by Jody Gehrman
I laugh. “Yeah, that’s all I need, to be stoned and paranoid on top of depressed.” I turn and stare at the sliding glass doors, so slick and clean, reflecting the compulsive grace of Gary’s garden, created and maintained by his Australian mistress.
“And Gary,” I grumble. “Yuck.”
“You can say that again,” Rose whispers. “You tried to warn me, but shit, he really is smarmy, isn’t he?” She presses her lips together tightly to suppress a giggle. “That Spine Aligner shit? Is he for real?” We laugh a little, trying to keep it down. It’s like having the sister I always craved—someone to giggle with in conspiratorial secrecy, someone who’ll remind me I’m not the crazy one when the adults all behave like mental cases on acid.
When we’ve stopped laughing, she touches my hair affectionately and cocks her head in a question. “Ready to face the enemy?”
“As I’ll ever be, I guess.”
So we march back inside, putting on brave, cheerful faces. Except nobody notices, because by the time we get back to the table, Thanksgiving dinner has gone from pretty-bad-but-under-control to total anarchy.
“He is not.” Emily is screaming at Didi. “He’s only thirty-eight, okay? So fuck you.”
“Whoa,” Rose mutters, touching my arm.
“Emily,” Gary says, his eyes wide. “What on earth are you…?”
“Sweetheart.” Mira reaches for Emily’s hand again, and my stomach contracts slightly, but not as bad as last time.
“And it’s a good band,” Emily continues, her tone seething and belligerent. “It’s like totally out-there music, and nobody expects a stupid, uptight bitch like you to get it, all right?”
“Wait a minute, young lady,” my father says, squinting at her over his glasses. “Maybe nobody here cares about your manners, but—”
“And what’s that supposed to mean?” growls Gary, offended.
“Obviously she gets away with murder in this house—”
“And your daughter was a perfect angel, I suppose?” Gary glances at me before returning his hostile attention to my father. Wait a second. What exactly did Mira tell him about me?
My father looks at me, confused, and sputters, “Claudia’s got nothing to do with this—I’m only saying—” Thanks, Dad, for that heartfelt defense. “I’m only saying that Emily should not be allowed to scream obscenities at Didi, here.” He puts a shaking hand on Didi’s shoulder.
Gary takes a deep breath and returns to his creepy swami voice, addressing the ceiling. “We’ve raised Emily as a fully conscious being with a vast array of choices before her. She makes those choices on her own. If she expresses anger—”
“She’s out of control,” my father protests.
Gary sighs dramatically and widens his eyes at Dad. “Please, let me finish. She’s expressing her anger at Didi’s hostile attitude toward the man she loves. Is that so wrong? Isn’t that exactly what you’re doing?” he says, pointing a finger at Dad. “Expressing anger because the woman you love has been insulted?”
My father swallows, clearly at a loss.
“I just think Didi’s a fucking bitch,” Emily offers helpfully.
“Emily,” Mira says, but there’s very little venom in her bite.
“I can’t help it. I’m totally hormonal today, all right?”
Marco leans over and whispers to Rosemarie, “What is it? ‘Hormoonal’?” This sets Rose off giggling, which sets me off, and pretty soon we’re helpless with laughter, clutching each other’s hands under the table, while Marco looks hurt, and everyone else stares at us like we’re the crazy ones.
“Fine,” Emily huffs. “Laugh if you want to. No one’s going to be laughing when they find out I’m pregnant.”
Well, actually, she’s wrong. This just sets us off even worse. Tears are streaming down our faces and my stomach is starting to cramp, but neither of us can stop.
“Pregnant,” Mira says.
“You’re pregnant?” Gary echoes, for once not sounding like a constipated guru.
“Yeah, and I have been, for like three months,” she says, her bottom lip trembling. “If anyone in this house ever bothered to look at me, you might’ve noticed.”
“My God,” Mira says. “Why didn’t you say some…?”
“Because I knew you’d both tell me to just kill it, you—liberals!” And with this she runs from the table, sobbing.
Rose and I finally manage to squelch our hysterics. There’s a long silence at the table that awkward doesn’t begin to describe.
Finally, Marco breaks it with the phrase he practiced all the way here in the car, repeating after Rose until I thought I’d go mad. “Thank you for a lovely Thanksgiving dinner.” Everyone turns to gape at him, and he beams at us, his enormous, chiseled face looking pink and eager.
“Christ,” my mother says. “I need a bong hit,” and she gets up from the table.
Rose and I glance at each other, then get up to follow her, ready to collect on our hard-won dessert.
On the drive home, Marco’s crashed out in the back seat, while Rose and I, stoned and stuffed, laugh about the whole fiasco to keep from crying.
“That Emily’s a piece of work,” Rose says.
“Yeah, well, you’ve got to feel sorry for her,” I say.
“Why? She’s rich, she’s young, she’s sexy, they let her do whatever she wants (including supplying her with top-notch chronic) and now she’s set for life with a rock star’s baby. If he doesn’t want her, she could do the talk-show circuit and make millions.” Rose is braiding her hair into cornrows; when she’s not braiding Rex, she’s doing me or Marco or herself. She’s got this thing about braids that’s positively compulsive. She says it relaxes her.
“She’s had it rough, though,” I say, surprised to find myself defending the little wench. “When she was six, her real mom died of cancer.”
“That’s tough. There are worse things than losing a parent, though.” And for a long minute, I know we’re both thinking about Jade, but we don’t say anything.
“Not to bag on the dead,” I say, trying to lighten the mood, “but Emily’s real mom must’ve been as out there as Gary. You know what they named her?”
Rose looks at me, mystified. “Emily’s not her real name?”
“It’s her middle name. Her full legal name is Aphrodite Emily Snyder.”
Rose explodes with laughter. “No shit.”
“Seriously.”
“Man, that’s wild.” Once she’s stopped laughing, she gazes out the window with a pensive air.
“Do you, um, miss Jade a lot? Like during the holidays?” I ask, wondering if there’s a less awkward way to bring it up.
“What made you think of that?” she asks, and suddenly her face looks ten years older.
“I don’t know. I was just wondering….”
“Of course I miss her. All the time.” She takes a tiny rubber band from her pocket and ties off the braid she’s just finished. Then she glances in the back seat to make sure Marco’s asleep, and I wonder if she’s finally going to talk to me about Jade’s death, and what it did to her, and how she can handle waking up in the morning. But instead, she changes the subject, like she always does. “Hey, maybe if Total Eclipse doesn’t work out, I could groom little Aphrodite. She could be the next one-name wonder.”
“Maybe.”
Rose looks out the window again and doesn’t say a word the rest of the ride home. Every time I think she’s fallen asleep, though, I see her fingers braiding with rapid precision, like someone performing an intricate ritual, praying wordlessly to vague gods in the dark.
CHAPTER 16
Now that we’ve almost reached the end of the semester, I’m more determined than ever to get Clay off my mind. Monica’s been tracking my every move with her glittery little hawk eyes, and she’s clearly chummy with Ruth Westby, the department chair. It’s been emphasized from the beginning that I’d have to be really stellar and indispensable if this position is to become permanent. It’
s a long shot no matter how you look at it, but I’m definitely out of the running if I build up more faculty hatred by sleeping with Clay.
Not that he’s exactly beating down my door. It’s been seven weeks to the day since I stormed out of the pub and told him to stop mind-fucking me. He’s complied with maddening thoroughness—haven’t seen or heard from him at all. And I refuse, though I’ve been sorely tempted on more than one occasion, to just happen into Viva Vinyl like a love-struck adolescent. No, siree. I haven’t come this far only to give into pubescent urges. I am a mature professional now. I have my own travel mug, which I fill with coffee in the faculty lounge, thanks very much. I own a scarf, and though I haven’t had the occasion to wear it just yet, it looks very chic on me.
I am not dying for a decent fuck.
Yes you are.
Am not.
“Professor Bloom?” God, I love the sound of that.
“Yes?” I swivel in my desk chair to see Ben Crow in the doorway. Mmm. Talk about fantasy material. Dark brown hair to his shoulders, high cheekbones, deeply tanned skin. He’s got just enough rock star in him to justify long hair—on most boys it looks girlish or sixties goofy, but on him it looks über-masculine. He’s wearing a threadbare white T-shirt that shows all his muscles and a loose-fitting pair of chinos. I could eat him with a spoon.
“I wanted to talk to you,” he says, and the concern on his face makes him even more edible. “Do you have a minute?”
“Yeah. Sure.”
He comes in and closes the door behind him. It’s categorically discouraged to meet with students behind closed doors, since it supposedly increases your vulnerability to sexual harassment charges. Still, I can’t bring myself to get up and open it.
He sits very close to the edge of my desk and speaks softly. He’s got a wonderful, resonant, reach-the-back-row sort of voice, so he’s practically got to whisper to avoid being heard all the way down the hall; his timbre makes my chest vibrate slightly. “It’s about Ralene,” he says, and sighs. “I really tried to be patient with her, but it’s gotten out of hand.” He leans back in the chair and rubs his hands together, a nervous gesture that makes me fixate on his fingers, which are dark and strong and—
Get it together, Bloom. Student. Off-limits.
I can see his abs through that T-shirt—washboard city—and he smells of sandalwood, which normally turns me off but on him is the height of earthiness, conjuring images of long, delicious massages, glistening oiled limbs…
“She kept coming on to me,” he says. “And then she acted like I was into her.” He gives me a look that conveys just how absurd this notion is. “It was embarrassing.”
“But your project’s done next week—you won’t have to work with her after that.” And could you please take off your shirt so I could just look for a while?
“I know, I know. But here’s the deal. I guess she told Professor Parker that I was—whatever—‘harassing’ her, and that you refused to do anything about it. So then Parker told Westby.” He runs a hand through his hair and looks miserable. Now I’m the one who’s nervous. “Westby called me in yesterday, started asking a lot of questions. It’s all blown out of proportion. I mean all I did was try to be nice to the woman.”
Oh, God. Goodbye, tenure track. Hello, want ads. Well, look at the bright side. You could molest this kid without any ramifications.
“Professor Bloom?”
“Sorry. What did you tell Westby?”
“I just explained how it happened—Ralene complaining about me, how you asked me for my side and all that. I mean, what were you supposed to do? The woman’s a nutcase.”
“And did Westby believe you?”
“I don’t know. She’s pretty hard to read.” He looks like he wants to say more but decides not to. “Anyway, I just thought you should know.”
“Yes. Thanks for telling me.” I try to look poised and mature, rather than flustered, scared and so in need of a good fuck that I’m about to ravish him.
“You okay?”
“Who, me?” My voice cracks, and he smiles. He’s probably used to women sweating in his presence, but that doesn’t make it any less humiliating. “Yes. Fine. Oh, by the way, I want you to read this script.” I fumble through my bag until I locate a copy of Miranda’s play, Heirloom. “We’re producing it next quarter, and I want you to read for it. Check out Ray. It’s a good role.”
He looks pleased. “Cool. Thanks.”
“Yeah, and thanks for letting me know.”
“No problem. I really like your class, by the way. You’re the only teacher here I can relate to, you know? Everyone else seems so—” he looks down at the floor, trying to find the right word “—old,” he finishes, and then, dissatisfied with that, he adds, “or stuck in their ways, or something.” I feel a ridiculous flush of pleasure. Ben Crow likes me. “You’re more spontaneous. That’s the way theater should be, don’t you think? You shouldn’t have to plan every little detail like it’s some sort of military operation.”
“No,” I agree. “You shouldn’t. You know, you should read this book—I think you’d really like it. Have you ever checked out David Mamet?” He shakes his head, no. “Totally incredible playwright.” I dig through my bag once again. “He writes essays about theater that are just—where is that?” I heave my bag onto my desk and dig some more. I pull a binder out and a tiny swath of material flutters onto my desk, landing inches from Ben’s elbow. For a confused beat, we both just look at it, perplexed, and then I realize with horror what it is.
My leopard-print thong.
Christ, Bloom, you’ve really done it this time.
I reach for it, but Ben, who is quicker and closer, has already picked it up. Realizing what it is, he drops it like it’s a rattlesnake, blushing scarlet.
“Panty lines. Just hate them,” I blurt out, then cover my eyes.
He makes a small, embarrassed sound in his throat.
“I—I was going to go swimming on campus, so I brought—” I stammer, seizing the offending item and stuffing it back into my bag. “A change of clothes,” I finish meekly. “Anyway…” I can feel his eyes on me, and I fumble in my bag more frantically than ever. “Jeez, where is that stupid book?”
Professor Arrested for Forcing Student to Study Thong.
There’s a knock on my door. “Come in,” I say, relieved to be rescued from this moment. The doorknob jiggles, and then I remember that our office doors lock automatically. I get up and open it, expecting to see Miranda, since we’re supposed to talk about Heirloom this afternoon; instead I find myself face-to-face with Clay Parker.
“Hi.” Having just barely cooled from my stinging embarrassment seconds earlier, I now feel my face burning afresh.
“Good, you’re here.” He looks over my shoulder and, seeing Ben, goes serious and curt. “You’re with someone—sorry. When are you free?”
“Oh. Um—”
“I was just leaving,” Ben says. “I’ll see you next week, Professor Bloom.”
“Okay.” I return to my desk and sit down, trying to get my bearings. “I look forward to your final project,” I say as Ben and Clay scoot past each other in the doorway. I hope I’ve struck that perfect professorial tone—encouraging but cool, not a trace of tart—because now that Clay’s here I suddenly feel incredibly culpable and transparent, as if he can see with a glance that I’ve been tossing my panties around recklessly.
“See you,” Ben mutters, and disappears.
“Listen,” Clay says, shutting the door. I try to calculate whether sexual harassment risk exists with a fellow faculty member’s husband. Professor Convicted of Home Wrecking. “I’m sorry to bother you here. I know you don’t want anything to do with me, but this is sort of an emergency.” He sits where Ben did, his legs in a wide V, his elbows propped on his knees. I wonder how I ever could have gotten worked up over Ben Crow, even with his cut abs and his sandalwood oil; he’s nothing compared to the symphony of crooked and straight that is Clay Parker.
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“That sounds a little scary.”
“I’m not trying to be alarmist,” he says, “I just figured you should know. Ruth Westby?” I nod, completely mystified about where this is going. “She’s, um, she’s got a bit of a problem with you right now. You can talk her down, but she’s not happy.”
“Actually, Ben was just telling me—”
“Was that Ben? The guy that just left?” I nod. “Huh. Okay.” He appears to be working this into the equation, making calculations. “Well, Westby’s under the impression that you’re playing favorites with him. That you deliberately ignored some very serious complaints about him by other students because you’re fond of him. Maybe even—too fond.”
“Too fond?” I repeat weakly. Oh, my God. I’m a child molester. They’ve planted a microchip in my brain and have monitored every lustful spasm that passes through my quivering, sex-deprived cells.
“Monica’s encouraged the notion. She’s talked to a bunch of your students, and now she’s got Westby semiconvinced there’s something scandalous going on.”
“Wait,” I say. Breathe. Go on—inhale, exhale. You can do it, Bloom. “Are you saying they think I’m like—they don’t think Ben and I are…?”
“Let’s just say it’s crossed their minds, okay?” I look at him in horror, and he just shrugs. “Welcome to academic politics.”
“But how do you…?”
The phone rings. I stare at it blankly, my heart pounding, then pick it up with damp palms and croak, “Professor Bloom.” Usually just saying this cheers me up, but today it sounds absurd, like a little kid with a toy gun lisping, “Bond. Jameth Bond.”
“Claudia. Ruth Westby here.” She sounds very cheerful, not at all like someone about to accuse me of lewd and immoral conduct. “Have you got a minute?”
Have I got a minute? A minute to be sacked? A minute to be prosecuted as a sex offender? “Sure? What’s up?”
