by Claire Adams
Now, as Ian smiles sheepishly as he makes his way past my desk to sit in his usual spot, the experiment has become me.
How will Mia handle being paired with a guy she’s simultaneously turned on and off by? What kind of stress and psychological strain will this new situation put on our young heroine?
Tune in next week.
“So, what are we doing?” Ian asks.
“We’re supposed to come up with ideas for some sort of experiment to do as our final project,” I tell him.
“You were at that competition a while ago—” he starts.
“You know what?” I ask him. “You and I are going to be working together for a while, and we don’t know each other, although I think it’s safe to say that we do both remember meeting one another when you were staring at my breasts right before you went out and skated in front of a few hundred people.”
“Yeah, that was a pretty good day,” Ian says.
“Glad to hear it,” I tell him, “but as we’re working together, you will either look me in the eyes, in the direction that I’m pointing, or not at me at all, do you understand me?”
He laughs. “Sure thing,” he says. “What’s your name?”
“Mia,” I tell him. “You’re Ian.”
“Remember my name from the big screen, huh?” he asks.
“You just said it to the professor about 47 seconds ago,” I tell him.
“That was really specific,” he says. “You kind of strike me as the uptight type, only the uptight type doesn’t usually hang out at skating competitions. The only people that really hang out at skating competitions are skaters, wannabe skaters, and skate groupies. Are you a wannabe skater?” he asks.
“Could we possibly focus a little bit here?” I ask. “I know we have some time before the project is going to be due, but if we don’t plan this thing out, we’re going to find ourselves with a week left and nowhere near enough time to do anything that we might want to do, so could we just…?”
“Sure,” he says. “What did you have in mind?”
“I don’t know,” I tell him. “I think one of the first things we’re going to want to consider is going to be the method of collecting data. As this is a psychology class, not a chemistry class, we’re going to be working with people, so collecting data is going to have to have some aspect of getting information from people about a particular topic. Is there anything you can think of?”
“We could always try to reboot what they did at Stanford,” he says. “You know, when they put all those students into a warehouse or something, made half of them guards, the other half prisoners, and watched as half the people started humiliating and abusing the others. We could do that.”
“I know what you’re talking about,” I tell him, “but first off, that’s not quite what happened. Second, someone already did it. Why would we want to repeat an experiment when we can try something new?”
“Don’t scientific experiments have to be repeated before results can be considered valid?” he asks, tapping the end of a pen against his full bottom lip.
Really, I’m just impressed that he has a vocabulary large enough to form the question.
“Yeah, but we’re not a research lab,” I sigh. “We don’t have those kinds of resources. This is for a class in which we are students. I don’t even know how we would put something like that—”
“Yeah,” he says, leaning forward, “I didn’t really mean that seriously. I was just hoping for a quick chuckle at the schadenfreude of it all.”
“Where did you learn to talk like that?” I ask.
“What do you mean?” he returns.
“Schadenfreude,” I say. “How do you even know what that means?”
“What?” he asks. “I watched PBS when I was a kid, too. Don’t think just because I have all these tattoos that I’m some kind of idiot—oh hey, Gooch,” he says to someone on the other side of me. “Heard you got crabs from the old lady at that party last week; bummer.”
I’m trying to find out how this guy became so intelligent and now he’s talking past me to someone about their rumored venereal disease. If it weren’t impossible, I’d honestly think he was toying with my indecision about him.
This is one of those nice moments when I get a free stare, though. He’s talking to someone behind me, but we’re also in a conversation, so I get to just stay here and take in the contradictions.
Still, after a couple of weeks in class, I haven’t seen him without a beanie on his head, but a few inches of medium brown hair poke out from under the bottom of the hat. The tattoos stop well before his neck, and he seems to have remarkably clean teeth for someone who comes off like such a lazy slob.
“…probably best to wrap your guy up next time, don’t you think?” Ian asks, and I shudder.
Being a skate aficionado, I’ve grown used to the kind of crass talk that goes on in a skate park and, although it’s not the way I choose to speak myself, I like to think I’ve even become very tolerant of those who choose differently. Still, the uncomfortably loud talk about VD in the middle of a college classroom is enough to make me want to hide my face.
“So,” Ian says, turning back toward me, and I could swear I see his eyes dilate before he reaches his second word, “what kind of sampling method do you think would be best?”
“I’m open to ideas,” I tell him. “Questionnaires can be useful because they can provide anonymity, which you’d think would make people more likely to tell the truth, but that’s not necessarily the case. Sometimes, immature people lie on questionnaires because they think they’re funny or witty or—are you listening?”
Ian looks down at me, his eyes having drifted to what I can only assume was the ceiling. “I’m sorry,” he says. “What?”
“Where did I lose you?” I ask, really trying to be patient.
“I think we should do phone sampling,” Ian says. “It’s probably more likely to put people into awkward situations while they’re supposed to be answering your questions, but it would be hilarious to toy with them when you know you’ve got someone who’s trying to be discreet.”
“You’re going to make me do this whole thing, aren’t you?” I ask.
For the average slacker guy, he has remarkable posture. I’m not sure that I appreciate the crossed arms or the smirk on his face.
“I didn’t say that,” he answers. “I just think we may as well have fun if we’re going to work. They say people always perform better if they’re doing something they enjoy.”
“And that qualification is met, for you, by making strangers uncomfortable over the phone?” I ask.
“It’s just a thought,” he says. “Actually, as you say it, it does sound pretty dumb. What were you saying about the questionnaires and how they’re racially biased?”
“What?” I ask.
“I’m just kidding,” he says. “You still seem really tense. I’m just trying to get you to loosen up.”
He gives me a self-satisfied grin, pointing a neon sign at the source of his smugness. He thinks he’s doing me a favor, showing me that loosening up and having fun isn’t the devil’s poison sent to wreak havoc on my soul, but the problem is that I’m not an uptight person.
He’s putting this whole avatar over me that fits his preferred experience, and it doesn’t matter if it’s anything to do with who I actually am or not.
That’s what pisses me off.
“Listen,” I snap. “I’ll figure out the sampling method, but let’s get together tonight and come up with an idea, something we can really work on. When we’re done coming up with that idea, we come up with another one, and then another one, until we’ve got something that’s going to work, and I’m not uptight and we’re not crank calling people, either, and that does not, no matter what you might say, contradict what I just said about being uptight. It’s not being uptight to give a crap.”
“You’re really pretty when you’re annoyed,” he says. “Has anyone ever told you that?”
Surpr
isingly, yes, I have been told before that I’m particularly attractive when I’m annoyed—though I think the exact term used may have been irritated or peeved. I really don’t remember which.
“No,” I answer, “and you’re an idiot.”
“We still have like five minutes of class left,” he says. “You don’t want to spitball a few ideas while we’ve got the time to do it?”
“I’d really rather spend what’s left of this class period facing forward and quietly reflecting on how nice it is to not have to talk to you and how I’m going to endure the coming months where such quiet moments are going to be in such short supply,” I answer. “So, let me give you my phone number. Send me a text after 3 and we’ll meet up.”
“What happens before 3?” he asks.
“Before 3, you’ll be waiting until 3 so you can send me a text,” I answer. “Now, I’m turning around. Quiet moment…”
I turn my body and then my desk/chair combo back toward the front, and I lean back in my chair. Now, I’m scratching my desk and looking down at my desk, thinking about how awkward it is trying to give the cold shoulder to someone who’s sitting right behind me.
It’s more anxiety-provoking than I would have thought. I hadn’t considered the sensation that he’s watching me right now because he’s sitting where he is, that he can’t help but be watching me right now.
I lean over and open up my backpack, leaning over the side of my chair and giving a quick look. Ian’s not looking at me. He’s giving the middle finger to someone on the other side of the room, and I have no idea if he’s being playful or if a fight is about to break out.
It might be kind of exciting if I weren’t sitting so close to the guy.
On the bright side, though, at least I know he’s not staring at me. Not that he would, anyway.
* * *
The text came through a few minutes ago. Ian wants me to meet him at this café near where he lives.
Frankly, I’m just surprised I heard from him at all. I was kind of hoping I could at least get the major footwork of this project done before Ian decided it was time to actually get interested.
I get dressed and tell my dad I’ll be back in a little while.
I’m still his little girl, and it’s really starting to bother me. I get that on some level, I’m always going to be his baby girl or whatever, but I am 20 years old. The least he could do is update his vernacular.
“You going out to play with your friends, sweetheart?” he asks.
“I have a project for one of my courses, and I’m meeting with my partner to go over the details,” I answer. “It’s for psychology.”
“You’ve been taking a lot of those,” he says. “I thought you were done with psychology.”
“Nope,” I tell him.
“Huh,” he says. “When did you decide to go back to it?”
“I never decided to go away from it,” I tell him. “The only reason I haven’t had any psychology classes the last few months is because that was summer break and I don’t have school then.”
“You don’t have to get snippy about it,” he says, and I cringe. His eyes are wide and moving quickly from side to side. “I guess I just haven’t been as available as I should be.”
It might be a less frightening sentiment if it didn’t look like he’s on the verge of a panic attack at the thought of missing some detail of my life, but it does, so it is.
“We’ve just been talking about other things,” I tell him. “After classes, I don’t really want to talk about school that much, you know that.”
“Yeah,” he says, seeming to relax a little. My dad is how I know I’m not uptight. If I were even a little uptight, there would be some aspect of his behavior that I could understand on some instinctual level, but it’s taken every psychology class I’ve ever taken and a lot of my own research to know that my father suffers from an inability to let go of his image of me as a small child that needs to be protected from anything and everything in the world. Most of the time, he just comes off as weird. It’s about that long before he finishes his thought. “I know that.”
“I’ve got to go,” I tell him. “I don’t want to be late. I think my partner’s the type that’s not going to sit around waiting too long to do homework.”
“All right,” Dad says. “Just drive safe, and I want you to watch out for kids on the road. They can just pop right out in front of you with no warning. They’re like cats.”
“Cats?” I ask.
“Or spider monkeys,” he says. “I don’t know. Whatever they’re like, they’re unpredictable. I just assume, every time that I’m driving toward a part of the block where a child is playing in the driveway or on the lawn that that kid is going to jump out in front of my car. It’s good to go slow, even if it looks like they’re going inside with their—”
“Dad,” I interrupt and put my hands on his shoulders. “One day, I’m going to be graduated, and I’m going to be able to legally diagnose whatever it is that makes you think I’m still new to the world. Until then, is there any way you could tone down the hovering, nervous guy thing?”
“Go,” he says. “Have fun.”
“Thanks, Dad,” I tell him, and start for the door.
“Be safe,” he says.
I turn, smile, and say, “I will.”
I turn back toward the door and get another couple of steps in before he says, “Call if you’re going to be late.”
“Dad, it’s not going to make much sense to call if you don’t let me leave,” I tell him.
“You’re right,” he says. “I’m chilling out. Be well.”
Be well?
I’m not looking the gift horse in the mouth. I just get to the door, turn the knob, and get to the other side of it as quickly as possible.
The first few weeks of classes are always the most difficult, but it seems to be particularly bad this time. Dad’s starting to realize that I’m not going to be living at home forever, that one day sooner than later, I’m going to be out of this house and out of his life.
That’s the way he puts it when he really wants to guilt me about it; “Out of his life.” After mom ran off, he’s been particularly fond of the phrase.
Still, you’d think after nine years, the guy would have gotten things together. He’s still a reasonably young man, after all, but I’m not jumping back on the grenade of trying to get him to date again.
Last time I got that particular bug up my butt, I set him up with one of the women I used to babysit for in the neighborhood. Apparently, he spent the whole date talking about how Mom left and how someday I would leave him, too. From what I understand, the date was pretty much over when he started talking about how even if the two of them were to fall in love, she would only end up leaving him.
Mrs. Aragon is a nice woman; she almost became a nun when she was younger until she decided she could better serve the world by dedicating her life to motherhood. Even with that gentleness of character, she still couldn’t take more than 20 minutes of listening to the sad tale that is my father.
At one point, and they both told me this with the same mixed look of irritation and regret, she told him to “Quit whining or else even the birds won’t want to listen anymore.”
In almost-nun terms, that’s like someone like Ian telling my dad to go screw himself.
Now, though, I’m out of the house, and for a few minutes, I’m successful in pretending like things are going to be any less strained when I get where I’m going.
The café is mostly empty. That should be a positive thing if I end up yelling at Ian at some point. It’ll also make him easier to spot, because he certainly isn’t here yet.
I take a seat at a table in the corner with a good view of the whole café, so he’s sure to see me and I’m sure to see him. The way I see it, the sooner we spot each other, the sooner we can get to work. The sooner we get to work, the sooner we can be done, and the sooner we’re done, the sooner I can go over to Abby’s place and tell my dad that t
he project is running long.
I don’t have curfews in the normal sense of the word. That’s one thing I was able to talk my dad out of after I turned 18 and agreed to live at home while I’m going to college—something I’ve been trying to get out of ever since that first day when I came home and he greeted me at the door with tears in his eyes and snot coming out of his nose.
Ugh.
Still, though, if I’m ever in after 10 o’clock, he gives me the dad talk. He never specifically reprimands me, but he makes sure that I know how worried he was waiting for me to come home and how he’d expected me so much earlier.
I’m still waiting for the day that he loses it entirely and he tells me that I had him worried that I wouldn’t come back at all, but he’s somehow managed to avoid going down that particular winding path.
The door to the café opens, but it’s not Ian. It’s some older couple who are smiling and nudging each other as they point out the wonderful kitschiness of what I could swear I hear one of them refer to as a, “European-style café.”
This is utterly surreal, but I’m unable to enjoy it because I’m stressed about my dad and Ian’s still not here.
It’s a wonderful life.
Sometimes, I just want to track Mom down, even if it’s only on the telephone, and really let her know what I’ve had to put up with since she’s left, but then I start feeling guilty about being so cold. It’s just one fractured onus on top of another, and nobody wins.
I order up some food and he’s still not here. The food arrives and I’m still sitting at my table alone. By the time I’m finished eating, my phone is in my hand.
“Hey, what’s up, loser?” Ian answers.
“Are you forgetting something?” I ask. “I’ve been sitting in this café for like—”
“Yeah, I wanted to see how long I could get you to talk before you realized you’re talking to a voicemail, but I’m running out of time here, so, surprise. Leave a message,” the message ends and there’s a beep.
“That is the stupidest message I’ve ever heard,” I tell him. “I’m sitting here at Antony’s on Sixth, Ian, and you’re still not here. I’ve been waiting for an hour now, and I’m really starting to get irritated that you’re not here. If you need to reschedule, call me, text me, let me know, but if you’re just going to—”
