by Chloe Butler
“Anyway,” Zach went on, “we’re meeting tomorrow at four at one of the main library study rooms. Come by if you want.”
I looked around, hoping to magically see three other students I could corral. Sorry, Zach, this is my study group right here. But the hall was empty. I looked at Zach, at his smooth neck and broad shoulders. “I’ll see if I have time.”
4
“Okay, plate tectonics,” said Jillian, tapping her pencil eraser on the table. “Who wants to summarize?”
We’d reserved one of the study rooms in the main library. At four stories, the library was the tallest building on campus, with a clock tower that played the Big Ben music (DING-dong-DING-dong) every fifteen minutes. There was an actual bell up there somewhere, but it had been broken for years, and now the tune was played by computer. A couple years back, some computer science majors had earned themselves a place in Cascade prank history by hacking into the clock and substituting some filthy Eazy-E songs for the usual chimes.
Our study room overlooked the quad. A thin layer of powdery snow dusted the grass, and the leafless trees looked like dancers frozen mid-step. “I’ll take it,” I said. “The surface of the earth is divided into a bunch of giant plates of rock sailing around on a layer of molten magma, and when they bump up against each other, interesting shit happens.”
“That’s a poetic way of putting it,” said Zach. He was wearing a blazer with some kind of crest on it. He put his pen to the paper. “Interesting shit happens. I’ll be sure to write that on the exam.”
“Shut up,” I said. “I wasn’t finished. Volcanoes. Earthquakes. Undersea steam vents. Like, when this building gets pulverized by The Big One, that’s plate tectonics.”
“Thanks a lot,” said Jillian. She chewed on the end of one of her blonde locks. “I thought this stuff was boring, but it turns out it’s more scary than boring.”
The fourth member of our group was Brian, a first-year with glasses who looked too young to be in college. “Well, the good news is,” he began, “when Mount Rainier blows, we’ll probably only get a little ash up here. My parents live in Olympia, and they’ll probably be toast.”
“Then you’d better hope it doesn’t happen during summer break,” I said.
“Oh my god,” said Jillian. “We’re all going to die.”
“Eventually,” said Zach. “But probably not before the first midterm, so we’d better focus.” He hoisted his briefcase up onto the table. I couldn’t get over that briefcase. This wasn’t like some hipster briefcase that a catalog model would carry in a photo shoot; the thing was covered with maroon leather and the handle was getting worn. It looked like it came right out of the fifties. In fact, Zach’s look was hard to pigeonhole, too. Today he was wearing a pink dress shirt and striped tie, knotted perfectly, and gray slacks. When he stood up for a bathroom break, I tried not to make it obvious that I was staring at his ass, which pressed against the wool seat of the pants like they were custom-tailored, which they probably were. I’ve never had anything tailored, and I used to have trouble finding clothes to highlight my shape, but ever since big butts came back into fashion (thank God), jeans have been my friend.
Was Zach into shapely women, or was his taste as old-fashioned as his clothes? Maybe he was looking for a stick figure. Or maybe he was gay. I couldn’t read the guy. He didn’t seem to be checking me or Jillian out, but maybe he was just polite. Or had a thing for Asian chicks. In any case, I wasn’t going to break my contract with myself this year. No romance. No complications. I even put it in writing. At the bottom of my desk drawer, I kept the goal sheet I’d written out at the beginning of the year:
BROOKE’S SENIOR YEAR
Maintain a 3.8 average (so far so good)
Finish Harvard application
No dating
So far, concentrating on the first two goals had made the third one easy. Sierra thought I was crazy, but instead of sexual fantasies, I’d imagine myself at Harvard. Call it positive visualization. I thought about it every day: reading a classic sociology book in the Yard, doing field research, interviewing students about their sex lives. Never mind that I’d never been to the East Coast. I just knew.
“Hey, Brooke!” It was Jillian. I looked at the clock and it was nine already. I’d been spacing out. “If we’re finished, I need to pack it in for tonight.”
“Can I walk you back to the dorm?” said Brian.
She looked him over, like she was deciding whether he was worthy of the assignment. “Sure,” she decided. Zach raised his eyebrows imperceptibly.
After Jillian and Brian left, I turned to Zach. “You think something’s going on between those two?”
“None of my business,” said Zach.
“Oh, come on. You never gossip?” He shrugged. “What’s your deal, anyway?” I said. “Did you just transfer in this semester? Where are you from?”
Zach smiled, a broad grin that animated his whole face. I suddenly wanted to run my fingers down his sideburns and around his chin, to see if the bones of his face were as strong under that beard as they looked. Was his beard hard and stubbly, or soft and shaggy? Like he said, none of my business. “I used to go here a couple years ago, but didn’t finish.”
“And they just let you come back?”
“Yeah. Returning student.”
“So are you, like, really old or something?”
“Is twenty-three old? My dad lives in Cutlip, so I commute.”
“What’s with the clothes?” I asked. “Nobody here dresses like that.”
“You’re very judgmental,” said Zach. He looked out the window into the quad, now illuminated by security lamps. Each corner of the quad had a lamp with an emergency call box attached to it, and the fixtures looked cheap and functional, but the overall effect, gleaming off the snow, was still beautiful. “Can I walk you back to your dorm, or will that make you assume that something’s going on between us?”
“Don’t worry, I won’t get the wrong idea,” I said. I got up, threw my notebook into my backpack, and pushed my chair in. It banged against the table. “Let’s go.”
I nodded at the library security guard on the way out, and we started down the staircase into the quad. As we descended, I slipped on a patch of snow, and Zach grabbed my arm before I could fall. “I’m fine,” I said. He held onto my arm a little longer than necessary, and his grip was powerful. I’m not a little girl, but it felt like he could easily lift me up and carry me home if he wanted to. And I kind of wanted him to.
Instead, I pulled away and stomped into the quad, a few paces ahead of him. “Wait up,” he said, appearing beside me.
“It’s a small campus,” I said, and pointed toward Lisle Hall. “I live right there, like a hundred feet away. I don’t think I’ll be abducted in the next two minutes, and we’ve already determined that in an earthquake or volcanic eruption, we’re both fucked, so thanks for your help.”
Zach exhaled sharply through his nose, producing two curls of steam in the freezing air, like a dragon’s breath. “Brooke, I get that you don’t like me, and since we don’t know each other at all, I assume it’s because I made a bad first impression. Which is fine. Whatever it is you think about me, you’re probably right. If you want to change study groups, I won’t be offended.”
I looked at him, standing in the middle of the quad in his trench coat, with a couple of snowflakes nestled in his beard, the streetlights highlighting half his face (his good side? did he have a bad side?) and I had to stifle the urge to pull out my phone and snap a picture. “I don’t want to change study groups. Good night, Zach,” I said, and started walking toward the dorm. I shivered, and my nipples were hard against the cups of my bra. Fuck know-it-all guys like Zach Hutchison.
When I climbed into bed, I thought again about the way his fingers had curled around my arm. His grip had been firm enough to keep me upright, but still somehow gentle. And then him standing in the quad, seemingly immune to the cold, smiling at the corners of his mouth even while h
e was annoyed with me. I slipped my fingers into my underwear and tried not to think about him too much more after that.
5
The next day, Sierra was waiting for me at lunch, and I set my tray down next to hers. Before I even sat down, she lowered her eyes at me conspiratorially and said, “How was study group last night?”
“It was boring. Study group. What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about Zach. Staying up late, talking about hot lava and whatever. You have to admit the guy’s hot.”
“I don’t have to do anything,” I said, and took a bite of my chicken sandwich. “Besides, he’s a jerk. He’s a townie and a business major.”
Sierra sighed. “Both first-degree felonies under Brooke’s laws of sociology.”
“I’m not offended if someone comes from Fucknuts, Washington, or wants to be a corporate dick when they grow up. I just don’t want to hang out with that person, no matter what they look like.”
“So, to sum up, you’re a snob and you admit he’s hot?” said Sierra.
I turned red, thinking about what I’d done last night in bed while imagining Zach’s body without that corporate uniform, what it would be like to peel back the layers: the trench coat, the dress shirt, the undershirt, the slacks, and more.
“Earth to Brooke!” Sierra shook her head. “Look, I know last year sucked, but I don’t see how being a nun all this year is going to make you feel any better.”
“And I don’t see how a guy like Zach Hutchison would be into me, even if I had any interest in him, which I don’t.”
“Ah, now we’re getting somewhere,” said Sierra. She pulled the ponytail holder out of her hair and retied it. Sierra knew some guys had a thing for red hair, and she was happy to work it. The most Sierra moment I can think of is when she once overheard two guys whispering and glancing in her direction, and she went over and asked them what they were talking about. They admitted they were speculating about whether her pubic hair was as red as the hair on her head. “Damn right it is,” Sierra had said. “Except when I shave it bare.” The two guys mumbled something and got out of there.
“Look, I don’t know Zach,” said Sierra, “but if he’s not into a gorgeous chick like you, with those boobs, he’s just not into girls.”
“Thanks,” I said. “You’re wrong, but thanks.” The fact is, I knew where I fell in the hierarchy of looks. Not bad-looking, by any means, but around here the prevailing standard of beauty was blonde, slim, and sporty. Wearing glasses, dressing the slightest bit punk, and having a few more curves than the average skinny bitch knocked me out of the running with guys like Zach. And while that was probably an un-feminist thing to even think, I found it reassuring to know where I stood. Besides, Evan had been a total hottie, and look where that got me. “Next year, I’m going to head off to grad school—”
“Harvard,” Sierra interrupted.
“Naturally. And I will meet a nice, reliable, decent-looking guy with no drama. Not another problem child.”
“Good for you. Sounds boring as fuck, but if it’s what you want, I’ll be cheering for you.”
I finished my sandwich and stole a French fry from Sierra’s tray. “What about you? Are you and Trevor serious, or is he another one of your boy toys?”
“I don’t know,” said Sierra, “and not knowing is kind of hot.” She lowered her voice. “After work yesterday I went back to his room and didn’t even say a word, just pulled down his zipper, took out his dick, and started suck—”
“Got it, got it, thank you very much,” I said. “I have to go to the financial aid office. I guess you need to go sit on Trevor’s face or something.”
Sierra laughed. “I like the way you think. Unfortunately, he’s in class, so maybe I’ll sit on my vibrator for a while.”
6
The financial aid office was the campus equivalent of the DMV. I could never figure out how, on a campus of less than 1200 students, there was constantly a line at financial aid. Or why they still hadn’t fixed that one flickering fluorescent light that made it feel like everyone was being X-rayed. Our bodies, not just our wallets. I needed to pick up my loan check and then walk it over to the bank to deposit it. That was another mystery: in a world of PayPal and direct deposit, why did they still cut us checks?
The whole thing smelled like a conspiracy. (It also smelled like industrial cleaning fluid.) Give us a four-figure check, bigger than most of us (except the rich kids) had ever touched before, then make us hike it over to the bank. Look at your account balance, start drooling about all the shit you could buy. Everyone on campus had their vice: alcohol, clothes, electronics, online porn, whatever. It’s so easy to blow a thousand dollars and then put tuition on your credit card. Besides, we were all going to graduate $20,000 in debt anyway, so what’s an extra grand? I hadn’t gotten myself into too much trouble, but this semester I resolved to get some serious jeans, like Sierra was always telling me to buy. (She was also always recommending a bikini wax, which was not going to happen.)
The line snaked around the perimeter of the office, and I played with my phone while waiting. When I looked up from Clash of Clans, I was close to the front of the line, and, to my surprise, Zach Hutchison was standing about ten people behind me. What was that guy doing at financial aid? I didn’t know a lot about the world, but I knew that briefcase + tie = money. Maybe he was giving a donation to his family’s scholarship fund or some shit. He saw me looking his way and nodded in my direction. I thought about stepping out of line to talk to him, but I didn’t want to lose my place, and what was I going to say, anyway? “Hi, Zach, do you still hate me? Also, how rich is your family? Just regular software developer rich or Goldman Sachs CEO rich?” He wasn’t on his phone, just standing patiently in line, which also annoyed me for some reason.
I finally made it up to the window, gave the woman my student ID, and collected my check. When Zach smiled at me again on the way out, I ignored him.
7
My favorite part of my job at the Shark is answering confidential questions from students. In addition to leading workshops, I work a two-hour afternoon shift, two days a week. The work study money is minimal, but I get a kick out of hearing about people’s problems. Students always assume they’re the first person to ever come in with their particular question, but it’s all pretty straightforward.
Like today. This sophomore, Jessie, came into the office and looked really nervous. I assured her anything she told was strictly confidential, unless she told me that she or someone else was in danger.
“No, no, it’s nothing like that,” she said. She fiddled with her bracelet. “It’s just, when my boyfriend and I have sex, he always has an orgasm, and I...I haven’t. Do you think something’s wrong with me?”
“Not at all,” I said. “Do you have them by yourself?”
“Oh, jeez. Um, yes.”
“Good, that’s important. Have you talked to your boyfriend about it?” She shook her head. “Well, you should.”
“Maybe he doesn’t care,” said Jessie.
“Maybe,” I said, “in which case he’s an asshole and it would be good to know that now, right? But I think he probably does care, but he’s embarrassed to tell you that he doesn’t know how to get you off. So you need to show him.”
“Show him?”
“Yeah. Show him how to touch you. And feel free to touch yourself during sex, or use your vibrator.”
“I don’t know if I can do any of that. What if he thinks I’m, like, slutty?”
“‘Slutty’ is a word people use to demean women who have any interest in sex. Trust me, he probably wants you to come, and if you give him the grand tour and tell him what to do, it’s not going to be a turn-off. OK?”
“That makes sense,” said Jessie. “I’ll try.”
I stood up and shook her hand. “Good luck.” I sat back down in the chair and sighed. It’s so easy to tell other people what to do. How many times had I come with Evan? A big fat zero. And did he care
? Apparently he didn’t care about me at all.
I went into the kitchen to get a cup of tea. On the way out, I almost bumped into Zach Hutchison, who was on his way in. He was standing well inside my personal space, and I didn’t ask him to move. My skin felt tight, and I was starting to sweat. “Are you following me?” I managed. Lame.
“How’s your shift going?” he said. I still couldn’t understand how such a sharp, masculine jaw could be visible through his beard.
“Good. You volunteering again?”
“Yeah. Sierra asked me if I could come in during office hours and answer guys’ questions. Apparently a lot of guys don’t want to sit down with a woman and pour their heart out about their love lives.” He stepped past me and poured himself a cup of coffee.
“So? What qualifies you to give advice?”
“Older and wiser. These bagels are stale, huh?”
“Toast them and they come back to life. So what do guys ask about?”
He put half of an everything bagel into the toaster oven. “Mostly, how to get girls. They think there’s some magic formula, like if they wear the right thing or play the right game, every woman will want to date them.”
“Oh, and you don’t play games?”
Zach shrugged. “Never learned the rules.”
I wanted to say, Of course a guy who looks like you doesn’t have to play games. But I didn’t, of course. “So your advice is ‘just be yourself’? Kind of hack, don’t you think?”
He took a sip of coffee. “My advice is not to try to trick women into having sex with you. I assume you wouldn’t disagree?”
“Are you just telling me about what a feminist you are to get into my pants?” I shot back. “Maybe that’s your game.”
Zach smiled. “You want to get a drink upstairs after this?”
“You mean like a date?” I said it like I didn’t give a shit, but the truth was, I wanted Zach Hutchison to ask me on a date. A proper dinner-and-a-movie date. And at the same time, I didn’t. The guy seemed complicated. Even more so than getting tangled up with any guy during the second semester of my senior year might be complicated. He put up a convincing wall with his corporate uniform, his perfectly groomed facial hair, his quiet confidence. But behind his eyes, I could see pain.
