Jenny introduced it to me and my parents the day we moved me into my apartment, and were all too tired to think about cooking. My parents loved it. My dad thought Jenny was a saint; guiding me right to some good decisions about getting life started here. First the apartment, now the best little Italian restaurant he’d eaten at in years. With a stomach full of spaghetti, I could tell he was feeling more and more at ease about me being here on my own—with Jenny. Anyway, since then we manage to eat here about once a month when we’ve had an especially long day—just getting back from breaks and into the swing of things seems to be a regular, for one of those days.
She says some things in Italian again to the waiter and all I can pick up is “. . . Guido. . . “
A moment later he’s returned with bread and oil.
“I ordered for us,” she says, dunking a torn off piece of bread into the oil and motioning for me to dig in.
“Thanks. You’re sure you told him only marinara sauce, not meat sauce this time?” I ask, reaching in the basket for a slice of warm bread.
“I told him last time too—he just got it wrong.” I laugh at her. “What?”
“Nothing,” I smile and keep tearing my bread, swiping it in the oil. She probably did say it right. She’ll never admit it though if she didn’t, which completely amuses me. I think the one thing that bonds us more than anything else is our stubbornness.
At any moment I expect her to delve into an inquiry about. . . Dane. Even thinking his name heightens something in me. I’d prefer getting through most of our meal though before she does begin asking questions. I decide to direct conversation for a while, as long as I can anyway.
“Did you get through your classes unscathed?”
“Me? It’s the little shits you should be worried about. I’ll say it a thousand times—why would anyone want to be a teacher?” She rolls her eyes and gestures to the waiter to get our water glasses refilled.
I spend half of my time entertained by her. “They’re not that bad,” I jibe.
“Not that bad! Who sedated you?”
I pass my glass to be filled. My smile is stuck. I could have the worst day and get near her energy and forget even why I was feeling that way to begin with.
“Okay, your Pollyanna optimism is your strongest trait—I’ve come to accept that,” she allows jokingly, seeming all but put-out forking her spaghetti to spin against her spoon. “But today you’re almost skipping—and we can’t have that. So spill, fess up about the runner with legs up to my neck. What’s his name? Mundane?”
So she did notice.
dane
I don’t even want to study. I just want to lay here looking up at the ceiling thinking about her. I’ll give myself thirty minutes to rest and get composed—then I’ll have to hit the books. . . no matter what.
She grips me. And for some reason I don’t mind. It’s not worth it to mention it to anyone; I don’t know even enough about her yet. All that I do know is I feel alive inside and out near her, like a man—protector, not like anything I’ve ever felt before. And yet, there’s a resistance to her—I can’t understand it—at the same time, a want in her eyes. I know it. I saw it. She’s just so damned vulnerable—it consumes me. God—I’ve not thought about it the last couple of days—maybe she has a boyfriend. But I don’t see it. There’s no way someone that timid. . . she’s just too shy. I close my eyelids picturing her. . . the gentleness in her movements, the sweet way she says things. . . and how when I looked for that brief moment into her amber eyes. . . what I saw, transfixed me.
I’ve got to get out of here and go for a run.
I grab my keys to the apartment off my dresser and lock up, making my way down the street to the stadium. It’s sure to be open and people still around, at least until the sun starts to really set. I’ll run until I tire myself. What studying I don’t get done tonight, I’ll do around classes tomorrow.
13
shay
I’m a stupid girl.
He ran into me—he showed up to apologize—and I’m standing here again. . . waiting for what?
It’s 7:02, there’s a person sitting on the bench, buses are filtering past, people are moving about getting to their offices early; I’m sure to meet with students before classes start. And I’m lingering before I go in, here way earlier than I need to be, and there’s no sign of him.
My insides are quaking with every anxiety of wanting to see his face again. It could be just that though—he was a decent guy. I look down at my watch, 7:05. I stay looking at the glass faceplate, feeling too embarrassed and ashamed of my thoughts to look up and move in haste getting inside, in case someone detects me. My eyes are filling with tears and the numbers on my watch become cloudy. No one near me out here could know my private thoughts, but I know, and I feel foolish.
I slowly lower my wrist to my side, trying to accept my misunderstanding of things, and lift my head to walk up and indoors. As I do, I see someone a little taller, much further down the sidewalk at the crest of the hill.
It’s him.
Tears fill my eyes again as my emotions overtake me. Be calm, think. I have about one minute before he gets here to gather myself. Maybe he wasn’t intending to see me; it’s past 7:00.
Think.
I’m shaken. For the first time I have to decide between. . . exposing me. . . a little of what I’m feeling by just being here. . . or succumbing to my fears and fleeing. I risk being rejected. . . I know this, that’s part of it. . . I’ve never known this nervousness that’s tormenting me with each second that passes. If I do rush inside, and he did want me here, he’ll think I’m avoiding him.
Stay placed. . . stay placed. . .
dane
Look up. . .
See me.
I move a little faster weaving through people.
About fifty more feet—don’t go inside.
That goddamned paper for my first class! I couldn’t get out the door right when I wanted to.
Her back’s turned now—she hasn’t seen me yet.
. . . Twenty feet. . .
“Shay,” I say quietly not to startle her. She turns around. “Oh. . . hey. . . what’s wrong?” I see what’s wrong—she didn’t think I was coming. She wanted to be here just as much as I did. I want to bring her close to me and hold her in my arms. “Would you want to go for a walk?”
“Yes.”
I place my hand in the small of her back, guiding us through people until we get to a place less congested on the sidewalk; she doesn’t resist.
“I’m sorry to keep you waiting.” I can see from the side her face lightening and there’s no need for explanation from either of us.
We walk in silence for a couple of minutes.
“Have you ever been to a Yale track meet?” I ask now that I’ve steadied my mind.
“I haven’t. . .”
“Would you be interested in coming to one—this Saturday, well, part of one. The events last most of the day, but my heats are in the early afternoon?” I offer. Knowing what I just did spontaneously and maybe too soon. It doesn’t have to be a real first date, just an outing—school outing, in some sort—not putting pressure on her. I thought about it late last night. Coach Malloy will be there; he’ll have one of my two athlete’s passes, and I’d sure like her to have the other one. “It’s against Harvard.” I don’t know why I said that, or why it would make a difference. It’s just now that I’ve asked her, her quietness makes me nervous.
“Yes, I know. . . I’ll come.”
“Good.” I want to reach for her hand and turn her to me and tell her how I can’t get her out of my mind these last days, and how happy I feel just being near her. “Maybe tomorrow morning we can talk about where to meet at the stadium and the time. . . if that’s okay with you?” I see her lips form a small smile.
“Sure, that’s alright. . . I’d like that.”
“Same time. . . 7:05?” I suggest somewhat playfully, trying still to calm her from the nerves we both felt
earlier.
“7:05,” she agrees, smiling forward as we continue our walk.
14
shay
I stop by my apartment on my way up to Jenny’s. I told her not to make anything for herself for supper, when I asked if she wouldn’t mind some company later on.
The aroma of the small roast and vegetables that I turned on in the crock pot before I left this morning, makes my stomach growl. I grab an oven mitt from the drawer and slowly lift the lid, checking it. Just right. I unplug the cord and take out another oven mitt so I can get it upstairs.
Before I go I want to change into sweatpants and a sweatshirt. I hurry getting ready, knowing we’re both starving. Lunch came early today when Professor Richards decided we all needed to meet on his lunch hour at 12:00 in his office. I don’t think anyone is too comfortable with the thought of breaking bread in his company. So when word got around, we were scrambling to force down any lunch that we could.
Sorted. I grab the crock pot and head out, steadying it with one hand underneath as I reach and shut the door to lock it.
As I get to the third floor and make my way down the hall, I can see Jenny’s door is slightly open. I knock lightly with my foot, pushing it, and walk inside. “Hey, I’m here,” I call. No sign of her.
“Be right out.”
I put our supper on the counter and plug it back in, looking around at the table to see if it’s cleared off enough to eat on—just her backpack and some papers that she’s been grading. I won’t disturb it.
“Hey,” she steps out from around the corner, putting her hair up into a ponytail. “Yum! What’s that smell?!”
“You like it? It’s just a rump roast and some vegetables that have been cooking all day.”
“Yeah!—Great! Let’s eat! Can we?” She slides her papers into a pile, tapping the edges smooth and putting them into her open backpack and onto the floor. “Would you grab a couple of plates out of the cupboard and some silverware? I’ll get us some drinks. What would you like? I’ve got Sprite, lemonade. . .” I see her bent down in the refrigerator, sliding some things around on the metal shelf. “And some expired milk—your pick.”
“Lemonade. Do you mind if I make you a plate, so I can get everything out of the pot?” I ask, trying to decide in our meager existences the best way to get our food to the table.
“Sure—thanks. What veg do you have?”
“Carrots, potatoes, and onions,” I say, looking in fishing around for them after taking out some tender chunks of meat.
“A pass on the carrots.” She sets barbecue and Worcestershire sauce out on the table, along with some salt and pepper and butter. I put our plates down next to the drinks in front of her. “What a feast!”
“Tomorrow I’ll bring us leftover barbecue beef sandwiches for lunch. Don’t pack anything,” I say, pleased that she likes it.
“We’re going to make each other into walruses. You know that don’t you?” she laughs, putting a spoonful of butter onto her potatoes.
“Albeit—happy walruses,” I say, unscrewing the cap of the Worcestershire sauce.
We mull over the day and mock Richards’ thrashing during lunch while eating, when I get the courage to change the subject.
“Hey Jen, can I ask you a serious question?”
“Sure you can—I’m all ears.” She reaches for the lemonade pitcher pouring us both more. “What’s up?”
“Well, it’s Dane, you know,” I say a little hesitantly, introducing the subject, and just nervous myself to be talking about things like this.
“Yeah,” she offers encouragingly, “go ahead. I’m listening.”
“Well, he asked if I wanted to watch his meet against Harvard this weekend. What do you think about that?” I wait, giving her time to process it and taking a drink.
“Really? You saw him again? Does he reside on the bus bench? —No—I’m sorry, but really, is he hanging around in the mornings?”
I feel a little embarrassed to admit that we had both been hanging around in the mornings. “No. . . he’s not living on the bench,” I say, smiling, letting her know it’s all alright and easing myself into talking about it further. “But we have seen each other the past couple of mornings, and this morning we went for a short walk before classes.”
She looks a little amused and smiles. “Well, aren’t you stepping out there?”
I twist up the corner of my mouth—not sure of things.
“Hold on, you’re alright. I think it’s a great idea to go watch it. I can’t make it though. Saturday I’m tutoring all day down at the union.” She waits for my reaction. I’m sure seeing if that causes me to back out. But what I decide I can’t tell her, is I was going to be meeting him, and that I didn’t plan on me and her going together to watch it.
“Oh yeah, I forgot.” I let a second pass as if contemplating it. “I think I’ll be fine.”
“Sure you’ll be fine! Anyway, if not—there’ll be about 25,000 witnesses.”
“You’re endless.” I say, pouring the last bit of lemonade into my glass. “Tutoring. I almost forgot you had that going on this Saturday. Did you get all your spots filled for it?” Jenny and a couple of other grad students take turns offering help to the undergrads. For twenty dollars an hour, it’s an easy way to make some extra money. . . even though she compares it to filing her teeth down the front of her desk for half a day.
“I did. The signup sheet was full again—five names. It’ll be a hundred bucks for half a day’s work—if they all show—if they all pay.” She passes me the bottles to put back into the refrigerator and starts clearing the table.
I set the salt and pepper shakers back on the stove and grab a dishcloth to wipe things up. “Thanks for letting me come up,” I say with my back to her wiping the counter in front of the crock pot and sliding it to the edge to take home and put the leftover roast into the refrigerator to shred for sandwiches. “Hey Jen?” I call, turning around to see she’s wandered off.
“Hang on—I’ve got something for you!” Her voice comes from the closet in the bathroom, where I can hear her shuffling boxes around.
I walk over to where the doors at to try to get a look at what she’s doing, if she needs any help with the boxes.
“There—found it!” she manages. She’s squatted down, pulling at something lodged in the bottom of one of them, when it releases itself—and she stands up, turns around, and fomps a flash of blue onto my head. “There! Have a look!”
I’m a little traumatized. She gives me a little pull around to get through the tight squeeze of the bathroom door and closet door, still open with boxes strewn out of it, and turns me to face the mirror. My mouth drops. “Really. . . ?”
“Sure! Why not?!” Her enthusiasm makes me want to hug her. She has no idea how much of a friend she is to me—even in this moment. “You want him to be able to notice you in the stands don’t you?”
I stand looking at myself in the mirror and we both start laughing. The Dr. Seuss hat with its Yale Blue and white stripes isn’t too flattering. “I love it!”
“Sure you do!”
I pop it off beside her to read the large buttons she has pinned to it like Christmas tree ornaments. “Let’s see,” I say, holding it with her reading them. “I think this one is my favorite: Say No To Battery Farm Chicken Eggs, oh, oh, and this one: Down With Fish Dredging.” She rotates it in my hand pointing, proud of my narration of her exhibit. “Yes. . . and Save The Whales. I think the whole biology building knows how you feel about the whales.”
She looks pleased. . . and humored. “It’s yours for the day,” she grants me.
I give her a big hug.
dane
There’s a notebook piece of paper in the center of the table as I walk into the kitchen, with my name written largely in black marker: Dane: Some guy called for you—Malloy. Call him. That’s an iconic first. Vince’s girlfriend must have probed him to leave a note. . . both their backpacks are right inside the door, in tripping range. Other
wise I’d just get asked days later when they called back if I ever got the message, same routine every time.
I drop my backpack onto the table and grab a glass of water and make a sandwich before finding the phone to call him.
She’s coming to watch me.
I take my last bite walking the plate to the sink, spotting the phone on a sofa cushion, getting comfortable and placing the call.
“Hey, Coach Malloy. I got your message.”
“Dane—how’s it going?”
“Great! No complaints. How are things with you?” I ask, knowing Kate and mom just saw him a couple of days ago and he’ll be out here soon.
“Good, good. You feeling ready for Harvard this weekend?” He keeps a close watch on the other collegiate runners and knows where my real competition is at.
“Sure—ready to go.” I’m in the best condition I’ve been in. My body’s showing the discipline that I’ve gotten used to, and the maturity, even since the last meet-up with Harvard.
“Trace Cappelletti’s time is improving—he came out ahead against Dartmouth last Saturday. Have you been watching it?” he asks, not doubting that we’re on the same page.
“Yep, he’s looking better—not too worried though.” I slide my free hand down the top of my thigh, feeling the definition of toned form.
“Alright then—good, that’s what I want to hear. I should be arriving around 7:00 tomorrow evening. You got time for a late supper?”
“Sure. Sounds good.”
“Let’s say I’ll get you from your place about 7:40. How’s that?”
“Good, 7:40. See you then.”
“Okay, Dane. See you then. Bye.”
“Bye.” I toss the phone lightly aside and get up to make another sandwich before hitting the books.
The Season of Shay and Dane Page 6
