by Micol Ostow
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, The Get Up Kids are, like, my favorite. Although, Claud—”
“Yes?” I cringed.
“The Backstreet Boys have got to go.”
“Um, I think my younger cousin stuck that on there. What do you recommend in exchange?”
He paused for a moment, looking thoughtful. “Well, I’ve got a lot of stuff you should sample. But I bet you’d really dig Death Cab for Cutie and the Postal Service. The Shins. Interpol. I could burn it all for you.”
I couldn’t have been more psyched if he had offered to marry me. Or, okay, maybe that’s not strictly true, but still. “That’d be awesome.”
“Yeah, when you come down to the paper, I’ll give you a disk.”
I frowned. “We haven’t exactly discussed when that would be. I keep scanning the personals to see if maybe there’s some cute little hidden message waiting for me, but so far, Rotator, no dice.”
What? Where had that come from? Mild-mannered Claudia Clarkson had unwittingly been overtaken by a snark machine.
Gabe, however, seemed either oblivious or impervious to my sarcasm. “Yeah, the personals. It’s just this lame-ass thing we all do. I can’t even remember who started it. It probably began way before my time. But, you know, we’re all down there for so many hours, it gets late, and we’ve had too much sugar. The next thing you know—”
“Cheesy inside jokes printed for all the world to see,” I finished for him.
“Yup.”
“I can relate. You’d be shocked at the things I do when I’m on an M&M’s rush.”
“Really now?” Gabe said.
I was suddenly aware that Gabe was in the kiss zone. I mean, not kissing me, not even planning on kissing me, clearly, but still. There he was. In my face—in a good way. I could kiss him … theoretically. This was an extraordinary head trip. After all, I was having banter with a taken man. Someone else’s boyfriend. I could tell myself he was flirting, but deep down I knew ours was the banter of platonic friends.
“Oh, yeah.” I wound the cord from my headphones around the machine and tucked it away into my bag. I checked my watch. While I didn’t particularly want this exchange to end, if I didn’t hurry, I was going to be late meeting Charlie. I’d promised to run through her Spanish vocabulary with her.
“Can you meet me at Brew and Gold on Wednesday afternoon?” Gabe asked. “I can stop by the Chronicle office and pick up a new assignment for you.”
“Hmmm …” I spent a few seconds staring off into the distance and pretending to be much busier than I actually was. I mean, who was I kidding? The boy could have offered to meet me in the seventh circle of hell and I would have been there with my sunglasses on. “Yeah, that should work. I have pop culture until six, though.”
“No problem. Come by around seven. That gives me time to get down to the office and sort out what we’ve got for you.”
9/11, 9:58 p.m.
from: [email protected]
to: [email protected]
re: Monday was …
… a blur. My comp sci professor Professor Hartridge, caught me asking my seatmate/ target, Brett, to borrow some scrap paper and went into severe conniption mode. He demanded that I work through some programs on the board. In front of the entire class. Brett, of course, could offer little more than a sympathetic grin. I staggered through the exercise with the panic of a caged rabbit, trying to block out Hartridge’s barbed comments as I doggedly puzzled out the latest program.
He is definitely still irked about that coffee sitch.
Child psych on Tuesday was no better. I wasn’t completely sure that my professor actually spoke English. Or, if she did, I was kind of worried, because she wasn’t using any words I recognized. Then again, I was tired. Poor Charlie has one more week to go of rush period and has taken to stumbling into bed at odd hours of the night covered in strange substances like whipped cream, chocolate sauce, and jam. (Is she making some sort of elaborate human sundae?)
So I wasn’t exactly in top form, though I did manage to offer a reasonably lucid argument in favor of the passive viewer in my pop culture class that my professor seemed to support. Or, at least, she didn’t verbally abuse me, which, after Hartridge, was really the most I felt I could ask for.
So there I was, fastening my messenger bag and slinging it over my shoulder, when it occurred to me that it was already six o’clock and I didn’t yet have a target of the day taken care of. I glanced around. Everyone else was similarly gathering their belongings and getting the hell out of Dodge. This wasn’t good. I needed a Target #9, and I needed one bad….
There! In the blue rugby shirt. Or, actually, the shirt was purple—okay, a little bit strange, but beggars really can’t be choosers, now, can they? I snaked my way through the obstacle course that was our seating area, willing purple shirt to maintain a steady pace. Just as he was about to cross through the doorway, I reached out and grabbed firmly onto his big, purple polo collar.
He made a choking noise and staggered to a halt.
I scampered around so I was facing him and smiled demurely, going for casual. “Hey!”
“What gives?” he asked, sounding sullen. Also, sounding a little bit hoarse, for which I blame myself.
“Hey, um, we have a paper due in a few weeks in this class, right?” I asked.
He glared at me. “It’s on the board, moron.” He stalked off.
Ah, yes. The board.
And so it was.
What I left out of my e-mail was what happened after.
I heard applause and laughter from the direction of the teacher’s desk.
Laughter that I was definitely starting to recognize.
“Claudia, are you always trying to beat up on strange guys?”
I shrugged. “Only the cute ones, Gabe. And what are you doing in this class, anyway?”
“It’s add/drop period until Friday, Claud,” he said. “We can audit whatever classes we want and petition to join. I just got added to this class.”
I swallowed. If this was true, it meant that I’d need to start paying closer attention to personal grooming on Tuesdays and Thursdays. I didn’t know if I was ready for that. “But you weren’t here during class.”
“No, true. I only arrived in time to see your fists of fury in action.”
“Please. It was far less aggressive than you make it sound,” I retorted, huffy. “I only wanted to ask him a question.”
“Uh-huh,” Gabe said knowingly, jerking a thumb at the blackboard casually.
“Whatever,” I said. “You’re the one who’s, like, my stalker.”
“You wish, Claudia,” he said, reaching out and pinching one of my cheeks between his thumb and forefinger.
Of course, he was right. And so I didn’t really have an answer for that.
“So you’re telling me he just, like, suddenly showed up in your class?”
“Uh-huh. So, you—huh—think it’s—huh—weird too—huh?”
“What?”
I gathered my breath together. “So you—huh—think it’s weird too?”
Charlie leveled me with a look. “Claud, I think you’re going to have to kick the three-packs-a-day habit. Really. I’m worried about you.”
“Ha—huh—ha.” It was all I could cough out.
Charlie had managed, against all my better judgment and years, years, of sedentary living, to drag me to the school gym. She had been a hard-core runner in high school and was already beginning to go through withdrawal. “Not to mention,” she’d explained to me grimly the night before, “I’m not sure I’m going to be able to get away with the late-night pizza parties if I give up the running completely.”
“Okay, fine, but that’s you,” I’d argued.
“Why should I be made to pay the price for your active, healthy lifestyle?”
Needless to say, it was not a compelling argument, and nine a.m. Wednesday saw me sweating away on the elliptical machine, clutching at the arm hold
s for dear life. “You know—huh—Charlie, it occurs to me that I never really did—huh—consult my medical professional before—huh—undergoing a new exercise regimen.” I blew a stray wisp of hair out of my face and resumed my desperate, sucking inhalations.
“Can we go back to talking about cute boys?” Charlie asked, knowing full well that it was the only way to stop my complaining. Whatever. The girl needed no distraction. For that matter, she didn’t even really need me there. Thirty minutes we’d been slogging away like hamsters on a wheel, and not a single strand of Charlie’s hair was out of place, her breath was even and measured, and she was having no problem whatsoever carrying on a simple conversation. It was seriously annoying. Even her sweat was pretty and pert, trickling down her temples like she was shooting a commercial for a sports drink.
“Yes, anyway” I continued, “I just—huh—thought it was weird that he just, you know, showed up in my—huh—pop culture class.”
“Well, I mean, it is add/drop, Claudia. A lot of people are trying out different classes at the last minute. And, besides, did he even know that you were in that class?”
“Huh! Okay, not exactly,” I admitted. “I’m not saying he’s, like, secretly in love with me. Just that it was a pleasant surprise to see him show up unexpectedly like that. And who knows? Maybe we can be study buddies or something.”
Charlie snorted. As surprised as I was that someone like Charlie would do something as indelicate as snorting, I was amazed that she had enough aerobic control to actively snort. “Please. If Kyra lets him.”
“She’s not the boss of him,” I protested.
“No, she’s just the girlfriend of him,” Charlie pointed out—rather meanly, I felt.
“HUH! True enough,” I said sadly. My machine admonished me to PEDAL FASTER. Forget that, I decided.
“I’m done,” I said with finality. I dismounted and wiped myself down.
“Why?” she asked, looking genuinely surprised that someone would ever cut a workout short.
“Because when an inanimate object starts issuing me directives, I need to draw the line while I still have some small measure of control over my own destiny.”
“Come back,” she pleaded. “I’m sorry about Gabe. I just don’t want you to have unrealistic expectations.”
“Believe me, I don’t,” I said shortly. “No need to worry.”
“When are you seeing him again?”
“Tomorrow. At the paper. Or rather, on top of the paper, at Brew and Gold. He’s got another assignment for me.”
“Oooh! Another gig at the Tin Room?”
“I should think not,” I said, narrowing my eyes at her. “You remember what happened last time.”
She giggled. “Not really.”
I shuddered. “Exactly,” I said, and began to wander off.
“Hey, wait!” she called from her perch. “Where are you going?”
“I want to do some weight training,” I explained.
She wrinkled her forehead in surprise. “Really?”
I laughed and jerked my head in the direction of a stocky, athletic type bench-pressing over by the Cybex machines. “‘Target practice,’ baby,” I clarified, and sauntered on over.
9/13, 2:43 p.m.
from: [email protected]
re: I’d like to preface …
… this e-mail by saying that this “target practice” thing really hasn’t for the most part, been nearly as painful as I would have expected. Sure, there have been a few bumps and glitches here and there: choking that guy in my pop culture class, sure, not a high point in my college career. Or, you know, that loser, Zach, who turned out not only to be taken, but to be taken by someone who was at the party where I met him? Yeah, awkward.
So sure, there were some embarrassing moments. But that was just, you know, part of the fun. And then. Just when I let my guard down, when I think that, maybe, just maybe, I’m learning to relate to the opposite sex, I somehow find a way to humiliate myself in some novel and spectacular fashion.
As, for example, at the gym.
I can just hear you now, Ellen—“What were you even doing at the gym to begin with? Nothing good can come of that!”
I know. That’s always been my motto, after all. All I can say is that it was a favor for a friend. And that favor has been paid in full.
Well, said friend (CHARLIE) was thrashing away next to me on the elliptical machine like Jennifer Garner on crack, when I noticed him. Target #10. Clearly an athlete. Thick, muscular, well-built … like a tank. He was prone, flat on his back on a weight bench. Different barbells and dumbells of varying heft lay to his right and left. He reached for one, grunting.
Enter Claudia Beth Clarkson, stage right.
“Hey, need a spot?” I asked brightly.
(A “spot” is when you stand very close to the weights in case the person who is lifting them needs a boost or is having trouble or something. See? I know these things.)
Anyway, so there we are, Tad—his name was Tad, I learned—having finished his last “set,” and standing. And he’s kind of looking at me, checking me out and suddenly I’m realizing that I’m really only wearing some tight black yoga pants and a stretchy blue tank top. Which, suddenly, just does not feel like all that much.
“Hey,” Tad says, “I’ve got an idea.”
Note to self: For future reference, avoid gym-related “ideas.”
“Why don’t you let me spot you for a while?”
In fact, Tad was already doing plenty of spotting, but I could hardly say no, seeing as how I’d been all chatty. “Um, sure. But, ah, which machine?” I asked nervously. Keeping in mind my fundamental dislike of physical activity, of course.
He gestured to a scary torture device standing against the far wall. “Squats,” he said. It sounded like a death sentence.
The would-be iron maiden was, in fact, a legitimate training device. Tad led me to it and showed me how to position myself. He tested the overhead bar and asked me how much weight I could hold.
“I can probably hold my own,” I bragged, suddenly overcome with a need to impress this random person I’d known for all of five minutes. It was insanity, I tell you. And it was to be my ruination.
“Oh, yeah?” he said casually. He looked me up and down once again, and I was once again grateful for the extra layer my sports bra provided. “I’ll bet you can. Your legs look pretty strong.” He eagerly loaded what felt like blocks of cement to either side of the bar.
“Go for it, babe,” he called, stepping back. “Twelve reps.”
I smiled and gathered my strength. I leaned down to release the bar. “UF!”
Yeah, that bar? It was pretty heavy.
Once I’d gotten the bar free from its starting point, things happened quickly. The barbell bore down on me at roughly the speed of light, and I nearly sacrificed my kneecaps in a desperate attempt to stay upright. All the air rushed from my chest and I began to make, I’m sorry to say, some not-very-feminine sounds. It’s entirely possible—I’d even go so far as to say likely—that my face turned beet red, sweaty-shiny, and that I spit. But of course I wasn’t looking in a mirror or anything, so this is all pure speculation.
To his credit, it only took Tad about three seconds to realize that something was drastically wrong. Unfortunately, they were the longest three seconds of my life.
They were also the three seconds during which, I am sorry to say, the left leg of my yoga pants and the right leg of my yoga pants decided to part company.
Oh, that’s right. They split right down the middle.
Now, it’s possible that I would have been able to conceal this fact with a witty little “Oh, Tad, you’re such a card, I’m just going to, ah, back away into the corner to spontaneously take off my tank top and tuck it into the back of my pants because I’m so amazingly, incredibly hot….”
Or some such.
But that scenario would have required my remaining, if not upright, at least in some way grounded for the
duration of the experience. And, sadly, that was not the case.
Tad rushed over (to his credit—and to my extreme surprise—paying no mind to the gaping hole in the crotch of my pants) and, true to his designation as “spotter,” lifted that barbell straight off of me, placing it back in its starting position (using only his pinkie finger, of course).
Myself? Well, I was thrown for a loop by this sudden shift in equilibrium, my sense of balance thrown completely off. Did I go down?
Sure. Going down wasn’t so much the issue.
It was going down and over that really brought it all home.
It was like something out of Cirque du Soleil. That is, if Cirque du Soleil featured dancers wearing crotchless tights (which, when you think about it, really would make it an entirely different kind of show). Tad stared at me for a beat or two, taking in the horror of the scene. Then, all at once, he shuddered, as if waking from a nightmare. He was then kind enough to toss me his discarded hooded sweatshirt to tie around my waist, and to offer me a big, meaty paw to help me to my feet.
I was endlessly thankful for the shirt. But, of course, the damage was done. Half the gym saw me (and there’s no way they could have missed my show, what with the glorious Technicolor and surround sound, to boot) and my sad, laundry-day panties. Even Tad, trying like hell to pretend he wasn’t mortified on my behalf, looked, well … mortified on my behalf. Completely.
But he did let me wear his sweatshirt home.
—xx
9/13, 3:12 p.m.
from: [email protected]
to: [email protected]
re: Oh, dear
Wow, Claud, that’s really … um …
I mean, I’m sure no one …
You shouldn’t be …
Okay, just how badly did the pants rip?
9/13, 3:17 p.m.
from: [email protected]
to: [email protected]
re: re: Oh, dear
I hate you.
On Wednesday afternoon, I ran some errands in the hour I had between class and meeting Gabe, then slowly made my way over to the Brew and Gold. It was buzzing this time of day, after most classes had ended but before most students were ready to start thinking about dinner, studying, or other evening plans. Students were curled comfortably in the overstuffed sofas and chairs provided, hunched over reading or holding quiet conversations with their neighbors. It felt to me exactly like a college campus was supposed to feel, with lots of young people talking, thinking … being. For the second time that week I found myself happy, again, to be at Woodman. I went up to the counter and ordered what had become my regular: a double espresso with a shot of vanilla. I paid for my drink and made my way over to the side bar. Once I’d poured an entire cow and three packs of sugar into my drink, I backed away.
