by Amiee Smith
Her stare puts my body on high alert. I’ve misjudged her.
She is not a woman I can charm. She is not just a nerdy girl who was featured in the Pasadena Star for getting a perfect score on the SAT. She is not just a smarty pants waiting for a guy like me to flirt with her. She is not just a scattered geek with a big brain and messy desk.
No. She’s a pretty girl. Powerfully sexy. Alluring. And Brit is unphased by my bullshit.
Now I want to fuck.
“Why don’t we get a beer and talk about it? It’s happy hour at the Figueroa Street Café,” I suggest, shifting in my chair to hide my growing erection.
“My friends pushed our dinner to 8:00 p.m. So, I’m going there to watch the Warriors game.”
“The Warriors? This is Lakers Nation.”
“I went to Cal my first two years of undergrad. I became a Warriors fan while living in Berkeley. They’ve got this new kid, Stephen Curry. In a few years, they’ll be the team to beat.”
“The Warriors? I’ll believe it when I see it. Let’s watch the game.”
Brit puts the hot sauce and water bottle in her desk drawer and tosses the Cup of Noodles in the trash.
“So, we’re clear, I’m your TA and we just happen to be from the same town. Nothing more.”
“Got it. Actually, we’re from the same neighborhood. We went to the same elementary school.”
“No, Alex Willingham, we are not from the same ‘hood. Maybe the same zip code, but the world you grew up in and the world I knew were not the same. Let’s go. You’re buying the beers.”
My dad recently cut off my allowance because I told him I wasn’t going to work in his business after graduation.
I’m living on student loans, but I will happily dump a little cash at the bar so I can hang out with this weirdly enticing woman.
EIGHT YEARS AGO
BRIT PALMER
“You gave me an A minus?!” Alex says, plopping onto the barstool next to me at the Figueroa Street Café.
It’s the last day of the semester; no office hours. The bar is packed. A group of girls on the other side of the bar sing along to Pink’s “Raise Your Glass.” Summer vacation has officially arrived.
There’s no Warriors game; they didn’t make the playoffs. Tonight, I plan to chill in my bed with an Astrophysics textbook, the latest Marie Claire, and a bottle of wine.
Life as an academic musician is brutal. Not because it’s difficult. I’m a rare kind of genius, so all I have to do is show up. But my schedule is filled with too many activities: going to classes, studying, rehearsing, performing, teaching, and attending meetings and seminars.
It’d be fine if I was rolling in the dough, but I’m barely getting by. I’ve spent my entire living stipend on rent for the Venice Beach apartment I share with Lynn.
I long to just play music.
I long to record an album of my own songs.
“You skipped the last listening exam, Alex. You’re lucky you got an A minus.”
“You know I was helping my brother after his surgery. All my other TAs understood my situation.”
“You probably gave them notice. You missed my discussion group without even dropping an email.”
“I just figured you’d understand, since we’re friends.”
“No, Alex. You are my student.”
“Well as of today, I’m no longer a student. Wall Street, here I come.”
“You’re moving to New York?”
“I told you about my job.”
“I just assumed you were working somewhere in Downtown L.A.”
“No, New York. I’m kind of old for an entry-level position, but I’ll do whatever it takes to pass my securities exams and crush my sales goals.”
He’s dressed in khakis and a tucked-in, crisp blue shirt. Over the last semester, I’ve watched him transform from a preppy, privileged kid in flip flops, shorts, and polos to a... suit.
First, he cut his thick dark hair into a style like George Clooney in Ocean’s Eleven. Next, he started wearing slacks and dress shirts to class. But most dramatically, he replaced his contact lenses with sleek, silver, semi-rimless frames, hiding his striking blue-green eyes.
The new Alex reads conservative white man. All day, every day.
He’s a handsome guy. I can see why another woman would be into him, but he’s not my type. I like hipster dudes with beards, dark nerdy glasses, and a creative edge.
However, something happened over the last semester. While honoring the boundaries of a student-teacher relationship, we’ve developed a camaraderie. Every Friday, at 4:30 p.m. he’d show up with coffee and a pastry. We’d listen to a record and talk about the class. Afterwards, we’d go to the Figueroa Street Café to watch the Warriors game.
Alex loves jazz. When he listens to an album, he gets this sexy half-smile and closes his eyes. It’s as if he’s meditating on the music. Duke Ellington and Wayne Shorter are his favorites.
Rarely did we broach the subject of personal information.
I only recently learned he’s a year younger than me. Him: 23. Me: 24. I skipped a grade. He was held back a grade. As kids, we attended the same schools but had totally different academic experiences. While I was labeled gifted, Alex was labeled problem (his word).
After spending the last semester reading his papers and grading his exams, I know Alex is very smart, but has an untreated learning disability. Instead of taking on the stigma of dyslexia, he hustled and maneuvered his way through the academic system. It’s admirable.
I wouldn’t say I’ve caught feelings for him. No, I couldn’t be into a... suit. But there is an undeniable affection. I’ve enjoyed our time together on Friday afternoons.
Now, the semester is over and he’s moving on.
Ignoring the disappointment churning in my belly, I fish out a crumpled twenty dollar bill from my bag.
“So, I guess beers are on me. To celebrate our last Friday together,” I say.
“No, Brit. We’ve got three more months together. Now that you’re not my TA, I thought we could go see jazz shows. I called the Jazz Bakery today. For the summer, I can get the student discount and you can get the educator discount. Let’s go to as many concerts as possible.”
“That sounds awesome. Next to Yoshi’s in Oakland, the Jazz Bakery is the best place to see a show, but I’ve spent my entire living stipend on rent. I’m not sure I’ll be able to cover my living expenses for the summer. Even if I get a gig teaching piano, I’ll still be a bit short if I do a little shopping. And I’d go insane if all I did was work to pay bills.”
“I always wondered how you could afford to live in Venice Beach.”
“I can’t, but Lynn needed a roommate after her sorority sister moved out. And since she gave up living in the Tri Delta house during undergrad to share an apartment with me after I transferred to Occidental, I felt I needed to return the favor.”
“Brit, you can’t put others above yourself when it comes to money.”
Alex speaks with an authority that is both protective and provocative.
In my group of girlfriends, I’m the poor friend. As a kid, my mom, a Nigerian French model turned failed Hollywood actor, could barely keep the lights on and food in the refrigerator. The stress of money continues to follow me into adulthood.
Thanks to my musical talents, photographic memory, and 200+ IQ, I’ve earned a place in academia with just enough income to keep me alive.
I’m one of the best jazz musicians in the world, and I’m still the poor friend.
“I guess you’re right. You’re buying the beers tonight,” I say, dropping my crumpled twenty back into my purse.
“I planned on it.”
Alex retrieves his wallet from his pocket, giving a nod to the bartender. Jimmy, a brawny dude who used to throw shot put for USC, approaches us.
“Hey Brit and Alex. I’ll need to see IDs. It’s the last day of classes so my boss is being really strict.”
I find my driver license at the bot
tom of my purse, handing it to him.
Jimmy glances at the plastic card. “All these months, I never knew Brit was short for Brittney. Girl, you don’t seem anything like a Brittney,” he says, passing my license back.
“Yeah, I know.”
I’ve heard it my whole life. I’m a basketball-player-tall girl with light brown skin, long dark curly hair and the whitest name ever.
I never let anyone call me Brittney. Not even my mom, who gave me an American name so I’d fit in.
“Two Stone IPAs,” Alex requests, after Jimmy looks at his ID.
“You got it, man.”
Within moments two draft beers appear in front of us.
“Let’s cheers to seeing twenty shows this summer,” he says.
“I want to throw frugality out the window and toast to that, but I can’t pretend. There is no way I can afford to go to twenty shows this summer. I know you won’t have trouble finding another girl to accompany you.”
“You’re the only girl I want to accompany me. I’ve been listening to Jim Rohn recordings on YouTube. He teaches you must visualize and act-as-if to create the life you want. Close your eyes and tell me what your life would look like if you could afford to go to twenty shows this summer with me.”
“I’ve read The Secret. Lynn has a copy in the bathroom. The law of attraction doesn’t work. She’s been imagining hooking up with your brother Nick since high school. Hot guys never end up with smart girls.”
“That’s where you’re wrong. I’ve spent every Friday with you for the last five months.”
“I’m your TA. You were just trying to get a good grade.”
“Bullshit. You know I didn’t need to go to office hours to get a good grade.”
“Fine. You’re a hot guy who knows jazz.”
Alex’s blue-green eyes gleam from behind his glasses, but his face reads serious.
“So, you think I’m hot?”
“Yes. In our looks driven culture, you’d be considered attractive.”
In the last five minutes, we’ve completely crossed the teacher-student boundary. Oddly, it doesn’t feel wrong.
“I will take that as a compliment, Brittney. Now, close those beautiful eyes and tell me what your life would look like if you attended twenty shows this summer with a man you consider attractive.”
“I said our culture considers you attractive. You’re not my type.”
He leans in close, his breath warm against my cheek. His nearness familiar, like each note in my favorite piece of music.
“Close. Your. Eyes.”
I sigh and give in, shutting my eyes and relaxing my lower back.
“Good girl,” he whispers.
My breath catches. My body tingles. My sex wants to reach for him, like my voice searching for a song to sing.
“I’d love a summer gig in fashion. Most people don’t know it, but I’m good at sales because I love clothes and I tell people the truth. I’d like to work for a high-end boutique where my efforts would yield a sizable income so I can pay my rent, eat, go to twenty shows and add some pieces to my wardrobe,” I say, opening my eyes.
Alex glares at me. I sip my hoppy beer, watching the wheels turn in his mind.
“Sit tight. Give me a moment,” he says, leaving the bar.
I’m halfway through my drink when he returns.
“Be at the Sophia location on Colorado Boulevard in Pasadena at 10:00 a.m. on Monday.”
“You got me an interview?”
“No. I’m offering you a job as a sales associate.”
“But don’t they need to interview me?”
“I just did,” Alex says, sipping his beer.
I pull a pen from my purse and write on a white cocktail napkin.
“Who do I report to?”
“Me. I’m managing my mom’s Pasadena store for the summer. So, do you want the job?”
Sophia Willingham is fashion industry elite. Highly respected among fashion heads, she’s one of those Pasadena moms who wore couture while sitting poolside at her son’s water polo matches.
I’d go to games with Lynn and while she drooled over Nick Willingham, I’d drool over his mom. In my younger years, I wanted to be a fabulously fierce mom just like her. Now, marriage and motherhood are a patriarchal hassle I don’t need.
“Yes, Alex. I want the job.”
EIGHT YEARS AGO
ALEX WILLINGHAM
“Do you want a ride home, Alex?”
“Yeah. Thanks. Where are you meeting your friends tonight?” I ask.
We stroll a few blocks from the café to an on-campus parking structure.
“We’re not meeting up tonight. Jen is on location for Sunset Moon. Dana and Claire are studying for finals for their grad programs. And Lynn went up to San Francisco for the weekend.”
“I don’t have any plans either. Let’s get tacos and some more beer and go to my place.”
“I’m down, but my funds are not. And if I drink anymore, I won’t be able to drive home. Maybe another time.”
“I’ll buy the tacos and beer, Brittney. You can stay the night.”
“You sure? It’s your last Friday night of college. Don’t you have a party to attend with your friends?”
“I don’t have any friends. And according to my dad, I’m a 23-year-old fuck-up who should have graduated two years ago. I’m just glad to be done. So, do you want to hang out?”
“Sure. Why not. My friends think I’m a fuck-up too, so I guess we’re in the same club.”
We arrive at her black Jeep Liberty. As expected, her car is as cluttered as her desk in her office. I move an Astrophysics textbook and a folder overflowing with sheet music off the passenger seat.
“A woman with two degrees and working on her doctorate is not a fuck-up.”
“School. Music. Jazz. That’s easy. The rest of my life is another issue, but why dwell on it now. Let’s have fun. I can call around and get some weed. We can stream KJAZZ from your computer if you don’t have a stereo,” she says, backing out and exiting the parking structure.
“I have weed, a stereo system, and a record collection that will make you think you’ve died and gone to jazz heaven,” I say with an inward grin.
***
After stopping at my favorite taqueria near campus, dropping by Ralphs for a twelve-pack of Coronas, four limes, a box of Cheez-It crackers, and a box of Annie’s fruit snacks, we arrive at a fourplex two miles south of campus. Brit said she couldn’t get stoned without the promise of snacks. And she seemed unimpressed when I told her about the tin of caviar I snagged from my parents’ house.
Most SC students wouldn’t live in this neighborhood. I wanted to live alone, and my small studio apartment was the only place I could find that fit within the budget my dad set when I transferred from Pasadena City College two years ago.
“Pull into the driveway between the buildings. You can park behind my car.”
“Your neighbors won’t trip that I’m double parked?” she asks, pulling into the tiny lot.
“Everyone is pretty chill. Plus, I never complain about the mariachi band when they have big parties. Park there. Brit, the spot is pretty tight. Do you want me to park for you?”
“I got it,” she says with a smirk.
To my surprise, she whips into the small space.
“Nice.”
“Thanks. 5 Series BMW? Seems like you,” she says pointing a long dark nail in the direction of my black car.
“It was my mom’s. I’m not really into cars.”
“I love my car. I saved my financial aid refund during my masters so I could buy it. I’m going to hold on to it for as long as possible.”
We walk to the front of my building. The night air is mildly warm. A helicopter roars in the distance above our heads. My neighbor’s kid sits on the steps eating a Big Stick popsicle. Orange coloring coats his mouth.
“Hola, Alex. She’s different than the last girl.”
“Hola, Juan. This is Brit.”
> She offers him a wave and a gentle smile. “Nice to meet you, Juan.”
We move through the hallway leading to my apartment. I dig my keys from my pocket.
“Different from the last girl, huh? Do you have a type, Alex Willingham?”
“Nah. The last few girls I’ve had over have been shorter... petite. Shit, I guess I do have a type. But you and I aren’t like that, right? I mean, unless you want to be?”
“No. You’re not my type either.”
“So you keep saying,” I mumble.
We enter my dark apartment.
“I moved my records around last night. Give me a minute to plug in the light.”
Using the flashlight on my iPhone, I locate the cord to the standing lamp and push it into the power supply. The space illuminates with warm white light.
“Holy crap, you really do have a record collection,” Brit says, dropping her purse and the bag with the tacos on the small dark wood dining table.
“I told you I inherited my aunt’s record collection.”
“I thought you got, like, a crate full. I didn’t expect a library of vinyl. This is dope.”
“I’ve added to it over the last few years.”
“All jazz?”
“Mostly. Some operas and movie soundtracks,” I say, putting the beer in the refrigerator.
“What have you been listening to?” Brit asks, strutting over to my turntable on top of the entertainment cabinet next to the TV.
“Porgy and Bess. Ella and Louie. My aunt would lie on the floor and listen to it. She said it was her time with the gods, or the Italian version of that statement anyway.”
“Yep, this record is celestial. Let’s listen while we eat dinner,” she says, turning on the player and placing the needle at the edge of the black circle. The Overture starts fading into a snippet of “Summertime.”
“Want to get stoned first?” I ask.
“Sure.”
“I’m going to change. Will you pack? The bong is on the floor next to the table. There should be a green container next to my books.”
Brit moves toward the table. I unbutton my shirt and remove my undershirt.
“Do you have a lighter? I’ll finish what’s left in here,” she asks turning toward me.
