“Miss Lewis?”
“Yes, Professor?”
“Would you have a few minutes after class to stay and chat with me?”
Busted. I feel my chin twitch, but he turns his attention back to the whiteboard and finishes explaining the details of our next assignment before dismissing the rest of the students. After shoving my notepad back into my bag, I take the smallest steps I can that don’t give away my guilt. Prof. Harrison’s eyes fix on me after the last student leaves.
“I need to speak to you about something, Miss Lewis.”
With a sigh, I prepare to unload my mea culpa. “I apologize for that, sir.”
His face screws up. “For what?”
I pause, wondering if he really didn’t notice. If he did, I don’t need to dig myself a deeper ditch by blatantly admitting it. If he didn’t, I’m not so honest of a person that I’m going to out myself to clear my conscience. Instead, I just shrug and mumble, “You know,” allowing him to take it as he wants.
The corner of his mouth raises. “Oh, yeah. I don’t blame you for zoning out. I’m sure someone like you finds a class like mine very unstimulating.” He removes a stack of papers from his bag and pulls one I recognize. The bright pink cover sheet stapled atop a stack of otherwise normal quadrille paper gives it away. I learned the trick as an undergrad to help me distinguish more easily my paper in the return piles outside the massive lecture halls at Colorado.
“Sir?”
He picks up my paper from the top of the stack and lets it fall back to the desk. The thin stack doesn’t make too big of a noise, but the act sends out its own reverberations.
“You have a brilliant mind, Miss Lewis,” he declares. “Your explanation and extrapolation in the fourth section took me quite by surprise.”
Shocked not to hear any sarcasm in his voice at calling me brilliant, I understand from this second statement that Prof. Harrison is a man for whom the barb lies not in the spear but in the throw.
“But, sir, I didn’t provide any conclusive answer to the problem in section four.”
He snaps his fingers, and his face transforms into that of a giddy academic. “Exactly! Out of the entire class, you were the only student who understood the problem was unsolvable. The rest of your classmates all found answers, but only by assuming certain values that, while often true, are not universally so.”
I’m still unsure if he’s actually complimenting me or just stuffing more powder down the barrel before taking aim. “I realized after reviewing the problem that I couldn’t assume all the values. I hope you’re not upset.”
“Upset? I’m congratulating you on being right by having the courage not to be wrong, Miss Lewis.” He looks off in the distance, as if pulling out an old box from his memories. “He who knows best knows when he knows not, or something like that. I shouldn’t be surprised, I guess. I understand that at Colorado you worked under Matthias Gnomon.”
In a flash, I feel my hackles raise. “How did you know about Matthias?”
“Be … cause … it’s in … your file?” Prof. Harrison’s words stumble from his lips, and all at once I feel idiotic for lashing out. “You did study with him, right? Your file said he signed off on your undergraduate thesis.”
“He did.” My shoulders relax as I do my best to seem suddenly nonchalant. Prof. Harrison appears wary at my outburst, so I change the subject. “Can I take my paper with me now?”
“Not yet. I just wanted to show you the mark. There’s only one or two students each year who get a perfect score on this assignment. I use it specifically as a sieve of sorts.”
“To filter out which students?” I ask.
My eyes follow his hand as he shoves the pile of papers back in his briefcase, and I spot a small wrench set and a sewing kit inside. I smother a smile, knowing I shouldn’t judge a professor who has a taste for stitching or random tools. He closes the case and turns toward the door, motioning for me to follow. We make slow, small steps as he leads me with his hand on my elbow.
“Each year, the chair of the department asks each member of the faculty to select a newly admitted student in whom they see the greatest potential. He hosts the faculty and their students for dinner at his house. If you’d consider being my guest for the dinner, I’d very much like to take you. I should warn you, the faculty who attend see the students there as open game. We all vie over the best of the best to recruit them as advisees.”
I feel the pit of my stomach reverse polarity. This is too good to be true. Here I’ve been worried sick about who I might be able to win as my advisor since receiving my admission letter last spring, and now they’ll compete for me?
We pause at the door as Prof. Harrison turns to me. “So, are you interested?”
“Interested?” I blurt out, rolling up on my toes. “I’d be honored. When?”
“This Friday night, six p.m. As a formality, I have to submit your name to the chair’s secretary for his approval, but that should be nothing. Once you’re approved, she’ll send you an email with the directions. Or … I hesitate to say, but I can come pick you up. I know some students are uncomfortable with it.”
I search my memory for a second. At first, I can’t think of a reason to say no to the offer, but then remember the feeling of riding with friends to parties and having to wait on them getting too bored or rejected too many times to leave. While I doubt I’ll find the occasion boring or that Prof. Harrison will be roaming the party trying to pick up other students, I still have acquired a distaste for depending on others for transportation where I can avoid it.
“I’ll plan on meeting you there,” I say decidedly.
“Excellent.” Prof. Harrison nods and closes the classroom door behind us. “However, don’t think just because the other faculty may get a chance to know of your existence that means I’ll let one of them get you without a fight.”
(16 x 1)/2
The roar of a motorcycle takes me by surprise. I’ve just slipped on my purple heels when I rush out on to the screen porch to inspect. Looking into the front yard, I see a single cyclist getting off his ride and reaching for his helmet. When he takes it off, I’m shocked to see a spray of blond hair fall over a pair of what I know are beautiful, blue eyes.
“Hawk?”
He hears me and looks up my way, though I imagine in the twilight it’s difficult to actually make out my figure through the mesh of the screened porch walls. “Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair.”
“Only if Rapunzel had some serious relaxer and one hell of a weave.” I cover my mouth to keep the laughter at bay. “Where is your car?”
He fakes shyness. “Come on, I can’t take you out for a night on the town in a RAV-4. Not without officially turning in my man card.”
“I don’t judge you based on the car you drive.”
“Only despite it, huh?” He looks between me and his bike. “You can drive if you don’t feel comfortable on the back of a hog.”
“No, it’s fine. I just need to change. I’ll be down in a second.”
I shimmy out of my dress as soon as I’m safely back inside. The heels will have to go too. I kick them under my bed and rush to my closet where I pull out a pair of jeans and a purple sweater. While the days are still warm, the scent of fall is in the air. The nights are getting nippy, and if I’ll be on the back of his bike, I’ll need the extra warmth. Not to mention, the purple makes the brown of my eyes stand out.
Hawk is waiting at the door below, bearing a helmet, as I come out. Taking it from him, I push it over my head.
“Where did you get the bike?”
“Had it for a while, actually.” He points toward it vaguely. “I don’t like riding it on campus. Too many assholes who like to key bikes down there for kicks. No one ever keys an RAV-4.”
“And I’m assumin
g you’ve planned something for us and don’t, in fact, need my input.”
“I have intentions, most of them honorable, but I’ll always welcome your input. Any requests?”
I open my arms to the sky. “I’m starving. Feed me! After that, I’m in your capable hands.”
“Oh, Miss Lewis, have you somehow gone and found out how capable my hands are?” He winks as he raises my right hand to his mouth and kisses my fingers. “But everything in its own time.”
Easy for him to say. Weak in the knees, I become overly sensitive to how close our bodies are as I straddle his bike and hold on to him.
The city of Manderson has just about as many cafés, bistros, gastropubs, and restaurants as it has graduate students. So it surprises me when, instead of heading for the downtown district that rolls across the valley just a half-mile from my apartment, Hawk steers us toward the main road out of town. I’m positive it’s a ploy as soon as we merge into the right lane of the interstate. Moving this fast on a bike, fear festers inside of me and I find myself wrapping my arms even more tightly around his midsection. He’s an excellent cyclist, and after a few minutes I begin to relax. I open my eyes right in time to see him move his hand and flick on the blinker.
We exit the highway and hang a left. From the elevation at the top of the interstate overpass, a vision more beautiful than a painting presents itself. Manderson lies only a few miles away from the shore. At this hour the sun is sinking across the lake. A watercolor sunset streaked with blues, reds, pinks, and purples serves as a background for the silhouette of honking geese making their way south. He must hear my gasp because he artfully runs one of his hands over mine while still maintaining complete control of the bike.
Serenity is fickle. As we pull into a desolate waterside parking lot, the theme from Psycho begins to play in the background of my mind. There’s two other cars in the lot outside of what looks to be a hundred-year old cabin. Faded blue paint on a plank over the door spells out THE GOOSE’S NECK. As I take off my helmet and hand it to Hawk, I look at him with more than a little confusion.
“What?”
My chin jerks in the direction of the sole building in view.
“I’ll have you know this is Lagoona Lake’s best fish fry,” he declares. “I know, going for seafood on a first date is probably a bad idea, but I figured you’d be convinced I wasn’t after a quick score if both of us came away with halibut breath.”
I don’t know whether to squirm or to laugh, but when his lips begin to curl, I can’t help giggling.
“Don’t worry, they have plenty of other stuff, in case you were planning to tempt my chastity,” he assures me as he secures both of our helmets to the bike. “Everyone from the university always heads downtown to go out. This place is a hidden gem, a locals’ favorite. Trust me,” he holds out his hand, “you’re going to love it.”
Inside, I feel like I’ve stepped into the backwoods of my youth, when my father would take me on drives to the sleepy coastal towns of Southern California. Well-worn chairs surround tables upon which red checkerboard cloths are spread. On top of each is the basic fish fry supply kit of salt, pepper, ketchup, and malt vinegar. Hawk leads us to a table next to a window, through which we can see the last liquid drops of sunset drip below the horizon. He hesitantly glances at me when the waitress asks us if we want drinks, but then eases when I order a beer. He asks for whatever lager they have on tap.
“You didn’t think I drank?” I ask him when the waitress leaves us after having looked at our IDs.
“I’m third generation British. All hail the ale!” he proclaims as two frosty steins appear on our table.
Gazing at the size of the mug before us with concern, I get nervous. My eyes wander to the exit, and of course it’s as if he’s reading my mind.
“Don’t worry, I’m not going to drink it all,” he says. “And we’ll take a walk along the shore after dinner to make sure we’re both fresh and sober.”
I pull a hefty slug from my own pint. “You’re the driver, Hawk. I just need to be sure I can hold on tight enough.”
“Judging by how you were trying to force my spleen up through my chest cavity back on the highway, I doubt that’s going to be a problem.”
“Was not!” I exclaim, though I’m certain the flush of my cheeks shows my guilt, as well as a bit of pride. Sometimes I hate how my skin is just light enough for this telltale sign to be so prevalent, but Hawk grins when he sees it. I decide to take the focus off myself, hoping to distract him. “So, Mr. Stephen, Hawk N., tell me about yourself. It seems unfair that you know what kind of yogurt I eat and I don’t even know what baseball team you cheer for.”
“Is that the male-female equation and conversion? Seems fair. I’m a Cubs fan.”
My eyebrow raises. “Oh, you’re from Chicago?”
“More or less if you round up to the nearest metropolitan hub. I grew up in the Urbana-Champaign area. My parents met when they were both at Northwestern and decided that’s where they wanted to live the rest of their lives. My dad teaches physics at a community college, my mom’s a CPA. I got my love of numbers from her, my love of teaching from him, and my dislike for the Buckeyes from both.”
“Here, here,” I say as I raise my glass.
“No, really? What reason do you have for being anti-Ohio State? Not that I’m complaining, mind you, just curious. I didn’t think the Huntington Beach crowd swung that way.”
“True,” I say, “most don’t, but both of my parents are originally from Detroit. They moved out to California after college, where they had me. They ingrained Buckeye-disdain into me from a young age.”
He raises his glass in salute. “To your parents, then, and their wisdom to pass along to you our great Midwestern traditions.”
“They also taught me to measure distance in minutes, too. I refuse to go with that silly, practical ‘how many miles is it according to Google Maps’ method.”
“The whole concept of English measurement is a farce anyway,” he says. “Mathematicians like us understand the genius that is the metric system.”
We go on chatting for a while, trading stories and backgrounds. He’s from a large family with three brothers and two sisters. As an only child, I can’t even imagine the coordination that would take, but he assures me that despite the depictions on television suggesting otherwise, growing up in a big family was ideal. He adds shyly that someday, he wants to have a big family, too. I don’t dare tell him I feel the same way. It just seems like too much, too quick.
Hawk turns the conversation back on me, and I tell him about my parents. My mom is a florist, my dad, a fifth-generation Detroiter and autoworker who knew the city was imploding economically.
He shifts in his seat. “I want to ask you something, but I’m nervous I’ll offend you.”
“You want to ask what race I am,” I say.
His eyes go momentarily wide before he begins to fidget with his napkin. “It’s just curiosity. I don’t judge based on anything to do with race. Besides, my uncle used to say, ‘Don’t hate someone because of the color of their skin. Get to know them first, and you’ll find lots of other stuff to hate them for.’”
His laughter dies on the air when I don’t reflect the gesture. Hawk’s mouth becomes a flat line as he coughs his apologies.
“No, I don’t mind talking about it,” I say. “You put out a disclaimer, so I know it’s just what you say: curiosity. My dad is black, and my mother is white, except that she’s also one-fourth Japanese.”
“So you’re grandfather—”
“Great Grandmother,” I amend. “My grandfather was stationed on Okinawa after World War two. He eloped with her and brought her back to the States. I’ve never been there myself. My understanding is that her family had all died in the war, so it’s not like there’d be close relatives to visit.”
“And your parents being different races, did that cause any conflicts growing up?”
I search my memories. “Not really. I don’t know, maybe we’re just lucky, or maybe it’s not that weird, you know? Where I grew up, kids like me and families like mine weren’t all that unique. I mean, of course I’ve had moments in my life where I’ve had some things said or suspected someone was treating me a little different, but I think we all have moments of rejection. And usually for silly things. Race, religion, hobbies—”
“Occupation,” Hawk interjects.
Even though his smile shows me he’s only joking, I still feel culpability flex its fingers through the shreds of my character. “I shouldn’t have said no just because you were a janitor.”
“Ah, so you admit it!” He snaps is fingers and points at me in playful accusation. “You did put me off for that.”
“It was wrong, and I apologize,” I say again. “Though I didn’t understand you were also a PhD candidate and an instructor as well.” I balance a bit of chicken piccata on the end of my fork. “How did that happen, by the way?”
Muffled, his answer comes out through a mouth half-filled, “I rocked the GREs, applied, and was accepted.”
“Hawk!”
He finishes chewing and takes a pull from his mug before continuing. “Joanna Ferris fell in love with me. Not, like, literally, but professionally. When a position opened up this term, I was the only one she said who could fill it. She was really impressed with my success in the Outreach Program. Teaching at the Community Center pays better, but I do miss working with the kids sometimes.”
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