“I get it Krystal, and I can't tell you enough that I'm so sorry.” Maggie tells her with feeling.
“Okay.”
“Can I ask you something?”
“You can ask, I may not tell.” Krystal replies wryly.
“Why are you here? I mean, I don't know that I'd go to school if it was me.”
“Really? Where else would I be? I'm here for the same reason you are, I love computers. I like working with them, getting them to do what I want them to. I like learning to make them do stuff I don't even know I want them to do. It's fun.”
“But, if I only had . . .”
“You think so? I might outlive you, girl. You could be hit by a bus tomorrow, Maggie. Why waste your time if this isn't what you want to do?”
Maggie nods, “I guess. I hadn't thought about it.”
“Well, I have, and I decided I want to live like I mean it.”
“I guess you have. I can't tell you how sorry I am, Krys.”
“Yeah, I know you are. So now you can stop apologizing and move on, okay?” Krystal holds her eye, “I just want a normal life.”
“I understand.” Maggie nods.
Krystal smiles, “On the other hand if Hugh Jackman called me up and asked me to loll in the sun on the French Riviera it might be different.” Krystal looks at her unhappy companions. “Okay, who knows a good funny story?”
Sniffling, Maggie asks, “Funny story?”
“That's what I want, to hang out with friends and have fun.”
Krystal turns to Oscar. “Come on Oz, got any more Oscar Wilde stories? I really liked the one about the cowboy.”
“That was good, wasn't it.” Oscar grins, “You know, Maggie has her own wild story. Did she ever tell you about her flasher?”
Krystal's eyes widen, “Flasher? No way. Tell!”
Maggie rolls her eyes. “But it wasn't funny.”
“Ah, but it was,” says Oscar.
Krystal turns to Oscar, “Come on, then, Oz, spill it.”
chapter 34 . . .
Liz is sitting at one of the library tables with several weighty volumes spread open around her when Jake pulls up a chair.
“I tried texting you but didn't get an answer. You use paper books, huh? Interesting.”
“Lots of stuff isn't digitized. Besides, I get tired of staring at a screen all the time, Jake. But listen, I've gotta get this essay finished and I'm almost there. Just a little more, then I can write it up. And writing is not my thing. So,” she turns to smile sweetly at him. “What do I have to do to make you go away?”
“Well,” Jake begins, “if you're gonna be like that.”
Just looking at Jake's Cheshire cat grin, Liz can tell she'll want to know.
Hmmm. “Alright. What do you want to tell me?”
“Ask me how I can be of assistance to you.”
Liz studies him, sighs, then decides to play the game.
“Okay, how are you going to help me, Jake?”
“I'm working on a project for Professor Mol, a kick-ass slide show that'll run on every available surface during the school Christmas party.”
“Sounds cool. You want me to help?”
“Um, no, actually.”
Exasperated. “So what are you bugging me about then?”
“That's not what you're supposed to say.”
Liz laughs, quickly clapping her hands over her mouth to avoid being ejected on a noise complaint. People are looking, so she ducks down to whisper, “What am supposed to ask?”
“Ask me why the organizer doesn't want your help.”
“What? I get along great with the Prof. She's my hero. There's no problem, at least not that I know. Oh God, is there something I should know? What have I screwed up? Or does she just hate me? Why doesn't she want me?”
“Not Professor Mol,” Jake can't keep from grinning as he says, “Professor Mol's T.A. is the organizer.”
Liz narrows her eyes, looking hard at Jake.
“I don't have any problem with Ethan.” Jake looks at her with eyebrows raised, and she feels the blood rising to her face. “You gonna harass me about this for the rest of my life or what? Ohmigod you didn't say anything.”
“No,” Jake leans in, “What I'm trying to do is tell you a secret.”
Sceptical. “What?”
“Ethan doesn't want you to help because he thinks you're too much of a distraction.”
Liz opens her mouth then shuts it. She stares at Jake, waiting for him to give up on this monstrous tease and tell her the real story. But he's just sitting there. Smug.
“On the level. I told him he should ask you and he . . . look, he's got it bad. Real bad. But he's not gonna do anything about it.”
“Why is that? Oh, I get it, I'm too tall for him, right?”
“No.” Jake shakes his head, “He didn't say anything like that. More like you're too good for him.”
“What? That's crazy.”
“I'm just telling you what he said. But if you wanna get together with him, you're the one's gonna have to ask him out.”
Heart pounding, Liz snaps, “Maybe I will.”
“I'll watch your stuff. He's in Mol's room right now.”
“OK, I will.” She gets up and starts away, but turns back and leans in close.
“You're not making this up, right?”
chapter 35 . . .
Ethan is collating paperwork when Liz comes in.
“Hey Ethan.”
His grin gives credence to Jake's story. “Uh, Liz. Hi.”
Okay, she thinks, I can do this. “They're screening Un Chien Andalou at the Art Centre tonight, so do you want to go with me?”
“Uh, what? They're screening what?”
“Un Chien Andalou. It's this really weird old movie, I've read about it but I've never had a chance to see it. It's a collaboration between the famous French film director Louis Bunuel and the artist Salvador Dalí. You know Dalí, the guy who painted all those droopy clocks? Anyway It's an old movie, from the nineteen thirties, but the best part is that Salvadore Dalí didn't just work on it he's actually in it too. Anyway, it's supposed to be way weird, I mean it's Dalí, right, of course it will be weird, with interesting cinematography and special effects and anyway I'm going. Um. So you want to come with me?”
Liz is mad at herself for babbling until she realizes that Ethan is smiling big and nodding. She smiles back.
“It starts at seven, but I want real good seats so maybe meet out front at six thirty?” Ethan nods happily.
“See you then.”
And she's gone. Ethan takes a tentative breath, trying to determine if he's been dreaming or what.
Pressing his palms over his chest he sits back, smiling even bigger. Nope, he wouldn't have been able to dream up Un chien and whatever.
Ethan knows Jake's paw prints are all over this sucker but he doesn't care.
Liz wants to go out with him.
Whooee.
chapter 36 . . .
Barbie and Tamara are coming out of the lecture hall when Barbie stops abruptly. Tamara asks, “Something wrong?”
“Nah, just getting a text.” Barbie flips open her cell phone, eyes widen as she scans the text message.
“Get outta town, I can't believe he got them!”
Tamara shakes her head. “He who? Got what?”
Barbie's busily texting back, “This guy has Black Eyed Peas tickets for tonight. My god they're only in town one night.”
“Wow,” gushes Tamara. “Jose, right?”
“God no, if it was Jose, I'd have to say no. He's all wrong for me, you gotta know that Tam.”
Tamara nods, thinking of Quentin, “Yes, I think you're right about that.”
Barbie starts singing into an air microphone, “I wanna I wanna rock right now.”
Barbie dances around the hall, Tamara joins in chanting, “I wanna I wanna,” and Barbie starts strutting around doing her Fergie impression. “I wanna I wanna rock right now I wanna I wanna see the B
lack Eyed Peas.”
Tamara stops cold and asks, “But what about the test tomorrow, Barb? You're not going to be able to study at all.”
“Oh come on Tamara, there will be lots of tests but this might be my only chance to see Black Eyed Peas. Imma Peabody!”
“I hope you know what you're doing, girl.”
“Imma gonna see the Peas . . . Imma be fine. Look, Tam, I gotta go. Can I leave you my laptop? I've gotta go right now!”
“Sure,” says Tamara, taking her friend's case. “Have fun.”
“Thanks Tam you're an angel!”
Tamara watches Barbie go and wonders, not for the first time, how Barbie's going to manage it. But then she always seems to have everything come out her way. Barbie really is a golden girl. Tamara sighs, and heads for her own home. Stepping outside she shivers; much colder than before. Gotta make dinner.
Maybe something nice, she's got to talk to Q.
chapter 37 . . .
Boris and Natasha are singing along with “The Spam Song” on the common room sofa, watching one of Natasha's Monty Python DVDs, when Eric and Amelia come in.
Eric starts to laugh. “What on earth is that?”
Natasha clutches her heart in mock horror, “Don't tell me you haven't heard the Spam Song?”
Eric looks around “Spam? I can't believe someone made up a song about spam!”
“Yeah, it tastes pretty rude, too.”
Eric looks surprised. “Tastes?”
“'Spam' the food.”
“There's food called 'spam'? Get outta town.”
Boris asks, “Am I detecting a woeful lack of cultural grounding? How about Monty Python, Eric, you heard of them?”
“Ummm.” Eric tilts his head to the side and frowns, “Wasn't that a comedy team from the sixties or something?”
“How can you be an English major if you've never seen Monty Python?” cries Amelia.
Natasha shakes her head. “Scootch over Boris, make room.”
Natasha pats the sofa beside her as Boris dutifully “scootches” and makes room on the end of the sofa. Picking up the remote Boris asks, “Should we go back to episode one for the noob, or just start this one over?”
Natasha tucks up beside Boris. “I think starting this one over will be okay. I mean, after all, he might, ” she peers over the tops of her glasses studying Eric, “not like Python.”
“Don't speak heresy girl. Everybody likes Python.” Unsure what he's letting himself in for, Eric allows Amelia to steer him to the sofa and he ends up sandwiched between her and Natasha.
“No wait, I lie,” continues Boris. “My brother hates Python.” He grins, “But of course he's a dickhead.”
Boris leans forward with the remote but stops short of pressing the button when he turns to Eric, “Monty Python and the Holy Grail. You HAVE to have heard of that one, man.”
“Well, yeah, I've heard of it, but I never saw it. I'm not big on religious movies. I'm, well, I'm an agnostic.” Three blank faces stare back at him for a shocked moment but then they all start laughing.
Amelia reaches for the remote, but Boris isn't giving it up so easily. But he does take the hint and starts the disk.
They watch the whole thing, and they are all— Eric included— laughing their faces off at the “Argument Sketch” when Elsie slips in with a new man.
She sees the group on the sofa, and decides she doesn't want to get into anything with Eric just now, so she quickly leads her new friend up the stairs.
Eric is laughing so hard he's brushing the tears out of his eyes, but Amelia's peripheral vision tracks the movement. Angling her head she gets a glimpse of Elsie taking some guy upstairs.
Some one completely different. A total stranger guy. Amelia decides to keep her trap shut just now. Eric's finally almost acting like a normal person, he sure doesn't need to see that.
chapter 38 . . .
Ethan and Liz come out of the Art Centre discussing the film.
Or rather Liz is discussing the film.
Ethan didn't like it. It was too weird, and he thought the ants coming out of the guy's hand was decidedly creepy. He wishes that it had been a nice romantic comedy. A Hugh Grantish kind of movie.
Because then there might have been a chance to at least hold Liz's hand.
But Ethan is enjoying watching Liz crackle and pop with excitement. She's babbling so animatedly about Salvador Dalí and the movie, her eyes are alight as she explains all kinds of stuff that's way over his head.
She finally starts winding down as they approach the Fyfield House back door. Liz finally asks Ethan if he liked the film.
Ethan shrugs, and tells her “Not really.”
Her face falls. “Oh. Why didn't you say anything?”
“Because I liked the being with you part,” he says, reaching in his pocket for his key card.
Liz looks away, but she can feel herself blush, and Ethan looks at her a moment, breathless, before reaching over and giving her a soft kiss. He stays nose to nose with her and they gaze into one anther's eyes a moment. He brushes her lips with his own before Liz slides her arms around his neck and kisses him back.
Eventually they go in.
chapter 39 . . . wednesday
Tamara pours a second glass of orange juice. The married student cottage isn't very big, with only a “nook” instead of a real eat in kitchen, but that's okay, she thinks. Better than the residence coffins with people stealing your food.
Quentin may be great in the sack but he's not much for cleaning. Smaller means less mess.
Or maybe more concentrated mess.
As she whisks the egg mixture she cocks an ear, but she doesn't hear the shower.
It occurs to her that he might have gone back to sleep. And here she is making his breakfast. Setting the bowl on the galley counter she nips down the hall into the bedroom. Hearing his snores reignites her annoyance and she shakes him.
“C'mon Q. You've gotta get up, baby.”
He mutters and tries to roll away but she grabs his shoulders. “It's morning. You want breakfast you gotta get up.”
He opens his eyes and smiles up at her. She loves his smile, but she's gotta get going.
Quentin licks his lips seductively. “Hey gorgeous,” he says, nearly melting her resolve. “C'mon for a little cuddle first,” reaching for her waist.
Determination causes her to step back, just out of reach. “I can't hon, I've got a 9:30 lecture. I'm making French toast. If you want some you'd better get your butt outta bed.”
Quentin gives her puppy dog eyes in a pouty face but Tamara just grins wickedly. Points her finger at him, “If you're still in bed when I go I'm feedin'your French Toast to the birds.”
He stares in horror. “You wouldn't do that. Would you?”
She tosses her head and heads out the door. “Think what you like. Just remember, you were warned.”
She slams the door and returns to the kitchen.
He lays there a minute looking at the closed door. Hmm. Maybe she's mad he was out so late last night.
She was sleeping when he came in. Least she acted like she was sleeping. If she's mad, maybe she really would dump his breakfast out for the birds.
It wouldn't even be a question if she knew he'd been up half the night talking to another woman. The frying pan wouldn't be making French toast, it would be embedded in his skull.
Tamara would never believe it was just talking, but it's true just the same. So. Better not push it. Not this morning, anyway.
Quentin stretches and hauls himself out of bed.
Into the shower, hoping she's not mad enough to do that cold water thing again. He soaps up, letting the hot water pound him, helping relax tense muscles. It feels good as the tension starts to drain. They're going to have to talk, maybe tonight. He tilts his head back and takes a gulp of water, swishing it around in his mouth, spitting. The head is a little tender but he'll live.
Quentin clambers out of the shower stall and rubs himself down,
winding the towel around his waist he steps into shower shoes. He opens the window to let the steam dissipate then moves on to the kitchen, where he admires Tamara efficiently tending the food cooking in the frying pan. Heaven.
Quentin comes up behind her and slides his hands around her waist. “Smells real good baby” he breathes in her ear and he rubs up against her. She wiggles free and whirls around to face him.
“Stop it Q— I'm cooking!”
He recoils as if slapped, unprepared for the fury. He sighs as he feels “mister morning” droop.
Tamara looks at his dejected face and softens her tone a shade, “I don't exactly feel like getting burnt over here, Q.”
He holds up his hands in apology, “Sorry, Babe.” Looking somewhat sheepish he heads back to sit at the table. He downs the OJ in one, and pours himself another.
Tamara feels mean for a moment, but having to flip the French toast gets her over it. Another moment and she scoops the golden breakfast food and carries the plates to the table. The way his face lights up melts some of her anger.
As he drowns his breakfast with the syrup, he tells her, “Looks good, baby.”
When he takes a bite, moaning in rapture, she can't help but laugh at her man-child. Tamara sips her juice, picking at her food.
She's never been big on sweets, but he loves this stuff. She can pick up a cheese croissant at the coffee shop on her way in to class. After yesterday she just can't afford to be late.
Having vacuumed his food Quentin looks longingly at hers, and she passes it over and drains her coffee as he dives in.
She gets up and hangs the cute little apron on the hook by the door. “Gotta go.” Opening the closet she grabs her jacket and slips into it but when she turns around Quentin is standing right there looking terribly contrite.
“I'm sorry I was so late last night, Babe.” He reaches for her but she steps backward into the closet. His face falls as he realizes that she's rebuffing him again.
Now it's her turn, “Now you just wait a minute. Don't even think about laying a load of guilt on me. I do not have time to mess around with you this morning no matter how much I might want to. I have a 9:30 lecture and it's after nine already.”
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