by Celia Loren
“I give that a month,” our Professor snaps back, to everyone's thrill. I never took a class with more than thirty kids in Savannah, and now I feel like I'm in the galactic senate of snickering jerks. “Now. If we're done with Puppy Hour, I'm passing around the syllabus.”
I lean back in my seat, face hot. I grip my pencil, making to take notes, but I'm already too mad. Brendan has shifted fully away from me, and it's all the fault of this stand-up comedian of the English department. I mean, the nerve of some people...
The syllabus reaches our row, and Brendan leans forward again. When I catch his profile, he doesn't seem put out by the joke—just amused. He leans across my desk to hand the remaining papers back to some designated TA, and in that moment I imagine his head stretched across my lap. I resist the urge to pat his silken locks, to run my fingers through his mane, the way his run around those guitar strings.
He doesn't right himself immediately, to my delight. Rather, his mouth hovers by my ear, like he's about to say something. I feel myself begin to beat, like one big heart. My chest. My stomach. The curve of my ass, which he saw almost all of, moments ago. I realize I know what he's going to say. I can feel the words on his tongue before they arrive in space. In my way, after all, I know his tongue really well. I know the tongue's favorite foods, favorite words, the kind of songs the tongue likes to sing. “Angry Avery,” he'll start with. “Lighten up.”
But Brendan hovers and hovers by my face, our mere proximity enough to shoot down any “just friends” nonsense I've floated in the room, but he never says anything. I wait and wait, upright and silent—but finally decide I can't take the pressure. When I bend towards my desk and pick up my pencil, it's like some kind of spell has been broken. Brendan shifts in his seat, just far enough away from me that I can no longer smell him. And this is enough.
“And remember, people! I want three pages on the Didion essay by Thursday. Double spaced, MLA. You know the drill!” Light seems to open up the lecture hall as students yawn and stretch, begin to gather their things—but I decide this must be an illusion. Some trick of the trees drifting around beyond the tall bay windows.
I move to collect my things slowly, hopeful on some level that Brendan will say something magic like, “Wanna get some tea?” But my old friend moves fast. He gathers his things into a canvas mini-duffel, with the efficiency of someone robbing a bank. He's already at the end of the row by the time I'm standing, his hand cocked in a vague salute. He doesn't even look me in the eye.
“Seeya around, kid,” he calls, hitching the bag over his muscular shoulder. He smiles, once again with just half his mouth. He's already out the door before I can call to his back the only thing I can think of to say: “Hey, Brendan! You left your coat!”
Chapter Fourteen
I only met the twins’ father once, at a Career Day, in the seventh grade. I remember Clark Kelly as a spindly man, somehow improbable beside his two golden sons. Clark, who worked in the comptroller's office, was tired-looking, with tired brown hair. He was fidgety and distant as he spoke about the “tenets of smart accounting,” like an addict in need of their next fix.
I knew that he'd left their mother for a much younger woman named Gloria. Gloria worked in the comptroller's office, too. I only ever saw one picture of her, in an old yearbook we three discovered on file at the local library. As we bent over her old class picture, I decided she was pretty in a bland way— all teeth and make-up. But sandwiched in between Brendan and Chase, feeling their halted breathing on either side of me, I realized I was witnessing two completely different reactions to betrayal. This was a key moment in our friendship—a day when I realized that Brendan and Chase were very different boys.
“She's kind of a MILF,” Chase laughed. I got the sense he was transforming pain into something to joke about. If he couldn't get rid of Gloria, he could secure some way to laugh at her. “It's hard to see now, but I'd have tapped it. Back in the day.”
“Don't be gross,” Brendan had said. His eyes were fixed lamps, serious and probing. I'd wanted to shut the yearbook and go exchange mix CDs already, but something in his gaze pinned me.
“What? You've seen her titties. They're ace.”
Because he was ever-polite, Brendan's eyes had flicked over me at the word 'titties,' though I was laughing at Chase’s dumb comment as I'd long ago resolved to be 'one of the boys.’ I’d watched Brendan's face become pensive and strange as a third color crossed his features, one I recognized from some of our music chats by the big tree. The color was pity.
“Gloria probably didn't mean to hurt anybody,” he said finally, shutting the yearbook. “Still, though. I guess I wish she'd thought about us.” Then he'd half-smiled and we'd called it a day, running off to play one of our silly games. But I never forgot.
“Avery?”
He was so cute when he was little. There was this little smattering of freckles across his nose that's since blended into his tan features...
“Avery?”
“Ms. Lynne?” I blink, and recall my surroundings. This is English. This is a lecture hall. This is a nervous-looking TA, peering at me like a cat, over huge glasses.
“Huh? What?”
Something nudges me sharply from the side, and then there's Brendan, smirking for me, though his eyes are pinned to the blackboard. Professor Chen is staring at us, her mouth an arc of disappointment. Everyone in class is staring in a way that informs me I was apparently just asked a question.
“Sorry, I spaced out for a moment, Professor—could you, err—could you repeat? What you just said?”
“None of these other students 'spaced out,' Avery. I don't think it's very respectful of their time if I give you preferential treatment. Wouldn’t you agree?”
My face grows hot, and when I swallow, my throat remains dry. As I open my mouth to speak, I feel a soft pressure at the center of my back: Brendan's hand. I could melt, but his gesture is a steadying one, not explicitly sexual. He touches me just enough to grant me strength. I sneak a peek at his eyes, in my periphery. The green ocean is all warmth and encouragement.
“I agree. And I apologize, everyone.” The tension seems to drain from the room slightly, like a balloon releasing some of its air. Professor Chen sighs.
“See me after class, Ms. Lynne,” she says. The TA shifts her cat eyes back to the board, and our big, dull lesson on Didion resumes. Brendan lifts his hand away.
“Look alive,” he says to me, through gritted teeth.
Last week, I might've laughed at this remark—but the past seven days have been a confusing blur. I can't look at Brendan. I don't know how to act around him at all. Sparring with Chase was easy, as was the decision to say 'yes' to a date—but I can't even articulate to myself what I'd want from a relationship with the other Kelly. I mean, do I even want to date him? Or is all this girly emotional nonsense just the by-product of a new school and a new environment? Yet I can sense his eyes on me, those concerned green irises. His jacket is still balled up in my twin bed. Which makes me sound like a serial killer...
Christ.
When I reach Professor Chen, walking towards her with the gravity of someone on death row, she immediately begins to busy herself with papers, as if she's already resolved not to look at me.
“We're not off on the right foot, are we, Avery?” She slams a book shut.
“I'm so sorry about the distracted thing. And the thing from last week. It won't happen again.”
“Let me ask you something, dear. Why are you in this class?”
Because it's a core requirement, I nearly say. But even I am smart enough to know that's not the right answer.
“Okay, never mind. How's this—what do you actually like to do? What gets your blood flowing?” Green-eyed twins with opposite personalities. Hmm. Also wrong. If this is a test, I've already failed.
“I like art,” I manage, and am instantly ashamed at how casual these words sound in space. 'Like' isn't a strong enough word for the way I feel about art—not by
a long shot. Art is the only way I know how to understand and experience the world—that is, aside from running, which more often helps me to abandon my mind. I think of the sloppy canvases drying right now in our dorm room. Tara's been complaining for days about the stench of Turpentine on her sheets, but brilliant, bold slashes of color have plagued my imagination ever since...well, ever since the great big nothing happened last Monday. Stripes and sounds and melodies, electric, unmitigated feelings find their only home on my canvases.
Professor Chen is reading something else in my eyes, and it's too much to assume she can see what I haven't said about my passion. When she opens her mouth again, her face is rigid with the expression now familiar from my daydreams: pity. She pities me. That bitch.
“I just want you to know,” she says slowly, “that boys can sometimes be fatal distractions for strong women. College can be a wonderful time to learn about your self—and, for my part, I think it'd be a shame to see a smart girl like you spend years chasing a man's affections.” I am floored. My stomach seems to flex, like a bicep. I feel acid rising on my tongue, but Professor Chen has already reached the door frame, pre-empting my defense.
“Just think about it,” she says to me, smiling. “And don't forget the Melville for next week.”
“What was that all about?” Brendan asks, surprising me. He's leaning against a bank of unused lockers, eyes scanning his phone absently. He’s waiting for me, in the hall.
“Nothing,” I mutter, still livid. Like Professor Chen knows anything.
“You sure? Because you look a bit stormy.”
“Oh, what? Are you gonna call me Angry Avery now?” The words fall out of my mouth more bitter than I mean them. But when I glance up, Brendan doesn't look phased. Without saying anything, he lifts the messenger bag from my shoulder, taking my burdens as his. In a charged silence, we walk towards the blinding sunlight pouring over the steps of Hampton Hall.
As the glass doors swoosh closed behind us, Brendan flicks a pair of Aviator sunglasses onto his nose and turns to face me. I'm self-conscious, half-aware of the many students milling around us on the steps.
“Listen, Avery. I feel like there's an elephant in the room.”
I hear my phone vibrate, but Brendan doesn't pass me my bag.
“I don't know what you're talking about,” I say, shading my eyes. The sun is hot, but my skin feels inappropriately ablaze. Brendan's wearing a worn Rolling Stones t-shirt, so thin in places that you can see patches of his skin peeking through.
God. God, God, God.
“I don't want things to be weird. I know that you and brosef have been hanging out. But...” I strain towards him, almost rising on tiptoe. I'm in the orbit again, suddenly—the tobacco, and the hair, the muscular forearms. Those pink, pillowy lips. Those thick, serious eyebrows. I want to catalogue all of him. I want—
“Hey, baby!” For a moment, I'm thrown. The voice approaches me from behind now, and familiar forearms gather at my waist. I cringe away from the surprising contact at the same time that I register the doppelganger.
“And hey, brother!” Chase calls. He perches his head on my shoulder, tilts his smooth chin so he can kiss me on the cheek. I am literally in a sandwich of twins. In spite of myself, a little thrill runs down my body. I feel my nipples perk, below my tank.
“Hey, brother.”
“You coming to the big game this weekend?”
“I dunno if I can make it, dude. Baby's got a gig.” I'm aware that though Brendan is talking to his brother, his eyes stay fixed on me. Behind me, Chase’s eyes plunge to my neckline, where I'm positive he must see my traitorous nipples, rising below my shirt.
“Did no one tell you, J? Rock n' roll is dead!” Chase laughs into the hollow between my neck and my shoulder bone, tickling me. Brendan takes the spar in brotherly stride, rolling his eyes before he seems to acknowledge his brother for the first time. Or, more accurately, he acknowledges the picture the two of us must make: the blonde jock and his blonder lady-prize. I watch something register in that handsome, familiar face. Then Brendan smiles crookedly, and begins to turn away from us.
“Such a comedian, this guy,” he murmurs. Then, to me: “I'll get at you about the homework stuff later, huh, A?”
I'm sad to see his tall, lean back disappear into a sea of other tall, lean backs, but I remember to right my composure before Chase spins me gently around. This is not the life you chose, lady, I say to myself, like a mantra. My boyfriend's eyes are kind and uncomplicated, meeting mine. And we still haven't done anything but make out yet, isn't that funny? I wonder for a moment how Chase Kelly has been able to sate his muscle-man's appetite with chaste little kisses from the literal girl-next-door of yesteryear.
“Hey, hot tamale. I got a question for you.” And from apparently nowhere, Chase produces a long-stemmed red rose with a convincing dew-drop balanced on one petal. On slightly closer inspection, the rose is plastic. But a very convincing fake, nonetheless.
“What's that, pal?”
Chase drops to one knee.
I feel a nauseous wave rise in my stomach. Some of the other students on the steps pause to laugh at the pair of us. A few phones emerge.
“What are you doing, Chase?”
“Only asking the hottest girl at SDU to be my date to homecoming!” The small crowd that's gathered around us goes off like a miniature firework—girls laugh and applaud, guys crow. I smile, half with relief. I mean, what did I even think? That he was going to propose to me, three weeks into casual dating, on the steps of the biology building?
I'm aware that time has lapsed since the question when the crowd around us begins to go quiet; only then is it clear that I've been expected to respond, this whole time. I look Chase in his beautiful eyes. He's so unflappable. I can tell that if I said no, he'd simply rise, brush the dust from his khakis, and give me a noogie or something. Or maybe that's just a memory from earlier in our friendship. Maybe I should listen to his advice from all those weeks ago, and actually, for once, attempt not to think so damn much.
“I'd love to be your date to homecoming,” I say, with confidence. When he rises to embrace me—a little tightly, for my liking—the crowd hoots and hollers their approval, enveloping us with good cheer.
“See, Angry? I think we make a good team,” Chase whispers into my ear, as his hands settle across my lower back. He says it just like that: all defensive, as if I've been arguing the opposite point. I smile back, though with my face jammed up against his shoulder, it's not like he can see.
Chapter Fifteen
No sooner have I gotten back to my dorm room and broken the news to Tara than an uncomfortable e-mail appears in my inbox. The sender is Professor Chen, and the subject is “Extra Assignments.” My worst enemy goes on to say:
Hi, Avery—I'm a little unsatisfied with how we left things today after class. However, I'm more unsatisfied with your first assignment. Your Didion paper was rushed and sloppy, and I'm positive from both your track record and your few attempts at sentence structure that you can do a better job. If you're serious about starting my course on the right foot, you'll look into the following three attached essays. I'd like 500 words on the cross-over themes you find in the Forster, the Woolf and the Chandler pieces by Monday morning. As you write, think about what the timeline of these works tells us about the evolution of American literature. Happy reading! J. Chen.
“What's wrong?” Tara asks, reading the mood shift on my face before I so much as utter a sound.
“My bitchy English teacher just gave me extra homework,” I whine, beginning to pace the room.
“So? Blow it off!”
“She's already taken me aside to 'discuss my work ethic.'” Playing the full drama queen, I sink to the floor and lift my arms toward our cruddy ceiling. “Week one at SDU. This is just perfect.”
“You can't cram on Sunday?”
I briefly try to imagine a world in which I am not hungover on Sunday after going to a day-long homecoming tailgate, bar
crawl and dance with a bunch of jocks, but even I'm not that good. I shake my head no. And the thing is? I do want to get off on the “right foot” at my new school. The whole idea of a “right foot” is why I transferred home in the first place.
Tara still appears mystified at my reaction, but I lurch into the hallway, dangling my red (plastic) rose, prepared to bite the bullet. He picks up on the first ring.
“Hey, sweetness!” I hear familiar yells in the background. They’re sounds from the student union game room—a place I already know well, considering Chase has taken us there on two separate dates.
“Hey, Chase—so, I have some bad news.” Behind me, Tara flops down on her bed, shaking her head like an old timer. Is it so unfathomable that someone would cancel on a date with Chase Kelly?
“Lay it on me.”
“My English professor just sent out this crazy amount of extra homework, and I think I should spend the weekend studying.”
“Laaaaaaaaaaame!” he hoots. In the background, I hear the sound of someone winning an arcade game—little victory ping sounds seem to surround the phone.
“I know, I know. But is there any way you could forgive me for bailing on the day?” For a moment, there's silence on the other end. I furrow my brow, and look back to Tara—who merely raises her copy of The Enlightened Orgasm (which is apparently my friend's only book) so it obscures her whole face.
The silence is overpowered then by the sounds of several girl-voices—high-pitched, winsome, girly-girl voices. Someone wolf-whistles. When Chase returns to the line, I get the sense that he was holding the phone away from his ear for a moment or two—and I'm reminded of the way he talked to his mother on the phone in middle school. Joanne Kelly was a worrywart in the direct aftermath of her divorce, and though she entrusted the twins with one cell phone to share in the eighth grade, Chase somehow obtained full custody. I have many memories of the three of us, tangled in a board game, while Chase spoke haltingly to his mother on the phone because he was concentrating on something else.
