by Jody Gehrman
“So formal.” She laughs, her cleavage jiggling. How does her mother sleep at night, knowing her eighteen-year-old daughter’s wearing a push-up bra and a visible thong, spending the family’s hard-earned money getting an “education”? They must know she’s reading more pregnancy tests than books, consuming more alcohol than ideas. I shudder. I’m only a few years older, but I feel a paternal concern for old Cleavage.
“You an English major?” I ask.
“Communications.” She nods. “I want to go into PR.”
“So why take a fiction workshop?”
“I might write a book.” She shrugs, like writing a book is something you may or may not squeeze into your spare time, akin to yoga or French cooking.
“Nice to meet you.” I turn away and head for the door.
“Hold on!” She says it with an air of authority that surprises me, her tone going from sugar to steel. “Come have a drink with us.”
I look around. “Who’s us?”
“I’m meeting a couple friends at McCallahan’s.”
McCallahan’s is a pub a block from campus, a stale, seedy place where the smell of vomit’s always at war with the sharp perfume of bleach. Its chief attraction is their willingness to take fake IDs without a second glance. I went there once. They won’t welcome me back. Anyway, I’d rather carve my own eyeballs out with a rusty spoon than drink tepid beer with Cleavage and her circle of thong-flashing friends.
“Can’t,” I say. “Maybe next time.”
“Who knows if I’ll ask you next time?”
“I’ll try to live with the suspense,” I deadpan.
Across the room, you gather a stack of manuscripts and shove them into your oversized leather tote. Jess follows my gaze. When she swivels toward me again, there’s a new expression there. Her jaw’s tight, and her eyes glint with suspicion.
“Sad, really.” She dangles the words before me.
I take the bait. “What’s sad?”
She leans toward me and whispers, “Everyone knows she’s extra harsh on hot girls. Wonder why?”
I don’t say anything. The gall of the stupid bitch.
“I’m, like, So sorry you’re old, but don’t shit on my work just because you’re having a hot flash.”
Still, I say nothing. I just stare, my hands twisting at my sides, aching to slap her. She takes my silence for agreement.
“Can’t wait to read your stuff!” She grins, holding up the pages of my story. As she walks away, she assumes I’m watching her ass. She’s about as subtle as a baboon in heat, the low-slung skinny jeans, the over-the-knee boots, the pink thong. Her hips sway from side to side. She casts a quick glance over her shoulder, just to be sure.
I look away.
KATE
Zoe’s holding up a pair of sneakers that look like they’re made for a doll. Her pregnant belly fills the space between us, a swollen reminder of everything that’s about to change.
“Don’t these just break your heart?” She gazes at the tiny shoes, eyes shining.
I swallow around the lump in my throat. Zoe’s my best friend. Until now, we shared all the same passions: chocolate cupcakes at Miette’s, lemon drops at Le Chat Noir, talking all night and smoking weed and watching the sunrise from her rooftop garden. Last year, she met a baker who looks like a low-rent Brad Pitt. He’s got a gap between his front teeth and his hairline’s receding, but otherwise he’s a dead ringer. She got pregnant on their third date. They moved in together a month later. I’ve had six months to get used to the idea, but I still do a double take whenever her belly swims into view, an interloper at a private party who just won’t take the hint.
Of course I’m happy for her. The Brad-alike is named Bo. He’s dumb but harmless. We went to MacBeth last weekend for Zoe’s thirty-sixth birthday. Afterward, while Zoe and I were going on about the nuanced performances, the timeless resonance of the quest for power, Bo scowled at his phone, his fingers working furiously. I thought he was texting, but then I caught a glimpse of his screen and realized he was playing “Angry Birds.”
Not a Mensa member, Bo. But he makes amazing bread.
Zoe illustrates children’s books. She paints these wild pictures that make you want to crawl inside them. In Zoe’s world, everything is lush and jewel-toned, vivid and hazy as a Chinese opium den. I’m afraid she’s wasted on Bo, who probably thinks her work is pretty.
Can I just say? Fuck babies. I can’t wait to get through this slice of life when everything is all about procreation. Call me cold and inhuman, but I hate the little fuckers. They shit and piss their way into the center of sane people’s hearts, turning them into brainwashed automatons. The thought of losing Zoe to all that makes my stomach twist into a pretzel.
“They’re adorable.” I nod too emphatically at the tiny sneakers. “You should definitely get them.”
Her eyes find mine. “Kate? You okay?”
I nod again, not trusting myself to speak.
“It’s fine if you’re not.” She reaches out and squeezes my hand. Her voice is so gentle it makes everything harder.
I push my hair back from my face and force a smile. When I’m sure I can get a few words out safely, I say, “Don’t worry. I’m good.”
“It’s okay to want things, you know.” Her thick, dark bangs form a curtain above her eyes. She looks so sincere, but I can’t stand the pity seeping through the empathy. It’s not my fault every woman rounding the corner of thirty goes crazy and gives up everything for a tiny shit factory. Being the only sane one might make me lonely, but it shouldn’t earn me pity from the bitches who lose their minds.
Not that Zoe’s a bitch. Far from it. She’s got the biggest, warmest heart of anyone I know. Back in grad school, I had my hands full protecting her from the vampiric bloodsuckers who flocked to her in droves. Something about those big, blue, innocent eyes and the china-doll hair. She’s a magnet for deranged psychopaths. Even if Bo is bland as unsalted oatmeal, he’s a total catch compared to Zoe’s usual boyfriends. She once dated a pill popper who sold her first-edition James Joyce for some Oxy and a hand job. I had to hire two bouncers from Le Chat Noir to scare the shit out of him. At least Bo’s addictions are limited to domestic beer, Instagram, and reality TV.
Out of the corner of my eye, a flutter of movement catches my attention. I turn. Across the aisle, in the bedding section, I half-recognize the shadowy figure fingering gold sheets. Sam Grist. The name lights up inside my brain before I even have time to search for it.
Zoe follows my gaze. “Someone you know?”
“Sort of.” I turn away.
“What’s that mean?” She tosses the shoes into her basket and pushes forward to examine a miniature pair of overalls.
“Student.”
“Well, don’t look now,” her eyebrows shoot up, “but he’s coming this way.”
“Professor Youngblood.”
I turn and find his icy blue eyes scanning my face. There’s cockiness there, and also naked curiosity. I can’t decide which is more unnerving.
“Sam.” I nod. “How are you?”
“Good. Yeah.” His eyes dart to Zoe.
“This is my friend, Zoe. She’s having a baby,” I add unnecessarily.
His eyes drop to Zoe’s bump. “So I see.”
“You an MFA student?” Zoe’s gaze moves quickly over his body and up to his face.
“Undergrad.” He shrugs, self-deprecating. The cockiness has faded to an ember. “Started a little late.”
“How old are you?” Zoe’s uncensored question makes me bump my foot against hers. She gives me a look like Shut up, I’m just asking.
“Twenty-two.” He looks at me as if he expects me to challenge this.
“English major?”
He nods with a rueful smile. “Not the most practical choice, but I’ve never been practical.” His eyes drop to her bump again. “Boy or girl?”
“Boy.” She sighs. “Limits the shopping options, sadly.”
“Anyway, we ha
ve to run.” I look at my phone. “We’re supposed to meet Zoe’s husband.”
Zoe widens her eyes at my lie but says nothing.
“Didn’t mean to interrupt.” He looks at the tiny yellow overalls Zoe’s holding. “I’d get the faded denim. More manly.”
“Oh. Okay. Thanks?” Zoe looks doubtfully from her hanger to the faded-denim version on the rack.
“See you in class.” I smile in dismissal.
He must see something else in my expression, because he leans close and whispers, “Hang in there.”
“I’ll try,” I squeak.
Just like that he’s gone. Zoe’s holding the faded-denim overalls, staring at me with the strangest expression on her face.
“What?” It comes out defensive. I glance over my shoulder to make sure he’s gone.
“You like him,” she says, way too loudly for my taste.
“Shut up.”
“You do.” She strokes the denim overalls, but her eyes never leave my face. “Kate’s hot for a student. God, I knew it was only a matter of time.”
“Don’t read more into this than—”
“I know you. That’s the look you get when you’re wildly attracted to someone but are trying not to be.”
“Stop!” I shove her gently. “You’re just stirring the shit.”
“I call it like I see it.” She puts the denim overalls in her cart.
“You really think ‘manly’ is something your infant son should strive for?”
She shrugs. “He’s a guy. They know about these things.”
“Whatever. I liked the yellow ones.”
“Shows what you know.” She tosses a green micro fleece blanket into her cart. “Must be nice, being worshiped all day by guys like that.”
“I’m not worshiped.”
“Shut up. You totally are.”
I change the subject. “I need a drink. We haven’t been day-drunk together in ages.”
“Hello!” She gestures at her belly. “Fetal alcohol syndrome?”
“Right.” I can feel myself blushing. It’s a bit of a sore spot. I always bring a bottle of wine to dinner at her place, though by now I should know I’ll drink the whole thing. In solidarity, Bo’s given up alcohol for nine months. I’m a fuckwad. A fuckwad who can’t adjust to this new reality. Pretty soon—who am I kidding? already—Zoe’s going to put someone else first, always and forever. After a decade spent looking to her as my true north, my emergency contact, my person, the habit dies hard. It leaves a sour taste in my mouth, thinking about how much of her I’m losing to the force gaining weight daily inside her.
“Maybe you can drink a martini and I can just … watch,” she says, the slightest apology in her voice.
“Stupid idea. Let’s go get a cookie and coffee.”
She runs a hand over her belly. “Decaf for me. I already had my daily allowance.”
“Excellent. We can sip herbal tea by the play area and contemplate the miracle of life.” It comes out snarkier than it sounded in my head.
She grabs my hand. “Kate. It’s okay. You’re upset. I get it.”
“What? No, I—”
“You’re getting divorced, and I’m having a baby.” She waits until I meet her eye. “It’s a shitty situation. Let’s not make it worse by pretending it’s not happening.”
I relax under the weight of her steady gaze. “It is kind of shitty.”
“Totally.” She nods. “But pretty soon, I’ll be buried in diapers, and you’ll be holding office hours with Gregory Pecs.”
“Don’t even start with—ugh!”
“Tell me you didn’t notice that perfectly sculpted torso, and I’ll know you’re a liar.”
I giggle. “He is pretty hot, huh?”
“Beyond hot.” She strides toward the register.
Only then do I notice Sam Grist hovering near the escalator, grinning like he’s heard every word.
SAM
You live on Cherry Street.
It’s a poem. It’s a haiku. I want to tattoo the words on my forehead.
You stand in the slit between the opaque ivory curtains. Your hand snakes up to rub the back of your white, slender neck. The light pools in your hair, gathers along the sharp lines of your collarbones. You wear a wifebeater, yoga pants. I train my binoculars on the tight peaks of your nipples, erect beneath the thin, white cotton.
You are even better than I imagined.
I move the binoculars up to your face. I’m not a pervert, a Peeping Tom.
I am Romeo, gazing up at Juliet by moonlight.
And yes, okay, so I’m crouched in a urine-scented alley. That doesn’t make my mission any less noble.
To study you. Understand you. Observe you in your natural habitat.
You lean over and grab something from the table beside the couch. A glass of wine. It’s the color of blood. I bet you drink brooding, inky Malbecs, Kate. I bet you deliberate for long minutes before stretching out your long, white fingers and seizing the right bottle. Your taste is impeccable. Now your plush, pink lips fasten around the glass. You take a long sip. That wine sat in some barrel in southwestern France for years, just waiting in darkness for your tongue; now it unfolds on your taste buds, smooth as butter.
You put the glass down and stare out the window.
Even from here, I feel the weight of your stare. The sadness you keep in those eyes, shadows stored behind the light. Your eyes have seen things. They know things. I feel my throat closing; my binoculars tremble.
“Hey! What are you doing back there?” A sharp nasal voice cuts through my vigil.
I turn and see a hooded figure looming just beyond the alley. His glasses glimmer in the streetlight. Not a thug, then, just a hipster looking to do the right thing. Neighborhood security.
“Thinking about buying.” It’s an automatic response. When questioned, behave like a spoiled prick. You’d be surprised at the number of people who leave you alone if they think your dad’s lawyers can make their life hell.
“Yeah?” As predicted, the man before me deflates. He thought he was being a hero, stopping a pervert. If I’m just a venture capitalist, my value as an interesting anecdote plummets. “Which one?”
“House across the street.”
He looks puzzled. “Didn’t know she was selling. I mean yeah, they split, but I figured she’d hold on to the place.”
“Insider tip.” My pompous voice makes me shiver. I smirk like an asshole.
“Well, good luck, I guess.” He looks around. “Not a bad neighborhood. Quiet.”
“Thanks, man.”
He chuckles. “Thought you were, you know, stalking someone.”
We both laugh. As if.
He leaves.
I’m not a threat to you, Kate. I’m watching over you. Biding my time. Waiting for the right moment.
You appear in the window again, a worried frown creasing your forehead. I travel down your body with my binoculars. You’re everything I’ve waited for and more.
KATE
He hammers out sentences like a blacksmith. Each one is dirty-black but also red-ember hot.
I’ve never seen writing this good in workshop. It’s unheard of.
This is Harper Lee and Hunter S. Thompson’s sticky, malformed love child. His work is raw, sloppy, quick. It’s slow where it should be fast and fast where it should be slow. And yet … and yet. There’s something there, the X factor, the mark of genius.
As I read his clumsy short story about a girl who slaughters her pet bunny so her family can survive, I discover I’m sweating. The punctuation is all over the place, the timing haphazard. Still, it’s good. Really good.
I’ve never discovered anyone. Before my first novel sold, I taught at the local community college. The students’ writing there was mostly abysmal. I stumbled on a few original voices I tried to nurture, but wading through the sea of barely literate fan fiction to find a few gems proved exhausting. Even when I did stumble on someone whose work showed promise, half the
time their life was too turbulent to sustain a writing practice. I recall a single mom with three kids who had a knack for lush, darkly imagined historical fiction. Right after I offered to help her whip her manuscript into shape, she disappeared. I later noticed an article about her in the local paper. She had been shot in the face by her disgruntled ex.
The kids who come to Blackwood College are mostly insurance brokers and housewives waiting to happen. They may strut into class harboring fantasies about a writing career, but I am not merciful when it comes to dreamers. If they haven’t got the talent, the drive, the vision, I find a way to tell them. No, I’m not a prophet, and God knows many appalling books mysteriously become bestsellers, but I recognize shit when I read it. I consider it a service to my students and to the English language to gently steer them away from their delusions. They can edit blogs, or write press releases, or design apps. They cannot and should not write novels. Not if they can help themselves.
But this one. This one’s different.
He must write novels. If he doesn’t, then nothing I’m doing means anything.
The girl in his story is holding the buck knife to the struggling bunny’s throat. He writes violence with restraint, all the more horrible for the details missing. He choreographs the scene with an understated insouciance.
His unflinching honesty is sexy. Usually, a writer dithers at the edge of something, never diving into the heart of the story. Sam dives in headfirst and keeps going. His words trace a sharp, clear trajectory. It’s not the bunny or the girl that has my cheeks flushed, my heart pounding; it’s the way he dives deep, never doubting himself, plunging into the depths of his characters’ psyches. To be that young and fearless on the page.…
Beautiful sentences. Finely wrought images. This stuff is rare, precious.
There’s nothing self-conscious about his prose. It is naked observation, unfiltered. He’s there in the woodshed with his nine-year-old protagonist, her greasy hair bunching up on one side of her head. She holds the struggling rabbit, fighting against its panicked thrusts, soothing it with one hand even as she readies the blade with the other. The room steams with angst. He is there, and because of that I am there, seeing what his words force me to see.
