In Real Life

by Lawrence Tabak

  On Tuesday I hem and haw in my room. Try on one of the new T-shirts, take it off. Finally, I say what the hell and decide to wear it to school, thinking that people will just stop and stare. Instead the only person who notices is Hannah, who I run into in the hall after second period, on my way to the parking lot to head to UMKC.

  “Hey,” she says, as we step to the side of the traffic. “What’s that picture thing on your shirt. Something to do with Star Wars?”

  “Well-known game for highly intelligent humans, it is,” I say in a lame Yoda voice.

  Hannah shakes her head. Doesn’t get it.

  “You’re the one that brought up Star Wars.”

  “Yeah, but I get it mixed up with Star Trek.” Which is like me telling Hannah I can’t tell the difference between photo journalism and photosynthesis.

  “I got a whole bunch of stuff from Korea,” I say. “I’ll show it all to you, but I’m going to be late for my math class.”

  “OK, college boy,” Hannah says. “If you have to go, you have to go.”

  Then she leans in and gives me a peck on the lips, right there in the hallway. Which is not exactly going to cause a scene. I’ve seen stuff in the hallway that couldn’t make it on primetime TV. But it’s something of a hallmark for me. I mean, a year ago I could have put “kissing a hot girl in a hallway at North during school” as among the “ten least likely events in my high school career,” probably right up there with scoring a touchdown and getting elected Homecoming King.

  So I sort of float out the parking lot and think about it all the way to UMKC.

  We get our first quiz back at the beginning of the period. I was pretty sure I got them all right, but I see I have a ninety-four. I got only partial credit for one question. Next to the problem is scrawled, “Right answer but show your work!”

  I almost raise my hand to argue my case right there because I did show my work. True, I didn’t use the stuff we were working on in the recent chapters—I attacked it with a different set of equations. The ones we had touched on the previous year.

  So I can’t concentrate at all and when the prof dismisses class I grab my backpack and run up to the podium. The prof looks at me for a second, but then seems to be staring at my shirt. I figure it’s just typical nerdy professor behavior. Not being able to look someone in the eye.

  I blabber on for a minute until he interrupts me.

  “Come on,” he says. “Another class is coming in here. But we can talk in my office.”

  Which turns out to be just one floor up and down a hallway.

  He’s got a bunch of cartoons on the door, which I don’t have time to read. Inside he sits at his desk and I take a chair across from him. A wall of math books behind him. I slide my quiz over to him and start explaining.

  “Hang on,” he says. He pulls out a pencil, taps it on the desk as he looks over my paper.

  “OK,” he says. “Ok, I see what you’re doing here.” Taps his pencil again.

  Then he looks up at me as if he hadn’t seen me before. “My apologies,” he says. “I think my TA just didn’t follow it.” I watch him cross out the ninety-four and write one hundred. Then he logs onto his desktop and I wait while he clicks through some screens. Updating my score, I assume.

  When he finishes he looks up at me and says again, “I’m sorry my TA didn’t catch that. It was actually quite elegant, the way you attacked that problem. Very neat. Where did you learn that technique?”

  I explain that we just touched on something related in the AP course. And I had looked into it a bit more, I don’t know, because it seemed interesting.

  “So what other math have you taken here?”

  I tell him it’s my first college class. That I’m actually still in high school.

  “So you’re a senior?”

  “Not exactly,” I say. Because I’m not sure what I am.

  “So you’re what? Eighteen?”

  “Well I just turned sixteen actually. Last week.”

  He sorts of snorts when he hears that, raises his eyebrows like I’ve caught his attention now.

  “And not that it’s any of my business,” he continues. “But I’ve put a little time into Starfare. You play a lot?”

  I admit I do.

  “You play seriously?”

  I nod.

  He glances again at my quiz, which is still in front of him. “Seth?”

  He pauses and I can see the wheels turning. “You’re not, by any chance, ActionSeth?”

  I say I am.

  “Holy cow,” he says. “I watched that entire game you played in the quarterfinals at Nationals. That was really something.”

  All I remember is that I lost.

  “ActionSeth,” he says. And then he mumbles it a couple more times. “I heard somewhere that you might be from around here.

  “So, ActionSeth. Taking Calc 301 at UMKC,” he says. “So what do you think you might do with this mathematical ability that you seem to be gifted with?”

  I hem and haw and finally mumble that I might just play on Team Anaconda.

  Now his eyes are really open. “No way,” he says. “They’ve never had anyone from outside of Korea, have they?”

  “Not yet,” I say. “But it looks like I might be the first.”

  “Holy moley,” he says again. “Well, I can say that I’m damned pleased to have you in my class, Mr. ActionSeth. And if you decide that maybe you’d prefer to pursue some advanced mathematics instead of a Starfare career, you just let me know. I might have some ideas for you.”

  I say OK and excuse myself and walk out, shutting his door. I look down at my shirt, thinking that I had no idea. I stop to read the cartoons. My favorite shows a math professor at the end of about thirty feet of blackboard equations. Another professor is pointing to some figures at the very beginning, saying, “And here’s where you made your mistake.”

  52.

  That night I spend some time going through the stuff that came from Korea. There’s a long contract with a place for Mom and Dad to sign but the language is all screwed up and it’s hard as hell to figure out what it means. I see a section that says I get the equivalent of $5,000 U.S. a month but the next section seems to be saying that I have to pay for housing and food and incidentals which has a list of about a hundred things. I have no idea whether I’d have anything left at the end of a month or whether I’d owe them.

  Finally I bite the bullet and put a call into Dad who’s on the road until Friday. After all, he’s the all-star businessman. Of course I have to leave a message, but for once he gets back to me after just a half-hour. Turns out he’s got an old frat brother who’s an entertainment lawyer in Hollywood.

  And for once, Dad actually comes through. This lawyer friend goes through the contract line by line. Sends it back with a bunch of edits and a letter saying he’s made sure I’m getting a decent deal. That I’ll be putting money in the bank from day one. A couple days later he actually calls me up and goes through some stuff. Makes it clear that I have an open-ended ticket back to KC. That I can leave anytime if it doesn’t work out.

  When I hang up I’m sort of dizzy. Because it’s all coming together. It’s really, really going to happen. I’m turning pro.

  53.

  As I get deeper into the semester I sort of get in a groove. High school is like a dream that I float in and out of. A series of boring classes punctuated with Hannah moments. College calculus is another kind of a dream—the material flows, I get what the professor is talking about, do the readings, do fine on the quizzes and tests. But behind it all, like a song you can’t get out of your head, is Starfare and Team Anaconda. A buzz in the back of my brain, churning up a constant stream of anxiety.

  But not everything is going faster. There’s Hannah and me.

  I mean, I know
she said that stuff about not getting too close, making it easier. But I also thought she’d see the other side. That you couldn’t just stop living because something bad might happen in the future.

  But it’s also true, when she says how busy she is. Because she’s gotten involved in tons of stuff. She’s got yearbook, and she’s still working lots of hours at Saviano’s. They call me to come in, but I only do it if Hannah’s on too. Plus she started up a chapter of this environmental group she was in back in New Jersey.

  And when we see each other at school, it all seems cool. But every time I suggest we do something together, it’s always one thing or another. And just when I’m totally depressed she texts me. A special exhibit at the Nelson-Atkins Museum by a photographer named Ray something opening on Friday. Can I go? It’s free! I can tell—even with nothing more than the text—that she is totally excited. I wait a couple minutes before texting back. To make it seem like I’m clearing my schedule.

  We drive downtown after school and she gives me the whole story on this guy. Describes some of his famous shots so well I’m sure I could ID them by looks alone. When we finally park Hannah leaps out of the car and I have to almost jog to keep up with her.

  Inside she is just as wired, skipping from one photo to the next like a little kid at a carnival. And I swear, as she dances in and out of the light around each photo the other people in the gallery can’t help staring. Like she’s glowing, like she’s part of the exhibit. Then she’s calling me over, pointing at the way the photographer uses the light to balance the composition of a street scene. And when I say that this other photo of a train station looks like an impressionist painting, she explains exactly what he did in the darkroom. Talking so animatedly that by the time she’s done there’s a half-dozen people circled around, as if she was an official guide or something. We stay until they announce closing and it doesn’t seem that we’ve been there long at all, even though it’s been almost two hours.

  When we get back to my place she just follows me inside like she lives there. And then we’re kissing. I kick the door shut. And although my brain is reeling, I can’t help thinking. It would be great if the museum brought in a new photo exhibit every couple days.But then, after all that excitement, it’s another week of nothing. Finally out of frustration I decide to get some expert advice.

  “Hey,” I say when Garrett picks up.

  “Hey, bro, what’s up?”

  “Dad says you scored seventeen last Saturday in that exhibition game.”

  “Yeah, got a hot hand. But we lost by five, so who cares.”

  We talk about basketball for a bit and finally Garrett, who knows me better than I’d admit, says, “But I’m guessing you didn’t call to chat about shooting percentage. Right?”

  So I tell him about me and Hannah. He listens quietly and then says, “So let me get this straight. You’re taking off overseas in, what, a couple of months, and you’re surprised your gf is getting a little distant?”

  I admit it sounds a little stupid, when he puts it like that.

  “So what you doing about it?”

  “Doing?”

  “Yeah. Just sitting at home moping, I bet.”

  I mumble something and then ask him what I’m supposed to do.

  “Well, what have you got her lately?”

  “Got her?”

  “Yeah, like presents. Tokens of your affection. Like those boxes you get at Christmas.”

  I mumble something, because the honest answer is, nothing, never.

  “OK, I’m thinking like Valentine’s or birthdays that sort of thing.”

  “I’m pretty sure Hannah’s not into that stuff,” I say.

  “Trust me, she’s into it. So what’s the excuse. She got a birthday coming up? How about an anniversary?”

  “Anniversary?”

  “Yeah. Like one year since your first date. Gfs dig that shit.”

  “Well, no birthday soon. Let’s see. I met her in June, so that’s like six months.”

  “There you go. Six month anniversary. Get her something.”

  “Like what?”

  I can hear him sigh, picture eyes rolling. “OK, here’s the deal. You go out to the mall, go to all the jewelry stores. Ask them what high school girls are shopping for. Then buy whatever that is.”

  “This is really going to work?”

  “Trust me.”

  So on the weekend I go to the mall. Listen to all these older women in heavy makeup tell me what’s hot. They can’t wait to show me samples. In the end I pick out earrings, two Hs covered in tiny diamonds. Costs me just about everything I’ve saved from the pizza job.

  So on Sunday afternoon I drive over to Hannah’s. Ring the bell. Snow piled in the corners of the porch. Wind making the porch swing creak.

  Hannah’s mom answers and invites me in, where I battle the bounding Barkley. Hannah comes down the stairs, looking surprised, puzzled, beautiful.

  I reach into my pocket, hand her the wrapped box. Mumble that it’s been a great six months, knowing her. Then, looking at the ground, mumble something else about having to leave and then I’m out the door. Don’t look back.

  Although it’s too depressing to actually keep count, it’s been at least fifty hints and a dozen blunt invites without Hannah agreeing to get together. But the day after I drop the gift I text her and she says sure, dinner on Wednesday. We decide to go back at the deli in Westport where I was revealed as a closet gamer.

  When I pull into the driveway she’s out the door, down the stairs. Bundled in a red and black knit hat and matching scarf.

  “OMG,” she says, as she slides into the front of the van. “If anyone had told me how cold it gets in Kansas I would have just refused to come.”

  The van is warm and she swipes off the hat and leans over, pecks me on the lips. I can see from the glow of the dash the sparkling H in her right ear.

  “Thanks for the earrings,” she says.

  “You don’t have to keep them,” I say. “I have the receipt…”

  “Shut up,” she says. “I love them.”

  It’s easy to find a place to park in the middle of the week. I’m happy to find a close spot. It’s really getting cold at night and I still haven’t figured out where my coat is. I think it’s in a box we packed from our old house.

  “So,” Hannah says as we take a seat in a worn, wooden booth in the back of the restaurant, near the welcome warmth and aroma from the pizza ovens. “Getting nervous about everything?”

  What I’m really been stressing about how is hard it’s been getting any one-on-one time with Hannah. I know what she said about not getting too close, but I’m not talking about make-out sessions. Just going out for a dinner or a movie or something. But I’m not about to blurt that out. So I tell her about my dreams.

  “It’s basically the same every time,” I say. “I wake up in the middle of the night and my heart is pounding and I’m twisted around in bed.”

  “Dreaming about me again, I see,” Hannah says, with her sly smile.

  “No, those are the good dreams,” I say, immediately embarrassed. So I just keep on blabbering. “These are always Starfare dreams. They’re all basically the same. I’m playing in front of a big crowd. Kind of like those exhibitions I did in Chicago. Except something is always wrong. My mouse is only working once every ten clicks. Or the monitor is in slow motion. And the crowd is on their feet, yelling and jeering at me. But I can’t understand anything they’re saying.”

  The waitress comes over and I convince Hannah to try their pizza. They do this thin crust that droops as you pick it up. New York style. I’m anxious to try to get her to understand why I’m confused about the way she’s been acting, but after we make our order Hannah says something about liking the waitress’s charm bracelet and the waitress actually sits down next t
o her. Goes into this long explanation about what a bunch of them mean. When she finally leaves Hannah leans across the booth a bit and says, “So you are nervous. I would be too.”

  I’m facing the kitchen and I watch the guys behind the counter rolling out the dough. Thinking how many hours I wasted over the past months doing the same.

  “You know,” Hannah is saying. “I get something like the same thing when I’ve been thinking too much about college. Going through the catalogs or looking at my portfolio. I have dreams where I see a bunch of art professors standing around, and they’re all looking at something on the table and laughing. And then I realize it’s my portfolio.”

  “But your stuff is terrific,” I say.

  Hannah shakes her head and says, “Sure. You can say that. You’re not an art professor.” And then she continues. “Plus, my parents. They think I should study something practical. Like pre-med. They’re always saying, ‘You can do the photography on the side.’ I could just kill them sometimes.”

  This I can relate to.

  “But I’ve got, like, plenty of time to worry about that stuff,” Hannah says. “You’ve only got what? A month or so?”

  I can’t believe it’s only a month, but when I think twice, she’s right.

  “Last time we talked your mom was still having doubts.”

  “She still thinks I’ve twelve,” I say. “But get this. Dad, you know, the pro sales guy. He gives her the full pitch treatment and gets her to sign the contract.”

  “Yeah? How’d he do that?”

  “Well, I promised I’d call or Skype her at least once a week. Starting now. Plus he told her I’d be making enough that I could pay for college.”

  “Is that true?”

  “Sure. If I get to top ten in the world.”

  “So get to top ten in the world.”

  “Easy for you to say. It’s like me saying to you, ‘Just get a full-ride art scholarship.’”

  “I know,” she says. “We can only dream.”