by Chris Orcutt
“Hey there, beautiful,” I said.
“Hey yourself,” she said.
“Why so glum?”
She shrugged and continued walking. “They don’t want to do Geoff’s study.”
“So what? That’s Geoff’s problem, not yours. Stop for a second.”
“I can’t. I have to get to the Crimson.”
“Stop. Please?”
She halted suddenly and heaved out a sigh. I tightened her shoulder straps again.
“There,” I said. “Mind if I walk with you?”
“Whatever,” she said.
She marched down the sidewalk, continuing on Quincy Street along the eastern fence of Harvard Yard. Her jaw was set, and she marched leading with her head, fiercely determined, like a petite, female Theodore Roosevelt. Teddy, a Harvard student himself back in the late 1870s, was once called a “steam engine in trousers.” I chuckled. From now on, I would think of Sally as “a steam engine in capris.”
“Are you laughing at me?” she said.
“No, admiring you. You’re adorable.”
“Dakota,” she whined, “what’s the deal with Svetlana?” She glanced at me. “Is she your girlfriend?”
“Hardly. We just met the other day. We’re friends. Less than friends, actually—acquaintances.”
“Acquaintances? You’re sure? She seemed really friendly. She kissed you!”
“Just on the cheek,” I said. “Look…she’s European—from Russia, I think. They’re all like that.”
“Whatever, I don’t care.” Eyes down, she kicked a stone into the street. “What about Alice? Do you like her?”
“Do you mean, why did I let her feel my arm? I’ll tell you. Because she seemed like a sweet girl who’s never touched a man before. Come on, would you really begrudge poor, waifish little Alice the chance to squeeze a man’s muscle?”
Sally shrugged again. I waited for a group of students to pass us, and then I grabbed her knapsack, stopping her short.
“Hey!” she said.
“Sally…are you jealous?”
“No.”
“I think you are, but there’s no reason to be. I just met Svetlana Krüsh, I don’t have a girlfriend, and I’m not interested in Alice. I promise. I’m interested in you, Sally. What about you? Are you interested in me?”
She took off marching again, this time swinging her arms.
“Well?” I said.
The words blurted out of Sally’s mouth so fast, and with such force, they were like exploding steam.
“Why would you possibly be interested in me? I’m an ugly, dumb undergrad, and you…you’re a handsome Ph.D.”
I tugged her into me and kissed her. For a split second she tried to pull away, but then she closed her eyes and relaxed in my arms. Her lips were every bit as soft and succulent as they looked. When I ended the kiss, her eyes had tears in them. I fished a napkin out of my pocket and handed it to her. I took her knapsack and slung it over my shoulder and talked to her while she removed her glasses, dried her eyes and blew her nose.
“First of all, Sally,” I said, “you’re far from ugly. You’re a striking young lady.”
“Uh-uh. An ugly duckling maybe, but—”
“Hush. I’m talking. You’re uniquely attractive. Period. Some of the best models aren’t classically attractive, but their combination of interesting features makes them beautiful. That’s you, Sally. And as for dumb, you’re kidding, right? You’re an honors student at one of the best universities in the world. You’re light years from dumb. You don’t know what dumb is, Sally. Trust me…I’ve dated more than my share of dumb girls, so I know what I’m talking about. True story—one girl I dated was so dumb…” I nudged Sally.
She rolled her eyes and sighed. “How dumb was she?”
“While vacationing on Nantucket together, we went to the same beach every day,” I said. “Then, on our final day there, we went at low tide and she looked at some rocks in the water and said, ‘Dakota…those rocks have grown since yesterday.’ I tried to explain tides to her, but she wouldn’t hear it. In her world, rocks grew.”
Sally sniggered like a cartoon cat and put her glasses back on.
“See?” I said. “You’re beautiful, and you’re far from dumb.”
“Thanks.”
“So?” I said. “Are you interested in me or not?”
“Yes. Very much.”
I grinned. “I think you’re special, kid—one in a million.” I put an arm around her and led her to the end of the block. “Come on, I’ll walk you to the Crimson offices.”
“How do you know where it is?” she asked.
“I used to date one of the editors. Years ago.”
We crossed the street. At the corner of Plympton Street, in front of Harvard Book Store, I helped her put on her knapsack again and walked her the short distance to the Crimson office.
“There’s one thing I want to know, Sally,” I said. “And I want the truth.”
“Truth? About what?”
I looked at her askance. “Have you been following me today?”
“Excuse me?”
“Everywhere I’ve gone today, you’ve shown up right after me—the pool, Harvard Square, the Berg. You’re not stalking me are you, Sally?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. “It’s fate. It has to be. What you said this morning, when you walked me to Cantor’s class, remember? About how ‘if it’s meant to be, it will be’? You know what I think? I think it’s a sign we’re meant to be together.”
“Maybe,” I said. “But if we bump into each other again today, then we’ll know it’s a sign.”
The brunette and the redhead I’d met here yesterday waved to me on their way into the building.
“I’m nervous, Dakota,” she said.
“What are you nervous about?”
“That I won’t see you again. Can’t we at least exchange phone numbers?”
“If you really want to talk, I’m staying at the Charles,” I said. “Call me anytime.”
“Anytime? Really?”
“Well, don’t call in the middle of the night unless it’s an emergency, but otherwise, sure—anytime.”
“I like you, Dakota. A lot.”
“I like you, too, Sally.”
She waved at the building. “I’m late. Call you later?”
“Sounds great.”
She hugged me a final time and skipped to the door. “Bye, Dakota!”
“Bye.”
When the door of the Crimson closed behind her, I was overcome by a deluge of exhaustion. Before my next meet-cute, at the tennis court, I needed to rest. I headed back to my hotel.
11
Totally ‘The Dirty Dozen’
Technically speaking all I’d done today was follow and spend some time with a 19½-year-old girl. So why did I feel like I was back in the Bureau, with my brain fried from interrogating a suspect for three hours?
Exhausted when I reached the hotel, I sat in the sauna for half an hour, showered, and took a nap. By the time I woke up, it was quarter to three. Sally’s tennis intramurals started in fifteen minutes. I quickly changed into tennis clothes, drove across the river to the Beren tennis center, and grabbed my racquet and a can of balls out of the trunk.
When I was at MIT, I’d only played here once. Since Harvard was a Division I school and MIT was Division III, it was an exhibition tournament. Naturally we lost to Harvard that day, but we got our revenge weeks later.
We broke in one night and meticulously repainted the lines on one of the courts so the playing area was three inches shallower and narrower. Our prank wasn’t discovered until the following season, when a visiting player, who kept hitting his ball out, insisted the court be measured.
Overall, this was the best tennis facility I’d ever played in
. With the courts’ blue playing surfaces, white lines and green sidelines, and their seating for hundreds of fans, the complex was like a miniature version of the U.S. Open Tennis Center in Queens, New York.
Entering the first section of courts, I expected to see Sally and a bunch of girls, but there was only one other person there—a dark-haired man, early 30s, wearing a Harvard baseball cap.
He stood at the baseline with a basket of balls. I watched him serve. His windup, toss, body extension and racquet contact with the ball—I sensed that I’d seen this serve before. The man serving was a bit heavier and softer around the middle, but I was pretty sure I recognized him as my old arch tennis rival from Brandeis—Joshua Cohen.
“Josh?” I said. “Is that you?”
With a cursory glance at me, he served another ball. It whizzed dead-on into an empty ball container in the opposite service box. Smiling wryly in my direction, he bounced a tennis ball with his racquet.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” he said. “If it isn’t Dakota Stevens.”
I walked over and shook his hand. He eyed me up and down, eagerly nodding. Honestly, it was a bit uncomfortable.
“And still in killer shape, I see,” he said. “Damn. So, what brings you to the big H?”
“Harvard Fellow.” I flashed my ID.
He whistled. “So, it’s Doctor Stevens now?”
“Yeah. I’m a criminal profiler for the FBI, doing a sabbatical at Harvard for a while.”
“Sounds like a sweet gig.”
“It’s all right,” I said. “What about you?”
“Wanna hit it around a bit? I’ve got a dozen girls coming in a few minutes.”
“Sure.”
Tossing my racquet cover on a bench, I ran over to the other side of the court, tossed the ball container against the back fence, and waited at the baseline for Josh to deliver a flaming serve.
Instead—probably to test my skill level—he lofted a ball across. I drilled a forehand return down the line, deep into the corner.
“Nice shot,” he said. “Yeah, so I’m assistant A-D for the college, and I run the girls’ intramural tennis program. I’d like to coach the Men’s team someday. Anyway, I’m married now—wife’s a big-time Boston litigator—and I’ve got two kids, boy and a girl. We live in Newton. How about you? Married? Kids?” He fed me another ball.
“No and no.” I hit a backhand crosscourt.
I thought my shot was hard-hit until Josh replied with a down-the-line forehand that, had it been any faster, would have caused a sonic boom.
As I ran for the ball, Josh rushed the net. Miraculously, I got my racquet under the ball and lobbed it over him.
Sprinting back to the baseline, he let the ball bounce and chipped it back deftly with a backhand drop shot.
Now I rushed the net. When the ball bounced on my side of the court, it lurched toward the net and dropped before I could reach it.
“Nice shot yourself,” I said.
“Good to see you’re still playing,” he said.
“When I can find the time.”
A cell phone rang. Josh pulled a phone out of his shorts pocket.
“Sorry, it’s my wife,” he said. “I’ve got to take this.”
“No problem.”
I mimed practicing my serve while he paced around the court. Then he hung up abruptly and ran to the net. His face was drawn.
“My little girl’s been in an accident at school,” he said.
“Oh, Josh—that’s awful.” I met him at the net. “Is she okay?”
“I think so. Something happened in gym class. Listen, normally I wouldn’t ask, but could do me a solid?”
“Anything. What?”
“Run the intramurals for me today?” he asked. “Drills and maybe a round-robin? It’s a piece of cake.”
He glanced over his shoulder at the entrance. A group of girls in a mishmash of polo shirts and tank tops, shorts and tennis dresses, shambled in. He lowered his voice.
“Most of them aren’t very good,” he whispered. “Basically, I just need you to babysit them for two hours. Could you do that for me?”
“Of course, Josh. Go.”
“I’ll make it up to you, I promise.” He hurriedly collected his things. “Where can I reach you?”
“The Charles,” I said.
The girls, including Sally, had gathered on the other side of the court. They were all slouching and looking at Josh with anxious faces. Slipping on my sunglasses, I strolled over bouncing a ball in the air off my racquet strings.
“Mr. Cohen, what’s wrong?” one of them asked.
“Family emergency, girls,” he said. “But you’re in good hands. My friend here, Dr. Dakota Stevens, was almost as good as me in college. He’s generously offered to fill in for me today, so be easy on him. Bye.”
The girls watched Josh run out, and when he disappeared out the gate, they turned their heads in unison to face me.
Sally wore a canary yellow tennis dress, the clingy fabric of which was enticingly smooth and sheeny. The look was marred, however, by the garish glint of her BDSM collar. Smiling and waving her tennis racquet, she mouthed, “It’s a sign, Dakota.”
The rest of the young ladies stared back at me with their eyes half closed and their mouths pinched up in jaded sneers. Chomping on gum, swinging their racquets metronomically like grandfather clock pendulums, scuffing absently at the court with their sneakers, these girls were the Bad News Bears of Ivy League intramural tennis.
None of them said anything, so the loudest sound was the “tung-tung-tung-tung-tung” of the ball bouncing on my racquet strings. I paused in front of them for effect before introducing myself.
“Good afternoon, ladies,” I said. “As Mr. Cohen mentioned, my name is Dakota Stevens. I’m a Harvard Fellow, and I’m going to be your substitute coach today.”
A tall blonde on the end stepped forward. She cocked her head and stood with her arms akimbo.
“What happened to Mr. Cohen?”
“His daughter got hurt,” I said. “That’s all I know.”
All at once, the group of them winced and said, “Oh, no! Not little Hannah!”
“I don’t think it’s anything serious,” I said.
“You just said you didn’t know,” the tall blonde said.
“I’m sure Hannah’s going to be fine.” I kept bouncing the ball on my racquet: tung-tung-tung-tung-tung.
“Well…what happened to her?”
This question came from an Asian girl in a Harvard tank top and a pair of gray Spandex shorts. Her hair was pulled back tightly in a high ponytail, accentuating her inscrutable, exotic features.
“Something involving gym class,” I said. “That’s all I know.”
Again the girls winced collectively.
Then they began positing theories about what had happened:
“Bet she was climbing the rope. Yeah, fer sure, she prob’ly fell.”
“Hannah’s seven years old, Peyton. They don’t make seven-year-olds climb the rope in gym!”
“Maybe she got sick. Little kids puke all the time. I’ve done a lot of babysitting.”
“Kids are the worst. I’m never going to have kids.”
“She probably got hit with the ball during dodgeball and got a bloody nose. That happened to me once, and it hurt like—”
“Ladies!” I batted the tennis ball somewhere behind me. “You’re here to play tennis, not gossip. Now let’s begin. Line up for inspection.”
“Inspection?” the Asian girl said. “What is this, the Army?”
Putting my racquet under my arm like General Patton used to do with his riding crop, I swaggered up to her and stared at her through my aviator sunglasses.
“What’s your name, soldier?” I said.
She sighed. “Jade Lee.”
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br /> “Line up according to height, Miss Lee,” I said. “Toes on the baseline, please, and stand up straight. No slouching, ladies.”
It took a few seconds, with them dawdling and grumbling while they did it, but eventually they got lined up and were standing at attention. I stepped back and took in the row of them.
“Very nice, ladies. Very nice.”
“Why are we doing this, Dr. Stevens?” the tall blonde asked.
“Because,” I said, “few things are more beautiful than twelve young women in shorts and skirts standing up straight. Ever heard of The Dirty Dozen? Well, you ladies are ‘The Divine Dozen.’ ”
“That’s what you think, Dr. Stevens,” said the tall blonde, glancing down the row of girls. “We’re totally ‘The Dirty Dozen.’ ”
“You know it, girl!”
Peyton bumped fists with the blonde, then, turning and squatting slightly, started humming a song and gyrating her behind—much to the delight of the other girls, who laughed and hooted.
“Careful, Doctor Stevens,” the Asian girl said. “Lexie’s father’s a lawyer. What you said sounded pretty sexual harass-y to me.”
I waited for Peyton to finish her dance and get back in line, then said, “All of you…tell me how you feel right now.”
A pixyish blonde turned to Sally. “What’s he mean?”
“I mean,” I said, “when you stand up straight, how do you feel inside?”
“I don’t know…strong?” the tall blonde said.
“Good,” I said. “Now I want all of you to hold your arms over your head and arch your back slightly. Imagine you’re crossing the finish line of a marathon. Then, with your eyes closed, tell me how you feel.”
“Confident.”
“Powerful,” said Jade.
“Right,” I said. “That’s because this is a power position. Remember the feeling you have right now. If you ever feel depressed, make this position for a minute and visualize yourself accomplishing your goals.”
