English as a Second Language

by Megan Crane

  “He’s a guy,” I said. “Maybe he doesn’t know your name.”

  Cristina considered. “That’s actually possible!” She sounded significantly brighter. “It’s very possible. I only know his name because I am a crazy person and make it my business to know everyone who comes into contact with David.”

  “So you could easily be in the clear.” I shrugged. “And if not, just deny it.”

  A smile flickered across her mouth. “How do you deny it to the person who knows better?” she asked.

  “That’s the best,” I assured her. “They don’t know what to do.” She looked skeptical. “I speak from experience,” I told her. “I’ve never actually done it, just had it done to me. This guy just flat-out lied and told me—and, more importantly, his girlfriend—that he’d never touched me and didn’t know what I was talking about. The girlfriend believed him, and I was actually wondering if I was too drunk and had imagined the entire thing. I still sometimes wonder that.”

  Cristina was staring at me.

  “Sorry,” I said. “But that’s a true story.” I lit a cigarette and smiled. “Nobody knows the trouble I’ve seen.”

  “Ouch,” Robin said. “I can’t believe you brought up that repulsive Chris Reardon.”

  “As an illustrative point,” I said.

  “Illustrative of what?” Robin demanded. “Only you would have reacted that way, Alex. I assure you that if he’d denied sleeping with me, I wouldn’t have just stood there. Assuming of course that I’d lowered myself to sleep with him in the first place.” I was so pleased to finally get her on the phone that I chose not to remind her of some of the low places she’d visited over the years.

  “Musicians are very sexy,” I said. A touch defensively. “They have a universal appeal.”

  “He was unwashed, uneducated, and uninteresting,” Robin snapped with remembered disdain. “And he was only a musician in the broadest sense of the term. What he did to a bass guitar was really a criminal act.”

  “Thank you, Rolling Stone magazine.” I rolled my eyes. “The point is not Chris Reardon, Robin. I was merely pointing out to Cristina that denying things can sometimes be a good idea, no matter how ridiculous it is to try.”

  “Your poor friend,” Robin said. “That’s just never a good situation. People always react badly when you sleep with their friends.”

  “I didn’t know what to say,” I said. “Of all the men on campus, she had to pick that one.”

  “She probably picked him deliberately,” Robin said. “You know how that is. For some reason, when you’re drunk, it seems like the perfect gesture of revenge and adoration. Unfortunately, I’ve been there.”

  I hesitated. “You can talk about stuff like this?” I asked, scandalized. “With Zack right there?”

  “I actually don’t like to talk on the phone when he’s sitting next to me,” Robin said. “So he’s in the other room. But he already knows everything, so there’s never anything to hide.”

  “Even the time you—”

  “Whatever you’re about to say,” she said sternly, “don’t. I’m sure I’ve repressed it, and I’m happier that way. But yes, he knows everything. Some things I probably presented with a slight spin, but so what? According to him, he’s never had a cross word to say to another living human being in his entire life.”

  “He’s a lawyer,” I said.

  “Exactly. Spin.” Robin laughed.

  “So . . .” I didn’t know what to say. “How is it? The whole living with somebody thing.”

  “It’s really good,” she said.

  “Do you feel like an adult, making adult choices and living an adult life?”

  “Not really. I feel like me, living with Zack. He claims he had no idea I was the kind of woman who needed that much closet space. And I had no idea he had an electric guitar he can barely play. He thinks he’s a chord or two away from greatness. Small adjustments, but everything’s pretty cool.”

  “You sound happy,” I said.

  “I am,” she said simply.

  “Robin’s blissfully happy,” I told Michael.

  “Yeah? So?” Michael was much less so. “Why shouldn’t she be happy?”

  “I’m just reporting that she is,” I said. “What’s wrong with you?”

  “Nothing is actually wrong with me,” Michael muttered. “Nothing that an entirely different life and personality wouldn’t cure.”

  “Michael—”

  “Whatever,” he said. “I’m sorry, I have to go sit in a dark room and feel sorry for myself. I’ll call you back when that gets boring.”

  “Do you remember Chris Reardon?” I asked.

  There was a small silence.

  “Thank you,” Michael said stiffly. “Now I have to vomit, then go sit in a dark room and feel sorry for myself while fighting off images of your horrendous taste in men.”

  He hung up.

  “Hi, Mom!” I said brightly. “That latest care package was the best yet. Who knew they made marshmallow Peeps in so many different varieties?”

  “Oh, hello, Alex,” she said serenely. “Lovely to hear from you. You seem to keep leaving messages when we’re having Sunday dinner with your grandmother. I don’t think I’ve talked to you live in two weeks.”

  “Huh.” Busted. “What a coincidence.”

  “Is it raining?”

  “It usually is,” I said weakly.

  “Your father was just saying he needed to speak with you,” she continued merrily. “I’ll put him on. He’s in his study.”

  Oh goodie, I thought as I heard her cover the receiver and call up the stairs to my father.

  “What do you think I am?” my father demanded when he picked up the extension. “A millionaire?”

  I’d discovered through years of trial and error that it was usually better not to answer questions like that.

  “Hi, Dad,” I said with a hearty dose of false cheer. Couldn’t hurt. “How are you?”

  “I don’t know what you’re doing over there,” he said in a heavy tone, completely blowing the false cheer theory. “I don’t know what they’re teaching you. But it’s certainly not the value of a dollar.”

  “Well, no,” I said. “Since they use the pound here.”

  It just slipped out. I couldn’t help it. Some people had the compulsion to steal. Or lie. I had the compulsion to be a wiseass to my father. This had never ended well for me, in all my nearly twenty-seven years, and yet I couldn’t seem to stop.

  A very tense silence indicated that this was gearing up to be another bad ending.

  “Why don’t you write me a paper?” my father suggested in a deadly tone. “How about five hundred words on fiscal responsibility? Or better yet, on how to avoid being stranded in a foreign country without a penny?”

  “Dad,” I said. I covered the mouthpiece with my hand and massaged it with my palm. “I don’t know why I say the things I say,” I said, speaking normally, although through my hand. On his end, it should have come out something like, “I—muffled—why—muffled—things—muffled—say.”

  “What? Alexandra?”

  “Bad line!” I shouted, and hung up the phone.

  And now there was also no one else to call. Unless I wanted to hunt down some high school friends I hadn’t bothered to keep in touch with, and that was a whole different level of desperation.

  I sucked it up and went to find Suzanne.

  I wasn’t sure why, but I just didn’t want her thinking she’d caught me and Toby fulfilling her worst fears. Okay, yes, I knew why. Suzanne could call all her tree-hugging friends back in Oregon and bitch, she could tell everyone she knew at university that I was Satan, and there wasn’t anything I could do about it. But if she was going to hate me and vilify me, I wanted it to be just because she disliked me. And I wanted her to admit that she disliked me simply because she did, with no justification and nothing to sob about into the pillow. If she was going to lie about it to whatever minions she had at the ready, that was up to her,
but I wanted to make sure the two of us were perfectly clear what the real deal was. It had nothing to do with Toby. He was just a convenient excuse.

  I yanked on my coat and ran out of the house, with a fire in my eye and my head already composing the perfect words.

  And therefore felt pretty foolish when one of Suzanne’s housemates stood rigidly in the doorway and informed me that Suzanne wasn’t home and wasn’t expected anytime soon.

  All the perfect words faded away as I trudged back home.

  And then finally it was time to get our long papers back. On the one hand, it had taken ages, and who did the professors think they were? We deserved to know how we were doing, surely. On the other hand, who really wanted to have written proof that they sucked and were an academic joke? The smaller papers we’d written before the Christmas holiday had been held up for some reason, no doubt professorial negligence, so we were expected to drop by Sean’s office and have a small chat about both.

  As if I could chat with Sean about anything, much less my grades.

  As if I could even look at him, after watching that scene in his kitchen.

  I veered between chills of fear and flashes of embarrassment. What if he could somehow sense that I’d been spying on him? Could he change my grade? Would he prefer to have me locked away?

  “Get a grip,” I snapped at myself.

  On Judgment Day, I was so stressed out that I woke up every half hour on the half hour starting at about five in the morning. Finally I just got up and went down to the kitchen to bite my nails, smoke cigarettes, and drink too much coffee so at least I could blame my jitters on something other than nerves.

  I completely surprised Melanie, who had a nine-thirty class and had never seen me in the morning before.

  “I wasn’t entirely certain you’d ever seen the daylight,” she teased.

  “I could be a vampire,” I said, thinking about it. “But I’d probably know it by now. Bloodlust and all that.”

  “Do you get your marks today?” she asked, and smiled when I nodded. “You’ll do well,” she said staunchly. “Everything will be fine.”

  Cristina burst into the room, looking wild and shoving books and papers into a knapsack. “Let’s go,” she said to Melanie. She looked at me in surprise. “What are you doing? Are you just getting in?”

  “Cristina, please,” I said. “You know perfectly well I didn’t go anywhere last night.”

  “Stress,” Melanie told her matter-of-factly. “She’s getting her marks today.”

  “Ooh,” Cristina said, brightening. “You get to sit in a small room with Sean.” She leaned toward me and went all sultry. “You must tell him that no display of lust with a trollop can dissuade your love, and that he must—”

  “Please go to class now,” I ordered.

  I heard them laughing as they left. I stared out the window and saw all kinds of people leaving their houses and greeting one another. And all before ten in the morning. I realized that there was a whole different university than the one I knew. There were people whose experiences had nothing to do with pubs and late nights, and everything to do with early mornings and daily lectures. It was somehow comforting. A complete inverse of the life I led.

  The kitchen door slammed open and I stared as George staggered into view. I’d forgotten that he, too, had the early classes. I took in the state of him in silence. He was wearing jeans and what appeared to be his bedroom slippers, and looked to have merely tugged on a sweater over some kind of pajama top. I realized that meant he probably slept in pajamas—an image I found unaccountably icky. His eyes looked glued shut and his red hair stood almost completely on end.

  “Unh,” he said. He smelled, even from across the room, like stale beer.

  “George,” I said in greeting. I wrinkled my nose at him. “You might want to reconsider that shower.”

  I watched him upend a carton of orange juice into his mouth. He gulped it down, tossed the carton in the direction of the trash, and then wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his sweater. The carton missed the trash bin by several feet, smacked against the wall, and then dropped to the floor.

  “No time,” he gasped out, belched, and left.

  No wonder I wasn’t a morning person.

  I had so much time that I was able to take a long shower and prepare myself in a leisurely fashion for the walk over to campus. Unlike the mornings I had classes. I dressed myself in head-to-toe black and then decided the wearing of mourning clothes without a reason to mourn was probably tempting fate. I pulled on some jeans instead. I played soothing music and was talking myself into a philosophical frame of mind. I was Zen. All was well. I had done my best on my papers. The grade was immaterial compared to the sense of accomplishment I should already be feeling. I was heading out the door, feeling serene and in control, when Toby came careening around the corner, startling me.

  “Oh my God,” he all but panted. “I’ve been up all night. I went jogging and nearly collapsed in a ditch.” He grabbed my arm and stared into my face. “I even tried to do press-ups. I’m a disaster.”

  My serenity bit the dust. My stress returned, tenfold, with a nearly audible thud into my tensing shoulders.

  “If I fail,” I told him in sudden hysteria, “I cannot possibly resubmit! I cannot possibly deal with that essay again! Either of them! I hate them both! I’m going to have to work at a gas station to pay back my incredible debt, Sean will eviscerate me and dance a jig on my remains—”

  “Jesus, Brennan.” Toby frowned. “You’re panicking.”

  “I was fine until you showed up, blathering about jogging and press-ups!” I snapped. I stared at him. “Why did you decide to get all athletic?”

  “Because I’m a man,” Toby informed me solemnly. “It’s what men do.”

  “I can think of a few things men should do,” I muttered darkly.

  “Let’s not do that scary thing you do, Brennan,” he said cheerfully. He eyed me. “Missing me in your bed, are you?”

  “The way I miss the plague,” I retorted, rolling my eyes. “You idiot. Can we go get our marks now?”

  We all sat in the college bar and watched the clock. Meetings with Sean were scheduled in fifteen-minute intervals. Jason kept up a running narrative of panic and horror that did nothing to calm my nerves.

  “Please shut up,” I finally told him.

  Jason looked startled. He took a deep drag of his cigarette. “Do you know,” he said as if surprised, “I really don’t think I can. I’ve been like this since early yesterday afternoon.”

  “We’re all doomed,” Toby said from where he was lying down across a bench, covering his eyes with his elbow.

  “This is great,” I said. “Could the two of you be more gloomy?”

  “I’m sure I will be as soon as I receive my mark,” Jason said darkly. “Possibly even suicidal. I wish we could buy firearms in this country, so I could take to a watchtower. Isn’t that what they do in New York?”

  “Yes,” I said, shooting him a withering glare. “Every single American gets a day up in the watchtower blowing up hapless pedestrians. It’s in our Constitution.”

  “Doesn’t surprise me,” Toby muttered. “Bloodthirsty colonials.”

  “Okay, enough,” I said and stood up. “I’m going up. Wish me luck.”

  But I didn’t hang around to see if they would, I just ran up the stairs toward Sean’s office.

  I stood in the hallway alone. The last person to come out had looked pleased, but I couldn’t interpret that as particularly good or bad. I suspected other people’s happiness had very little bearing on whether or not I was going to fail. I wondered briefly if the MA course was like some I’d seen on television, where the professor only gave out two As, four Bs, and failed everyone else. For no good reason, as I recalled. Just because professors had the power to grade evilly and cause pain.

  This train of thought is not soothing, I told myself sternly.

  And soon enough the door was opening and a classmate emer
ged. Sean stood there in his doorway and smiled at me. Just looking at him, at those amazing eyes and his lean body, I forgot all about Miss Sexy Only in Britain. Probably he could see the adoration in my eyes. I actually felt my heart tremble in my chest, and then melt. It had been this way since the Jet Lag Dinner. I had even less to say than before—which meant I spoke in fewer idiotic monosyllables. I just gazed. Sean’s behavior remained noticeably unchanged, of course. It had been my George Clooney moment, after all. Not his.

  “Hi,” I said, like a goofy adolescent with an outsize crush. Which was an apt description, come to think of it.

  “Alex,” Sean said. “Come in.” He was still smiling, his eyes warm and bright. Like the Big Bad Wolf. In a rising wave of hysteria, I was convinced I could see fangs.

  The troubling thing was that this in no way detracted from his appeal.

  I stepped inside.

  “Highlights include him leaning back in his chair and smirking at me,” I said. “And saying, ‘I look forward to your dissertation.’” I blew out an exasperated breath. “I almost told him that I was glad he did, because I certainly did not.”

  “He thinks he’s a comedian,” Jason agreed sagely. “And who are we to argue? I merely count myself lucky when I actually understand him.”

  “Which you do about a thousand times more often than I do,” I said crankily. “Aren’t you taking his class on Gravity’s Rainbow?”

  Jason winced. “I am trying to eat my lunch, Brennan,” he scolded. “Please don’t bring up Thomas Pynchon.”

  “Right,” Toby said, appearing before us. “That was bracing.”

  “Well?” I eyed him. “Are you happy?”

  “Reasonably,” he said, looking pleased. “It will do.”

  He disappeared, and then returned a few moments later with a sandwich and some crisps.

  “Uh-oh,” Jason murmured. “Incoming.”

  Toby and I looked up and saw Suzanne bearing down toward us.

  “Terrific,” I said sourly. “She still thinks—”

  “She can sod off,” Toby snapped.