sure he couldn’t compete with that.” I turn my back to Dr. Marsh, unable to say the next thing while looking at him. “Because that was fabulous.” I put my cool hands to my burning face.
And then I start crying. Because I know what I’ve said is pathetic. I know it’s not reality; I know it would only make Jude—or any man, for that matter—run faster and farther if he knew how out of touch with reality I can be. I’m not just a virgin; I’m a crazy, delusional virgin. Not too long ago, I would have been shut away in a home for insane spinsters.
Dr. Marsh lets me take my time as I blubber in the corner. Finally, when I’m moderately composed, he asks, “Have you ever thought of telling him some of this?”
I whirl around. “Are you kidding? That’s not even funny!”
He puts up a hand. “Now, just hear me out—”
“If you’re going to make an assignment out of this, consider it an incomplete right now,” I warn him. “I won’t do it. It’s bad enough that I got drunk and told him… that. The subject is closed.”
“What I meant is, maybe you should open up to him a little more about your life in general. Your background. Maybe then he’d understand.”
“I don’t care if he understands! I don’t have to justify anything to him. Or anyone else.”
I can tell by the look on his face that Dr. Marsh doesn’t believe a single word of that statement. And even though he’s right that I’m lying, the fact still remains. “He’s moved on. Decided I’m not worth the trouble. If he ever even entertained the thought that I was.”
I glance at the clock. Time’s up.
13
“The record-breaking heat wave continues, with highs today and tomorrow in the upper 90’s, heat indexes in the low 100’s. But there’s some relief in sight. Showers and thunderstorms, some potentially severe, on Tuesday evening and into the overnight hours should cool things down a bit, as well as bring us some much-needed rain. The high on Wednesday is only expected to reach 91. That’s your latest look at the forecast; now here’s the latest from some guys who put on an awesome show here in the Windy City last weekend—”
Eff me. I quickly switch off the radio before I get sucked into the song, which I happen to like a lot. Unfortunately. But I don’t need any reminders of Jude. Especially now, as I’m on my way to the dreaded baseball game
.
I’ve never, ever, ever dreaded going to a Cubs game. Ever. And I’m pretty pissed off that I’ve put myself in the position I’m in right now. I should have just let Jude fight his own stupid battles.
I watched the first pitch from the comfort of my own couch and contemplated calling Marvin to tell him I was sick. But I already had my ticket. And it’s one of the only games I’ve had a chance to go see at Wrigley Field this season. And they’re playing the wretched Cardinals. The pull of the ivy is stronger than the revulsion I feel for my date.
By the time I park and climb my way to my seat in the outfield bleachers, it’s the bottom of the third inning. When Marvin sees me, he stands and waves both hands over his head. As if I don’t know where my seat is. And as if I needed a reminder that he keeps two of the Great Lakes under his arms (Superior and Michigan, by the look of things today).
“It’s about time you got here,” he greets me as I sit down. “I was starting to wonder if you were gonna stand me up.”
“Sorry,” I mutter, motioning to the beer man that I need a drink. Now.
Marvin retakes his seat, brushing up against me. At the risk of invading the space of the person next to me, I move over a little.
“Yeah, well, Jude told me you got a phone call as he was dropping you off after your couch shopping, and that’s probably what was making you late.”
I pay the beer man and take the first wonderful sip of my ice-cold drink. Then I say caustically, “Oh, Jude told you that, huh? What’d you do, call him to find out where I was?” What a stalker!
We all stand up as the batter hits one hard toward center field, right where we’re sitting. But it drops well in front of the wall, caught by the Cardinals’ outfielder. After we’re seated again, Marvin says impatiently, “No, I asked him when he showed up here without you.” He mops his brow with his t-shirt sleeve, which is already sweat-soaked.
I resist the urge to:
gag;
spit my mouthful of beer onto the head of the person in front of me;
shout, “Jude’s here?!”;
