Not knowing if it’s her, I don’t want to walk out to the end of the stairs as if I’m presenting someone with a bouquet of coffee for the being the first person to walk on them this morning.
The heightened anxiety in me comes rushing up and I turn. . . and I can’t help the smile that controls me immediately.
9
shay
His smile.
I find myself smiling too before looking away to say good morning to a fellow grad student passing at the bottom of the steps.
As I turn back, he’s picking something up off of the ground. I’m glad that he’s approaching me; I feel a little frozen in place.
“Hi.” He’s just as gentle looking as he was yesterday, even in all of the commotion.
“Hi.” I feel for the strap across my shoulder and slide my bag down to my side.
“I brought you a coffee to make up for spilling yours. I’m sure sorry about running into you. Are you alright?” He steps closer and offers me the cup. There’s a bag taped to the top of it with little disposable creamers and packets of sugar. The thoughtfulness almost makes me feel lightheaded, as if I’m in a dream state. As much as I wanted him to be here, I can’t really believe that he’s standing across from me.
I reach for the cup, my fingers lightly grazing his. Now I’m fully alert. “I’m fine, really, not anything a couple of aspirin couldn’t help,” I nervously manage half-truthfully. My body still reminded me this morning of the remnants of pain in some places. “Thank you for the coffee,” I say, looking up at him. His eyes connect with mine, and in them I can see all of the flecks of colors that make up hazel, in the softest eyes I’ve ever seen on a man. And for a moment I feel compelled not to shyly turn away, not instantly, like I would normally.
“I’m Dane,” he holds his hand out. A thousand thoughts race past in one second, but not one of them this time telling me to resist the invitation.
“. . . Shay,” I say, sliding my hand into his. The length of his fingers cradles my hand in one soft, fluid motion and he gently releases it.
“It’s nice to meet you.”
dane
My nervousness has all but left. Just having her here in front of me subdues me—I can’t explain it. And the touch of her hand, she didn’t resist like she had yesterday, but of course she was in pain and likely blamed me for being careless. Yet, I don’t even think now that she would’ve thought that—just an accident.
I release her hand; the softness gliding off of my fingertips.
There’s no reason to tell her I came back yesterday, or that I already knew her name.
A light breeze blushes past us and I can smell the scent of her perfume. She reaches and tucks her hair loosely behind her ear that’s brushed over her cheek. It’s very pretty, and the auburn strands catch the sunlight. I turn away briefly, not wanting to reveal myself, and pretend to look down the sidewalk at the people slowly starting to cluster around, and then back up at the front of the building.
“Are you familiar with the biology building?” she asks, following my gaze.
Her voice, the way she had looked yesterday had haunted me and I had all but forgotten how gentle it was. “Only a little,” I say, recovering and still not wanting to divulge that I took a self-tour and found her picture, only to be escorted out by the janitor. “Are you a graduate student. . . in biology?” About half of my classes are taught by one, who’s only a couple of years older than me, so I don’t think it’s too obvious asking—given the fact that I knew and couldn’t think my way around it too well right now.
“Yes, this is my first year here, in graduate school,” she says it with curiosity laced subtly in her words. “It’s really the only building that I have to be at on campus.”
I don’t know if it was intended, but that last part sounded like she wanted me to keep it is as future reference—probably I’m reading a little into things. There’s such an urgency in me—hell.
I know I have to speak. I can’t just stay standing here absorbing the good feeling from being near her.
“Do you have a class here. . . in the biology building?” she asks hesitantly, before I find my words.
“No, my major’s in business. I’m in my third year.” She seems to linger at that.
“I should be in my senior year—well, fourth year,” she says. I can tell she’s getting a little nervous. Her arms are lightly folded with the strap of her bag in the crease of her elbow and she’s slowly rubbing one of her forearms. I give her a moment to say more, sensing she’s trying. “I took a lot of courses my last year of high school, and stayed enrolled during the summers in undergraduate.” It seems hard for her even now to stay talking long, but she’s not trying to leave from the conversation—not yet, and it makes me feel glad for her—glad for me. She should be in her fourth year here. That makes her around 21, 22.
“Yeah, there are a lot of people that finish early.” I feel secure again as I watch her; like I did sitting beside her on the bench yesterday. There’s such a need to her—an unfamiliarity for her. It’s like she needs me to be guiding us along, and it makes me want to say something comforting letting her know that I will. “I didn’t have time for any extra classes, though I think I would’ve liked that. Track took me out of most of my afternoon classes the second half of my high school years. It was the bigger focus.” Someone walks past closely behind me. The sidewalk is starting to fill a little more. I step nearer her, moving out of the way. She doesn’t step back though herself, putting more distance between us as we were a second ago. I feel the excitement in me swell, but I know I can’t blunder now. I have such control over everything else, focus, discipline, even getting good grades—I need to be able to control what’s surfacing in me, or no doubt it will send her off like a frightened kitten.
“I think it’s great you run track,” she allows quietly. I can’t take enough of her in.
“Thanks. It’s provided a lot for me.” I want to see if her expression changes, and if that makes a difference. Likely she would read into it and maybe understand that I don’t have the backing of a wealthy family. It doesn’t change. It could be she doesn’t grasp my meaning entirely; I don’t know.
I think of the time and the long walk to stadium—I know I have to show up at 8:00 sharp, but I don’t want to check my watch in front of her. I decide to ask if she’s headed somewhere, thinking she had been coming down from the entrance, and knowing she probably has to be somewhere on time to.
“Oh,. . . yes, I need to go into the chemistry building next door for a minute.”
“Yeah, I’d better head off to.” I carefully catch her eyes, and gauging by them I can tell neither of us wanted to move from our spots. When she looks down and to the side it’s evident she saw it in my eyes to. “I’m glad you’re alright.”
“Thanks. . . and thanks again for the coffee.”
I begin to turn facing the sidewalk a few steps in front of me, conscious not to be abrupt to jolt her into thinking I’m hasty to be leaving, and physically extending the invitation to walk the same direction until she gets to the chemistry steps.
She accepts.
10
shay
My heart is racing.
I’ll stay in the lobby long enough, as if I really have something to do here before going back outside.
I watch the people passing by, trailing down the sidewalk, and get lost in thought. . . What just happened? For the first time in my life I wanted to steal every look I could of him. He’s so tall, and his shoulders, so broad and erect. His physique is perfect—a runner’s body. I catch myself and feel the warmth of blushing, and try to be convincing that the observation was from a science—anatomical standpoint. Who am I fooling. . . ? Really, he would stand out anywhere, and normally I would turn away, but the thoughts came and left. . . and I couldn’t. And now that I know he’s truly nice. . . —it makes me shiver.
I walk down the steps to get back over to my building.
I held his hand. . .
there was such surety in it.
“Hellooo? Anyone there?”
“Jenny! I didn’t see you.”
“I don’t know how not—I’ve called your name twice only a few feet behind you! And what were you doing coming out of Langley? Change programs?” Always teasing.
I look at her and smile. “Hardly.”
“And what’s that Cheshire cat smile about?”
“Jenny, he came?”
“Who came?” She’s looks at me as if I’m out of my mind.
“Dane.” I wait for her reaction, and for the first time I’m feeling independent of whatever it ends up being. She looks stumped, and I continue. “I came back here at 7:00; the same time we saw each other yesterday just to see if he’d show up. And he did.”
“Are you kidding me—no shit?” She stops walking and turns to me. I face her. Her eyes softening as she fully sees my expression. “Ohhh. . . you’re going to have to come down from that state,” she warmly responds, “before your class starts.”
I keep my smile, thanking her with trust in my eyes, and locking arms as we walk up and inside.
dane
The whole thirty minutes Coach Lewis has spent bitching about Harvard hasn’t even ruined my mood.
“Hit the track!”
I start off down the hall to change into practice gear.
“Dane!”
What now?
I look around for my next command, controlling my expression. “Yeah, coach?”
“You’re up first after warm ups!”
“Got it.”
No doubt the 100m is the biggest event in track and field, and any win is sure to be glory for him—especially against our biggest rival. I wouldn’t say that about any other coach that I knew, but his manifesto seems pretty self-centered. I’ll let him have it—what other option is there?
I won’t let him ruin my morning though—not today.
I slam my locker door shut and walk to the tunnel to get out to the center of the field onto the grass. A couple of the other runners have already started warming up.
The temperature’s a little brisk, but my body feels warm all over—like the excitement of seeing her can’t be shaken away even here on the course.
I sit down, extending my legs, and begin bending methodically into stretches.
Standing, I get set into a lunge and then a couple of other positions, holding them, giving my body time to react. I roll my neck and stretch my arms out to my sides, pulling my spine up as straight as I can get it and pushing my chest forward, stepping onto the track for a couple of slow laps around.
As I come around the last corner, I hear the whistle blow. I know what he wants. I jog right up to the starting point.
“I’ll give you two minutes!” he hollers from the side.
Two other runners line up beside me.
I bend my right leg up behind me reaching to get hold of my shoe, and pull it up to the back of my thigh, switching legs, letting out a deep breath, bouncing a little and rolling my shoulders to get centered.
“Ready?!”
I lower into position.
“3—2—1!” Whistle blow!
I get in immediate stride—accelerating—my breathing vents fast.
The speed of the rhythm is second nature.
I’ve lost peripheral sight of the other guys.
I wind my run down to a jog, circling about half of the track.
Coach Lewis is making his way across. “Good time! I expect the same result Saturday!” Compliment or warning, I wasn’t going to try to figure it out. I just knew my job and I had to do it.
I paced myself the rest of practice after proving my time. Any injury now—I’d go from star athlete—to being shunned. As loyal as the student fans are, they wanted Yale to dominate every event—and the feeling of being turned on could rear its ugly head pretty fast.
11
shay
I finish sitting the last fetal pigs on the front, two lab tables.
“Listen up class!” I call over the chatter. The sound winds its way down and I can begin.
My voice has to carry over the entire room. I speak a little more loudly, “We talked about this before you left on break, but since it’s been a little while I want you to review it fast.” I walk around the room passing out the dissection guides. “And I want each lab table deciding which incisions are going to be made by which person before you begin.” A little talking starts to generate. “Wait a minute—before we get started I’ll be coming around to see if you’re organized. After I get to each table, then you’re free to begin. Remember—do not cut—or move, more than is necessary to expose a given structure. And pay particular attention to the spatial relationships of organs and glands as you expose them—know that their positions are not random.” I get to the last lab table and slide the final four guides across it to the remaining, waiting students. “As you’re waiting for me to come around, take a minute and go over your notes quietly.”
I move from table to table checking for their preparedness. As I get to the last one, I look around the room. There’s an excitable eagerness to the near silence. Most of the students left now are the serious ones, with the class being a little more than half its size from when we began. A lot of the students who left ended up enrolled in the introductory biology course with the parents having high hopes of a generational doctor, only to find out that it’s not for them, and some—just slackers, and dead weight for the rest of the class. I’m glad to help anyone out, who’s trying. But when you miss labs and show up late unprepared, there’s only so much guidance you can give before they have to come to realize that they need to drop the course for their benefit and everyone else’s, including mine.
I walk to my small desk at the back of the room and sit on the edge of it where I have a good view of all of the activity going on. These are the days I like the best. By now I’ve managed to garner their respect—the majority of them anyway, and fortunately without ever exposing my age. I’m sure some of them in here are the same age as me; others I could be an older sister to by just a couple of years—and hearing from fellow graduate students, there gets to be a bit of animosity between people if they find out. But days like today, when they’ve gained enough knowledge and have lasted this far, it’s kind of like a reward they’ve earned—to get to actually perform some physical aspect of biology. The mood just changes. It’s on these days that I get the most thank yous as they leave.
I position myself a little more comfortably, watching and waiting for anyone needing my help, and as I do, I notice the small gift out of the corner of my eye that I sat down as I walked inside, with its plastic bag still taped to the top, and smile to myself.
dane
I decide to grab some lunch at the student union since I have only an hour before my last class; the walk home and back would take up most of that just navigating through all of the people crowding the campus.
I get in line and take a tray from the stack and put it on the three metal bars that run the length of the food display, picking up some shepherd’s pie, a salad, and two milk cartons—grabbing a fork and some napkins as I finish up.
I pay for my food and spot a table near the window.
I take a bite, not even tasting it, just lost in thought—that I was so damn glad she was there. Was it really a coincidence? I mean, girls know all kinds of tactics—many of them obvious as hell. But if she was curious, she was almost as nervous today as she was yesterday. I smile poking around at my next bite, thinking if she had wanted to show up to look for me, I must have really gotten into her head because this girl was anything but forward. . . Shay.
I peal apart the seal on the milk carton, pulling the flap out and pinching it to a point, drinking all of it at one time, when I hear my name from across the cafeteria by the registers.
Vince makes his way over and pulls up a chair opposite me. I can’t shake him, but the company’s alright for lunch anyway.
“Hey,” I say.
He starts right in. Always angling, for some gain he’s in pursuit of. “You know Gretchen? Well, she’s got a friend who wants to meet you.”
I’m sure she does. Here we go. I nod, acknowledging I’m listening to him as I eat my salad, and let him finish.
He leans in, “Yeah, well, I hear from some of the other guys on the baseball team that she’ll make your eyes roll into the back of your head. . . and if I weren’t hooking up with Gretchen, I’d have a go at her myself.”
He’s a class act. I look down at the rest of my salad—that somehow looks less appetizing with each word out of his mouth. I’m absolutely glad that my sister’s never encountered him. First glance, I’d probably knock the shit out of him—never having thrown a punch in my life.
“Think about it—it’ll get me some points, maybe with both of them.”
I move my eyes up from my tray to look at him—I’m sure if someone did a CT scan, his brain would be in the shape of a dick. “Yeah, I’ve already thought about it. No thanks.”
He shakes his head, like I just passed up the last chance of ever knowing carnal pleasure. “I just don’t get you man. You never bring anyone home—you’ve got to be getting backed up.”
I’m done.
These girls actually get into bed with him—I can’t even finish my lunch near the guy. “Listen Vince, I’ve got class in a couple of minutes—see ya back at the building.”
12
shay
“I could eat a horse!” Jenny pulls open the door to Mama Gia’s. A small rope of bells jingles against the glass. I follow close behind listening to her speak in Italian to the greeter at the front podium. Who laughs and motions a waiter, and leads us to a table in the center of the room. This is right up her alley; it’s a chunk of Italy—at the base of campus. Most people come here for a semi-formal occasion, or anniversary I suppose. I’m sure even some for a first date.
The Season of Shay and Dane Page 5
