English as a Second Language

by Megan Crane

  I took a last long look at the two of them, cocooned in the light and their preoccupation with each other. I realized I was saying goodbye, and that made me smile. Maybe I was growing up after all, against my will.

  I got to my feet and skulked back around the corner of the house, which involved a complicated little duck-and-cover routine to get me by the living room window. I was moving pretty quickly, and checking over my shoulder, and maybe that’s why I didn’t notice anyone else was around until I smashed into him.

  I managed not to scream, though I jumped back. I thought, Thank God, it can’t possibly be Sean—

  But it was worse.

  It was Toby.

  Sixteen

  What the hell are you doing?” I demanded. Because it’s always better to start from strength.

  “What am I doing?” Toby asked. His face was in the shadows, but I could still see the gleam of fury in his dark eyes.

  “Don’t you know any better than to sneak up on women in the dark?” I snapped. I started walking, trying to put distance between us and Sean’s house. “Don’t you know that’s how people end up accidentally getting themselves hurt or reported to the authorities?”

  “If anyone’s likely to get reported to the authorities,” Toby said in a frigid tone, “it’s really not me.”

  “Meaning it’s me?” I glared at him. “Why? Because I have the temerity to walk home alone?” I rolled my eyes. “You’re right. Lock me up.”

  “Are you really going to pretend that you weren’t just hiding in the bushes outside our lecturer’s house?” His voice was an unpleasant mix of incredulous and furious. He grabbed my elbow and jerked me to a stop. “Is that the plan, Alex? Because I saw you.”

  “You were following me?” I was incensed. “What gives you the right to follow me around?”

  “You’re some kind of voyeur? A Peeping Tom? Is this how you get your kicks?”

  “I don’t have to answer to you,” I snapped. “And get your fucking hands off me.”

  “With pleasure,” Toby snarled, releasing me. “I can’t believe that I just saw what I just saw. Are you a complete nutter, Alex? Quite apart from the fact that it’s appalling to spy on someone else, how exactly do you think Sean would react if he was ever to know that you spend your spare time crouched down in his shrubbery? Staring into his windows? Like a stalker?”

  The word “stalker” sounded far less amusing in his mouth than in my head. And also a bit sick.

  “I’m not planning to tell him,” I said tightly. “And I really don’t want to have this conversation with you. It’s none of your concern what I do with my spare time.”

  “Of course not,” Toby sneered. “It’s no one’s concern but yours. Alex Brennan, self-contained and self-sufficient unit, touched by nothing and no one.”

  “I don’t know what that means, and I don’t care what that means!” I yelled at him.

  I felt the kick of my temper. One small flare and it ignited, ripping through me like a tidal wave. I expressed it by hauling off and punching him in his stomach. Hard.

  He yelped. “What the—”

  “How could you?” I shouted at him. “How could you tell that psychotic little bitch that we slept together? What were you thinking?”

  His mouth fell open.

  “She asked me directly,” he said after a beat, one hand across the place where my punch had landed. My hand throbbed. I was alive with a trembling, shaking emotion I couldn’t identify. I clenched my hand into a fist and ignored the throbbing.

  “So you just told her? Without even asking me if that was information I wanted to share?” I stared at him for a moment, then backed away. “I can’t believe you. I can’t believe you would—”

  “I couldn’t lie,” he said, anger kindling again in his voice.

  I gaped at him. “Of course you could lie! What are you, twelve years old? What possible good could ever come from telling her something like that?”

  “Listen,” he said hotly. “I’m sorry if it’s so repulsive to you. But I don’t lie. Not even to Suzanne. Not even to protect you.”

  “Whatever,” I snapped. “I’m done. I’m done with all of this shit. Fuck Suzanne and fuck you—the two of you deserve each other!”

  I turned then, and took off toward my house, so angry I could hardly see the path in front of me.

  “Alex—damn it—”

  I heard him yell after me, but I kept going. I could feel his eyes burning into my back. But I didn’t turn around.

  And this time, Toby didn’t follow me. Not then, and not later. He didn’t turn up at my door and he didn’t call.

  So I told myself I didn’t care.

  I took it out on my dissertation chapters. I slapped postcolonial theory around, and delivered some serious ass-kicking to imperial social orders. Or anyway I tried to. I was vehement. I was tough. Strangely, manhandling texts only made me feel worse.

  Cristina and I decided to take out our dissertation aggression on our bodies. We decided we would buff and tone and thereby make sure we were really hot if we failed our degree courses and were forced to take to the streets to make a living. This involved a single overenthusiastic trip to the gym. Cristina cycled like a crazy person, and I experimented with the machines like I was trying out for the Linda Hamilton Terminator 2 award.

  We spent the evening lying on Cristina’s floor in agony, while Melanie poured restorative whiskey down our throats. Cristina and I then decided that our bodies would have to take care of themselves.

  My supervisor emailed me with further corrections and notes on my work. I moved away from the chapters—which I had printed out into a little pile and stared at every day—and applied myself to the introduction and conclusion. The introduction was generally held to be easy enough, once you’d written everything else and knew exactly what you were introducing. I thought this was kind of amazing. It had never occurred to me that the reason all those introductions I’d read over the years were so right on was because the author had already written the rest of the book. I’d just presumed that everyone else had a much better idea about where they were headed. Or had a much stronger grip on the wheel.

  The conclusion, however, presented different problems. It didn’t have to be as long, but it did have to wrap things up satisfactorily. That sounded a whole lot easier than it felt when I sat down and glared at the screen in front of me and the words failed to come. I wasn’t exactly sure what I thought that my dissertation was really about, despite the work I’d put into it. I certainly didn’t have any conclusions to draw about it.

  “Okay,” Robin said briskly. “Enough about you.” She took a breath, and I could hear that she was beaming ear to ear. “I think Zack is going to propose.”

  I had thought we all knew that Zack was going to propose, on schedule, this summer. But that was not the correct response.

  I screamed, and descended into serious girlie-ness.

  “There’s no ring yet,” Michael said. “But it’s only a matter of time. Particularly given the fact that Zack called me and has enlisted my aid. We will lose Robin to the married side and that will be that, but at least the ring will be fabulous. Do you think she’ll let me appear at her wedding in drag? Just so you and I can match?”

  “I think she most emphatically will not,” I said. “I can’t talk to you, I’m trying to conclude.”

  “Conclude what?”

  “That’s a very good question, Michael.” I sighed. “I really don’t know. Something. Anything. I get the feeling that everybody else just knows. Everyone knows where they should end up, or at least where they should go. But me? I have all these words and a big vocabulary and no freaking clue.”

  “I love it when you go all metaphorical,” Michael said. “Go on. Give me more.”

  I was stalking along the footpath, scowl at the ready, glaring at the ground as I stamped my way toward campus on the millionth printer run. I heard the approaching group, but very deliberately kept my eyes trained earthw
ard. They could freaking move out of my way. Which of course they didn’t, and I had to jump onto the grassy side of the path to avoid being mowed down.

  I muttered under my breath, and then noticed that Suzanne was one of the group. She fixed her green death glare on me, which caused me to roll my eyes practically into the back of my head. Suzanne rocked to a stop, with her hands on her hips. I saw her buddies—her housemates—stop in a loose little group a few steps behind her. Were we about to rumble? I wondered with some amusement. Were they planning to kick my ass?

  “What?” I asked rudely, and took the opportunity to light a cigarette.

  “I don’t appreciate you telling Toby what went on between the two of us,” she said.

  I had to stare at her for a long moment while I processed that. Because yes, she really said it.

  “Are you out of your fucking mind?” I asked, almost laughing.

  “You know what, Alex, you’re—”

  “No,” I said, cutting her off. “I don’t want to hear it. Why don’t you go back to your house with your buddies here and think really hard about why that’s probably the most ridiculous thing you’ve ever said to me.”

  Suzanne blinked her green eyes at me, those blank and yet somehow cunning eyes. One of her housemates said her name, but she just stared at me. Then suddenly her face changed.

  “I just heard from this private school in Delaware,” she said neutrally. “I’m being hired as an English teacher for their high school! Isn’t that great? I’m leaving next week, so I have to have my dissertation in early.”

  It was my turn to stare. And then I did what I should have done months before: I turned on my heel and walked away as fast as I could without actually running.

  I was storming out of the computer room on campus, clutching my latest crap effort at a conclusion. I was in a really foul mood, and it was only partially related to Suzanne and her evident madness. I mean, what could you do about a redheaded fruitcake like Suzanne except stay out of her way? Why engage? It had only taken me a year to reach that conclusion.

  “Oh,” I said, when I looked up.

  “Alex,” Toby said in his default tone.

  “Guess who just had a psychotic episode on the footpath?” I decided to follow our usual script and ignore any lingering tension. But Toby just glared at me.

  “I can’t imagine I’m likely to care,” he said, in that same tone.

  “We’re in a fight?” I asked, amazed.

  “You hit me,” he snapped.

  “You deserved it!” I snapped right back. “And apparently you had even more to say to Suzanne.”

  “Can I go now?” Toby asked, his dark eyes furious.

  “You can go to hell for all I care,” I told him, and stalked away from him.

  Directly into Sean.

  “Hello, Alex,” Sean said.

  I looked over my shoulder and saw Toby. And, more to the point, the look on Toby’s face. Sean greeted him and Toby muttered out a reply.

  “Um,” I said. “Hi, Sean . . .”

  “Can I have a word?” Sean asked. Toby looked disgusted and slammed into the computer room. I turned back and looked up into Sean’s fantastic hazel eyes.

  “Of course,” I said weakly.

  We sat in his office.

  “So,” Sean said. “You’ve yet to accept the offer of a position in our doctoral program.”

  I’d had a brief moment there where I believed he was going to politely ask me to refrain from staking out his house.

  “Oh!” I said, relieved, and then got ahold of myself. “I’m not really sure what I want to do.”

  “Ah,” Sean said, and looked down at his hands.

  “What does that mean?” I asked.

  “You remind me of myself,” he said. He smiled, a real smile, and I just stared, transfixed.

  “I do?” I asked, in a tone that was a bit too strident. I modified it. “I mean, really?”

  “I think I told you once that I ended up in academics by default,” Sean said calmly, that unholy amusement all over his face. “The truth is, many academics are the same. Conventional employment doesn’t appeal, and one has a certain aptitude.” He shrugged. “It’s not the end of the world to find yourself uncertain.”

  “There’s uncertain,” I told him. “And then there’s completely lost.”

  “I think you exaggerate,” he said. “You’re quite talented, Alex, as I think you know. I don’t know what life awaits you back in New York. But I would like to encourage you to remain here, if I can. I don’t think you’d ever regret the doctorate.”

  “I’m not sure yet if I regret the master’s,” I said flippantly.

  I realized that I felt differently around him than I normally did. He was the same smirk and mockery, hazel eyes and that gorgeous face, but my stomach wasn’t clenched in agony.

  I’m not afraid of him anymore, I realized. It was like the sun coming out from behind a cloud. Seriously. I blinked in the sudden light of the realization.

  “I’ve offered to oversee your doctoral project,” he said. “I think the project requires some narrowing of focus, but is otherwise very interesting.” He cocked his head to the side and considered me. “Is there anything I can say to convince you?”

  That you love me, want me, need me? That you’ve just now realized that you can’t live without me? That you’ve kicked Miss Sexy Only in Britain to the curb and are about to toss yourself prostrate at my feet?

  But I didn’t really mean it.

  I smiled. I had that feeling again—that those eyes of his looked way too deep and could see exactly what was inside my head.

  “Well,” I said, “I’m not sure. You could look into the future and tell me what I’m supposed to do with it all.”

  “Alex,” Sean said, smiling. “Only you know that. And even if you choose the wrong thing, only you can ever be the judge of it. It’s like performing in a play and missing your lines. The audience only knows if you stop still and flounder about. If you simply keep going and stay in character, no one is ever the wiser.”

  “I’m pretty sure adulthood is all about knowing the lines,” I said.

  His eyes gleamed with that liquid gold, and the flash of his smile was still pretty amazing. Fear or no fear.

  “On the contrary,” he told me. “Adulthood is knowing that a fully realized character is always more important than the lines.”

  “Okay, Dad,” I said. “Are you ready? What do you think?”

  “I don’t have a tremendous amount to say,” my father said. “I think that if you want to go on and get the PhD, you should. If you want to stay in England, I’m happy to support it.”

  “Really?” I asked. I must have sounded particularly disbelieving.

  “Your mother and I have every confidence in you,” my father said.

  I grinned, basking in the glow of parental support and understanding. Then my father had to keep on going, bringing us right back to more familiar ground.

  “I have less confidence that you’ll ever manage to repay me on a professor’s salary, but that shouldn’t dictate your choices,” he said. “You should concentrate on your professional advancement and let me worry about your increasing debt.”

  I rolled my eyes. And what exactly had I expected? A Very Special Bonding Moment? This was still my father. Greater understanding of our relationship didn’t mean he would suddenly transform into somebody else.

  “Well, okay,” I said.

  “You just let us know what your decision is,” my father said. “Although, Alex, I think that if you do plan to return home now, you should have a good brainstorming session about the kinds of opportunities you’ll be able to find. Have you thought about the fact that it won’t be possible to find a teaching position this late in the summer? You should be realistic—”

  I tuned out, and began easing my palm over the receiver.

  Dissertation word count: 19,064.

  Pages: around 60.

  Level of achievement: wh
ile not Nobel Prize material, it was not entirely crap, either. Though the assorted professors who would be forced to mark it might quibble with that assessment.

  The final due date was the day after tomorrow. Meaning all footnote issues and grammar checks had to be completed and the entire thing copied and bound.

  I believed that I had, for the most part and barring a few small details, completed my master’s dissertation.

  I leaned back in my chair, looked around the room, and waited for some sense of great accomplishment, or even joy. I thought, I am awash in anticlimax.

  My still unseen and unmet supervisor emailed her response from Cannes.

  “Good work,” she wrote. “Having finished, you can now relax. Your degree is assured and thus what remains is your level of pleasure in what you’ve produced.”

  Oh yeah, I thought belatedly. Pleasure. Pleasure was the reason for all this? There was a thought. I swiveled around in my chair and viewed the culmination of a year’s work. My neat pile of dissertation copies and, beyond that, the horror of my little cell. I had a tube of potato chips and a box of grapefruit juice, empty cigarette packs and drained diet Coke cans, liters of mineral water and ashes drifting across all surfaces. Piles upon piles of dirty clothes, papers and books and shoes in precarious jumbles across the floor, stacks of CDs and used crockery, and a bed last made sometime in July. A single bed, an airless room, and the riot of my possessions.

  I tried to remember work I’d taken pride or pleasure in, but nothing came to mind. My memories of my undergraduate thesis were vague. It was all the drama of the process, my inability to deal with my college years ending, and the thrill of procrastination beyond all believable limits. My undergraduate thesis had not been a big success.