Compliments

by Mari K. Cicero

  “What about your bike? You have it chained up somewhere safe for the night?”

  I bite my bottom lip. I hadn’t thought about that. “It’s on the bike rack outside Yang. I think it should be okay. Guess I’ll have to take the bus back after my presentation tomorrow morning.”

  He looks thoughtful for a second. “What time will you need to come to campus?”

  The email I received said the class runs from eight to nine-fifteen. Like most of Manderson’s community education programs, it meets at the community center in midtown, meaning I won’t have to drive far or worry about being able to find parking. I do a quick calculation in my head.

  “I guess around ten.”

  The corners of his mouth raise. “Perfect, I’ll see you then. Good night, Robin.”

  “What? Whoa, there!”

  He turns back and looks at me with blank misunderstanding, as though I just called out to him in Swahili.

  “You’re going to come back here after working all night just to drive me a few miles to campus?”

  “I don’t work all night.”

  Setting the poster tubes inside the door of my building, I turn back to him, crossing my arms over my chest. “Hawk, listen. You seem like a very nice guy, and I do really appreciate you driving me home. I mean that. However, I …”

  “Don’t date janitors?” he supplies with a raised eyebrow.

  I feel a lump form in my stomach. I don’t want to admit it out loud, but I’m finding it hard to come up with a more socially acceptable response on the spot.

  “I’m not looking to date anyone at the moment,” I attempt. “I’m a woman at one of the most male-slanted departments in an extremely competitive university. I have three months to snag the attention of an advisor or I might be kicked out of the program. I really have to focus. It has nothing to do with the fact that you’re a janitor.”

  He bristles, and I can hardly blame him. My lie is as thin as industrial toilet paper. “It’s not like I was saying let’s name a date and pick out china patterns, Robin. FYI: Yeah, I said you’re pretty, and I gave you a ride home, but don’t leap to conclusions. I’m not asking you out. I’m just being nice. No strings attached, just offering a ride so you don’t have to spend thirty-five minutes to go two miles on a bus.”

  His perfect quote on the timing of my back up route shocks me. “How do you know that’s how long it takes?”

  He points absently at his head. “I told you, I remember a lot of stuff. Like the bus schedules.” With a deep exhale, the tension in his shoulders eases and he looks at me, refreshed and calm. “I’m just offering a lift. It isn’t anything more than that, okay?”

  I can tell he wants to say something more by the way he looks up at me, like suddenly he’s realized I’m paying attention and he doesn’t feel comfortable in his own skin.

  “Well, okay. I guess that’s okay then.” The corners of my mouth pull up in a fledging attempt at grace. “Thank you.”

  “And Robin?”

  “Yeah?”

  He takes two paces toward the door and meets me eye to eye as he takes the first step. “If I were to ask you out, there’d be no awkward wondering if that’s what I was trying to do. And when I asked you out, I wouldn’t give you the option of saying no. Then, after the great time we’d have, this is the place we’d stand as I kissed you good night, all while hoping you’d invite me upstairs. By the way, I’m a hell of a good kisser, just so you know.”

  I wait—wordless, breathless, shell-shocked—until his expression softens into a grin. He starts to lean in, and for a moment, I think he’s going to kiss me. Lord help me, I want him to. I rationalize inwardly; there’s nothing wrong with a little physical interaction, and one kiss does not a relationship make. Just as my self-control sticks its tongue out and blows raspberries at me, and I lean in toward him, he pivots and descends the stairs.

  Hawk flicks two fingers off his forehead in salute. “Good thing neither one of us is looking to date anyone, especially the staff. Hope your presentation goes well.”

  With that, he backs to his car, drives away, and manages to leave me more than a little confused. My brow furrows as I recycle his statement. Dating university staff is a dangerous thing; I know this the hard way. If Hawk had any idea the trouble my manufactured superiority complex saved us, he’d be thanking me.

  √1+ √1

  In Hell, there is a level on which the only punishment is a cycle of waking up to the sonorous honk of a buzzing alarm clock, hitting snooze, only to have it go off again moments later.

  I know I shouldn’t have let Hawk’s insinuation get to me, even if at the heart of the matter, his assumption was straight on. I really shouldn’t have let his words keep me up until three in the morning, wondering if I was commendable for my honesty, or had been a complete asshole. It’s not that I think janitors are somehow inferior people, or that they lack intelligence. I just don’t think a person, who at our age finds himself working in such a position, and I would have much in common, no matter how awesome his pecs are or how cute that dimple in his right cheek was when he smiled at me.

  It takes a few moments for my eyes to focus in on the time from the blue LED display across the room. It takes one-fourth that long once my eyes adjust for me to fly out of bed and into the bathroom. Being late to my first placement won’t do much in the way of impressing Prof. Ferris. I have a total of fourteen minutes to get dressed, put all of my stuff in the car, and drive four miles. In my hometown, we measured distance in time. Four miles would be about five minutes worth of driving. Even though Manderson isn’t so unlike any other college campus I’ve ever visited, the dense city that surrounds and encloses campus makes it feel like I’m battling across Middle Earth to get from one side of town to the other. I may as well have enrolled in the University of Zimbabwe for all the familiarity I have. Here, there’s as many stop signs as there are trees, making my effort to reach the Midtown Community Center stressful. Nevertheless, I pull into a parking spot just as the time on my dash flips to eight, and bolt for classroom 2F.

  Twenty-some faces turn toward me when I come through the door. So many generations are represented across the spectrum: the youngest being about the same age as me, up to a gray-haired African American man wearing plaid-printed golf pants. My eyes dash to the front of the classroom where I expect to find a typical example of a Remedial Math teacher: thinning hair and a chalk-dusted brown tweed jacket. That, or another grad student, probably someone Indian or Chinese, given my field of study. I search my memory for the instructor’s name to test that theory, and suddenly realize that it was never provided me. The instructor in the email I received was simply listed as STAFF. Regardless, the front of the classroom proves empty. I might have technically been a few minutes late, but luckily the instructor seems to be even later.

  Apparently this is going to be a good day after all.

  “Robin?”

  Suddenly, I find myself wondering if I actually woke up on time, or if I’m still asleep in my bed and setting off on the start of what promises to be a terrible nightmare. Or a really good sex dream. However, when I turn and see the confusion in Hawk’s eyes, I know even my sleep-addled mind could never come up with something this awkward.

  “Hawk,” I say, as though that’s hello in a common tongue we both speak.

  It’s a bit cliché to say someone cleans up nicely, particularly if that someone is a janitor. The blue tie, dark blue slacks, and white, pressed shirt, take the man from closeted hottie to candidate for the cover of GQ. Black-rimmed glasses offset his runway looks just enough to make him irresistible. It’s like he’s a paper doll and this new set of cut-out clothes has transformed him. Even his hair is different. No longer falling in his face, the blond locks sit tamed under the influence of hair gel.

  “You really get cleaned up for class.�
�

  His confusion takes on an air of amusement. “It’s kind of expected of me. I have an image to uphold, after all.”

  Donald Trump once said you have to dress for the job you want to get. I guess Hawk is practicing. No matter my thoughts from the night before, work is work. If he’s trying to finish his GED, or even here just for enrichment, it’s a commendable characteristic, one I have no intention to chastise even in jest.

  “If I had known you were the one coming this morning, we could have just left your things in my car,” he says, examining my poster tubes.

  “Oh, did the instructor tell you someone was coming today?”

  Any smile that may have been peeking out from under his forced kindness evaporates. “Something like that,” he says.

  “Hey, Mr. S! Where you want us to put our homework?”

  From behind us, a lanky Latino man wearing a Carlos Santana T-shirt and jeans raises a hand, shaking a piece of paper. My eyes follow the direction he’s looking, thinking the instructor must have arrived while I was distracted. When it’s Hawk himself who answers back, I’m woefully aware that I’ve just confirmed that I actually am a presumptuous ass.

  “Save them until the end of class. I’ll grade them at home tonight and hand them back tomorrow. We have a guest today.”

  “You’re the teacher,” I deadpan.

  Hawk nods. “Yes, I am. I’m sorry I didn’t warn you last night. I knew there was an Outreach presenter coming today, but I didn’t know you were involved in the program. I should have put two and two together when you said you had a presentation in the morning, if you’ll forgive the pun.”

  “You’re not the janitor?” I ask in a muted tone. I’m not sure if saying it loud enough so that others can hear would embarrass him.

  Hawk’s eyes narrow ruefully. “I’m a lot of things, Robin. Janitor’s just my night job. Okay, listen up!” He claps his hands, effectively ending our conversation and getting the attention of the classroom. I squirm for the next few minutes as he invites me to set up my posters while he takes roll and does a quick review of the previous day’s lesson. My mind is filling with questions to ask, but they will have to wait. I chasten myself to stay concentrated on the task before me, noting that no matter the situation I find myself in, I still have a job to do.

  When I begin to speak, the eyes staring at me burn. It’s like somehow they know that I dissed their instructor, who they’re obviously fond of, and they’ve all decided to hate me universally.

  “Hi, my name is Robin Lewis and I’m a first year master’s degree student at Manderson studying Applied Mathematics.”

  One of the younger men in the classroom sits up on the platform of his desk. “I applied for mathematics once, but my application was rejected. Seeing you, baby, I think maybe I need to try again.”

  I’m not sure if I’m meant to respond as a sedate whisper of laughter trails his comment. I glance at Hawk, who’s wearing a disappointed grin. With a look filled with fluency, he glares at the student, who in turn dissolves back into his seat.

  “Anyway,” I continue, “the Outreach Program, which is run by our department, seeks to help students from diverse backgrounds see opportunities to make mathematics an empowering part of their daily lives.”

  The same student looks up again, but stays in his seat this time. “I bet if you and I got together, we could figure out how to multiply.”

  “Darryl,” Hawk calls out, “a little respect, please.”

  In my effort to diffuse his disruption, I turn to my first poster, a visual display of areas I imagined those in this class might have an opportunity for math. “Let’s say there’s a cold snap in Florida and suddenly the price of orange juice spikes. Knowing how to keep a household budget will help you figure out what you could pull back on in order to still afford that staple food. Or let’s say after the next election, Congress actually manages to pass a bill increasing the minimum wage. Knowing some basic arithmetic will help you figure out in advance how much of an increase you’ll actually see in your check on Fridays, helping you figure out if it’s worth it to put it in the bank in a savings account, or use it to pay off any debt you might have. Or, if you’re on welfare—”

  “Whoa, stop just a minute.” This time the outburst comes from the other side of the classroom, from an olive-skinned woman with black hair through which gray streaks weave. She balances an accusatory finger on a fisted hand in my direction. “Mr. S, is this chick for real? Is she really standing up there implying that we’re just a bunch of minimum wage slaves who can’t figure out the value of a nickel? I got news for you, poor people know the worth of their checks much better than some hoity-toity, Manderson graduate student.”

  “Now, Chawna.” Hawk pushes himself off the corner of his desk and comes to stand by me. All too suddenly, I feel like I’m back in high school. I can picture Mr. Elloise growling at the jocks about not teasing me for being smart. Only, this feels like the flip side of that speech. “Just because Robin’s a student at Manderson doesn’t mean she’s exceptionally wealthy or comes from a privileged background.”

  “Yeah?” Chawna crosses her arms over her chest. “And just where are you from? South Bronx?”

  I don’t want to lie, but the question seems too inane to me to cause trouble. “Huntington Beach, California.”

  “You mean that place they show on TV’s in Hollister stores? The one with all the rich, white, surfer dudes? Oh, yeah, you’re real down to Earth people out there,” Chawna adds sarcastically. “Only driving late model Bentleys.”

  Before I can respond, I hear Hawk do so for me. “Robin, how about you share with the class how you’ve come to use mathematics in your life in some exciting way? Other than academics, of course.”

  I suck on my bottom lip, surprised to suddenly be the example by which my presentation will be made. Or lost. Math has fascinated me since I was in primary school, but I didn’t really develop a strong aptitude for it until later. I’ve spent most of my time since high school with my nose in a theory book, but surely there had to be something...

  A memory surfaces that I’m sure Prof. Ferris would roast me for if she heard. I just have to hope it doesn’t get back to her.

  “I used math my freshman year of college to figure out my boyfriend was cheating on me.”

  Hawk does a double take in my direction. He leans in to me and says softly, “I thought you didn’t date.”

  “I used to, back when I had time,” I answer to only him. I have Chawna’s, Darryl’s, and everyone else’s attentions now, and I must use it.

  “Say what?” Darryl asks in exaggerated fashion.

  “I used math to figure out my boyfriend had cheated on me,” I repeat. “He didn’t have a car and he’d borrow mine a few times each week. He told me he was just running errands: going to the store, doctor, that kind of stuff. I had a feeling that he was hiding something, so I started paying really close attention to the odometer.”

  “Girl, that don’t prove nothing,” Darryl objects. “Unless his doctor, the store, and ‘stuff like that’ was just one block over, the man had to drive.”

  I acknowledge the statement with a nod. “True, and his mileage wasn’t anything that gave him away by itself. But it was a small valley town, so everything was within a few miles. I also noticed that when he did borrow my car, he burned through more gas than he should have. The only time my car had such a high rate of miles per gallon was when we’d go on trips on the weekend up to the ski resorts. And no, not to ski,” I add, because I can already see smugness in Chawna’s face as though I’ve just confirmed her pre-conceived notion that I’m some sort of rich girl who weekends in Vail at her family’s chalet. “We both had seasonal jobs. Anyway, I confronted him about why he’d been driving in the mountains when he’d tell me he was just running to the library, and he admitted he’d been s
eeing a ski instructor named Bunny for two months behind my back.”

  Darryl stares off into space. “Damn, I never thought about that part.”

  Hawk clears his throat from behind her. “So, what you’re saying, Robin, is that having a grasp on even some basic math skills can help a person from being taken advantage of by dishonest people?”

  “I think what she saying is that men are pigs and math helps to prove it,” Chawna declares. Her tone is softer now. Somehow admitting that I have a bad habit of choosing the wrong men has shifted her opinion of me. “I have suspected this all along.”

  We spend the next twenty minutes with me soliciting from the students times they thought their ability to be effective in a situation might have turned out differently if they had stronger math skills. The old man in the room raises his hand last. He tells of how when he was younger he thought he’d never be taken advantage of because, unlike his own father, he could read and write. He then tells us how his cousin managed to embezzle fifty thousand dollars from a business they ran together. He believes now if he’d had a better ability to understand what the bank statements showed, he might have picked up on the fraud before the business tanked.

  I start to collect my things as the period draws to an end, and Hawk returns to leading the class, asking them to read a lesson from their book and do a problem set for tomorrow’s homework. Even though my first presentation got off to a bumpy start, it did right itself. Still, I feel churning in my stomach when I think about the first topics I tried to broach and how insulted the students were. Paired with Hawk’s words from the night before and my embarrassment at finding out he was an instructor, I just want to flee at the first possible moment to avoid any more egg on my face.

  Unfortunately, as he dismisses the class, he asks me to stay behind. I sit in one of the stock desks that line the sides of the room and shift uncomfortably as he finishes speaking with a student. When the middle-aged man leaves, he navigates behind his desk and pulls out a briefcase, into which he begins to file the stack of homework.