Tart

by Jody Gehrman

  “Wow,” Rose breathes, not even disguising the mixture of shyness and lust mingling in her throat. “I’ve never seen anything more beautiful.”

  I’d be lying if I claimed that Miranda’s sexual orientation never occurred to me as a subject of interest. She’s such a quirky, one-of-a-kind girl, she really doesn’t lend herself to simple categories very readily. She’s not butch at all; her delicate features and her doll-like face are way too femme for that. But her skinny, adolescent body, her ever-present skateboard, her silver-and-bone-studded face, and her bowlegged walk all have the flavor of a defiant tomboy. Her clothes—well, her clothes are just incredibly weird, alternately hyper-girly and super boyish, often a mix of both. With other students she’s always standoffish and shy, so I haven’t had much chance to see her flirting with anyone. Now, watching her practically undress right here on Café Pergolessi’s patio to show Rose the collection of amphibian tattoos she’s covered in, I suspect this is her way of flirting.

  She’s lifting the hem of her skirt to expose an indigo tree frog on her inner thigh when I clear my throat and say, “You know what, guys? I’m suddenly beat.”

  “Fantastic,” Rose says, as if I haven’t spoken. “Look at those webbed feet—such detail.”

  “Um, here. Let me just pitch in for the tip,” I say, stuffing a couple dollars under an ashtray.

  “Have you gotten any yet?” Miranda’s asking. I’ve become invisible and mute, apparently.

  “I’m just going to walk home,” I say, getting up. “Congratulations, Miranda. See you at home, Rose.”

  They both glance at me briefly, and I can see they’re anything but sorry that I’m going. “‘Night,” they say in unison, then “Jinx.” (Also in unison.)

  I slip away as they erupt in girlish giggles.

  The buzz hits the street after our opening night, and the rest of our shows are sold out, both weekends. It’s a smash hit—one of those magical runs when the cast, the script, the set, the costumes all come together and strike just the right chord with each audience. Even our light board fiasco shifts from a serious crisis to an amusing anecdote, and by the second weekend, the original board is replaced. For once, other faculty members are saying hello to me with something other than disdain, and I realize how thirsty I’ve been for that approval. Even Monica Parker grants me a quiet, tight-lipped compliment when we find ourselves awkwardly trapped in the faculty lounge one afternoon. I’m waiting for my microwave popcorn to stop popping when she comes in, hesitates for half a second, as if thinking about turning around, then heads for the refrigerator.

  “I understand Heirloom got a good review,” she says, retrieving a red-lacquered lunch box. “Congratulations.”

  “Thanks,” I say. “Did you see it?”

  “Yes, I did. It was very promising.”

  Promising. Okay, well, could be worse.

  “Thanks. I think Miranda’s a really talented writer. The students here are so fun to work with.”

  “Yes.” She pours some coffee in her cup and spoons in some sugar. “It seems you’re quite a hit with them, as well.” There’s a niggling little edge to her voice, but I try to ignore it.

  “How’s your quarter going?”

  “Not bad. Can’t complain, I suppose.” Her tone conveys she has very much to complain about, but her red-painted mouth smiles, anyway. She’s so impeccably groomed. I’ve always found that a great mystery—how some women manage to maintain such incredibly high standards in their personal hygiene. She hasn’t got a single stray hair, her makeup is flawless, and her suit is so pressed, the creases look dangerous.

  “Will you be directing anything this year?” I ask, trying very hard not to stare at her perfect, manicured toes as they peek out from her open-toed sandals.

  “Oh, no. I don’t direct. I do have a book in the works, though, a treatise on shadow puppetry.”

  “Brilliant,” I gush. “That’s wonderful.”

  She shrugs. “We’ll see.”

  “I want a signed copy,” I say.

  “See you later.” Her smile is passably genuine as she clicks out in her high-heeled sandals, clutching her coffee and her shiny lunch box.

  Maybe she’s not as grim as I imagined. I wander back to my office, munching popcorn thoughtfully. Sometimes a man wedged between two strong, capable women can distort the whole picture. I’ve probably jumped to all sorts of conclusions, and she’s really a wonderful, funny, vibrant woman I’d actually like if I gave her a chance. Maybe we’d be best friends, except we got off on the wrong foot.

  I sit down at my computer and check my e-mail, all the while entertaining visions of Monica and I sharing a salad at her kitchen table, laughing chummily over a bottle of wine. We’d have people in stitches, telling the story of how we met. “And then I—” giggle giggle “—stormed into the yurt…” “While I clutched at the sheets.” “And I was so angry, I practically decked her right there—” Everyone dissolves in sobs of laughter.

  My little fantasy explodes in a spasm of smoke when I see the following words glowing in my in-box:

  From: Ruth Westby

  Subject: Unfortunate Situation: Urgent. Please Read.

  My palms are instantly slick with sweat, and my mouth’s so dry I swear I taste dust. I try to force my hand to drag the mouse and click on those terrible words. Instead I remain paralyzed with dread as my mind rearranges them over and over like a crossword puzzler on PCP.

  URGENT. WESTBY. UNFORTUNATE. PLEASE SITUATION. READ RUTH. URGENT WESTBY. PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE.

  “Claudia?”

  A tiny scream—more a whelp, really—escapes my lips, and I spin toward the door, spilling my popcorn in all directions. There, looking at me with steely calm over her tortoiseshell glasses, is Dr. Ruth Westby.

  “Yes?”

  “Can I see you in my office?” she says, crossing her arms.

  “Now?” I reach down and scoop up a handful of popcorn from the floor, toss it at the garbage and miss.

  “If you don’t mind.”

  “Certainly.”

  The walk down that poster-laden hall has never seemed so long. I move like a prisoner toward the gallows, my feet dragging heavily. I notice a piece of popcorn clinging to the sole of my shoe and try to kick it free, unsuccessfully. I decide to ignore it. A thin trickle of perspiration snakes its way down my spine, and I’m fighting for control of my sphincter. Relax, I order myself. So what? You’ve done nothing wrong, and if Westby thinks you have, you’ll just set her straight, like last time.

  When we’re both seated, she takes off her glasses and cleans them with a scarlet handkerchief that matches her blazer perfectly. “I expect you read my e-mail,” she begins.

  “No, I—er—I mean, I saw the subject heading, but I didn’t get a chance to. Yet.”

  She raises her eyebrows at this. I feel like a terrible slacker and resolve to scan my e-mails every two minutes from now on in the off chance that she might send me one. “Right. Well, I’ll try to be simple and to the point. It’s about your play—or rather, your student’s play, Heiress. It seems—”

  “Heirloom,” I interrupt, and instantly regret it.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Heirloom,” I mumble. “It’s called Heirloom.”

  “Ah,” she says. “Well, I hear it’s wonderful. So that’s good news.” She flashes me the most unconvincing smile I’ve ever seen, and my throat constricts with pure, unadulterated terror. “The not-so-good news is your student—Miranda Wilkes, is it?” I nod. “Her father is…well, he’s an extremely wealthy, powerful man. In fact, he owns—” and here she mentions the largest tennis shoe manufacturer in, oh, probably the world, say, if not the universe, along with a line of clothing that every teenager from here to China covets. “He’s also an extremely generous benefactor of the university. He’s donated—well, suffice it to say, a lot of money.”

  “Uh-huh,” I say, a little surprised that Miranda comes from such deep pockets, but still not getting what the big
deal is.

  “Mr. Wilkes saw the play yesterday. He’s…” She licks her lips once, and the rogue left eye starts twitching like mad. “He’s less than enthusiastic about it.”

  “But why? Miranda’s a wonderful writer—”

  “He’s threatening to sue.” She puts her glasses back on, presses them tight against her face and stares at me through the thick lenses. This does little for her appearance, as it only magnifies the twitch tenfold. “I have our legal team looking into it. He most likely doesn’t have much of a case, but nonetheless, making Mr. Wilkes unhappy is not advisable.”

  “He wants to sue?” I say dumbly. “But why—?”

  “Let’s just say he finds the father figure inappropriate and offensive.” She clears her throat. The situation becomes illuminated with the blinding white glare of a nuclear blast inside my brain. He’s the father. Miranda’s Olivia, only she didn’t get her revenge with cyanide; she’s getting it now.

  Little Miranda. Why didn’t I see this coming?

  But even if I had, would it have made any difference? Is autobiography a crime?

  Through a whirling kaleidoscope of thoughts shifting rapidly in my brain, I faintly hear Westby’s clincher: “Of course, we’ll cancel the performances for this weekend.”

  “What?” I barely recognize my voice; it sounds much too hostile to be mine.

  “Claudia, I’m very sorry, but there’s absolutely no way, considering the circumstances—”

  “Cancel my show? After all the hard work we—the cast will be crushed. You can’t do this.”

  “You’ll have to think of something to tell them. A technical difficulty, perhaps. We don’t want to give the wrong impression. And neither, of course, does Mr. Wilkes.”

  “But what about Miranda? This play means so much to her—”

  “Miranda will receive a difficult lesson, and sometimes that’s what we as educators are forced to provide.”

  I swallow hard, feeling woozy and unsure.

  “I see.”

  “Really, Claudia, I hate to do this.” She looks almost vulnerable for a moment, her dark eyes going from blank to pleading for a split second. “I know you’ve worked hard. And the students—I know all that. But my hands are tied.”

  How can this be happening? It doesn’t even make sense. And here’s Westby, calmly pronouncing the death of my precious show, as if it’s unavoidable. “Who is he going to sue, anyway? His own daughter?”

  “The university, of course. He insists we’re providing a venue for defamatory material.”

  “That’s ridiculous!” I can’t, in my confused state, recall the legal definition of defamatory, but I’m sure we haven’t committed it, whatever it is.

  “Perhaps.” She looks empathetic for an instant, but then her voice becomes hard again, precise and cutting. “Unfortunately, given his position, I have no choice but to take the threat quite seriously.”

  A red streak of anger shoots through my chest and then, from out of nowhere, a lucid calm comes over me. I meet Westby’s gaze. Her left eye spasms crazily, looking dangerously out of control. I almost feel sorry for her, with that weird little tick revolting against her gallant efforts to be made of ice.

  “I won’t do it,” I say.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “I’m not going to lie for you. It’s—it’s censorship,” I say. “I’m still too young and stupid to sell out just like that.”

  “Claudia, I really think you should reconsider—”

  “Why? You’ve already made it clear I’m just a stand-in. It’s not like I have that much to lose, anyway.”

  “Actually,” she says, “given how promising this production is—these unpleasantries aside—the department is seriously considering extending your contract.”

  “Well, I’m not considering your offer, if this is how you run things.”

  She stiffens. “It’s not an offer. It’s just a possibility.”

  “Well, then, all I’m losing is a possibility.” I stand and make my way toward the door.

  “Claudia?”

  I turn at the door. “Yes?”

  “I respect your ideals. Really. But there is simply no way you’re performing this play again. I absolutely forbid it.”

  A tiny smile plays on my lips, though I try to repress it. I can’t help myself; I’m about to deliver the line I’ve waited for all my life. “Try to stop me.”

  CHAPTER 24

  After a sleepless night, five o’clock finally brings dawn. I’m pacing the floor of my apartment in my boxer shorts and wife-beater tank top, nursing a cup of English Breakfast with the phone glued to my ear. “Okay, let me get this straight. You’re saying, if I make a big enough stink—”

  “Become their worst nightmare—”

  “They’ll let me do the play and they won’t fire me?”

  “Right.” Ziv is getting excited now. He lives for this shit. I close my eyes and visualize him: bony white knuckles gripping his cell, a cigarette burning almost to his fingertips; balanced precariously on the porch rail beside him is his third demitasse of homemade espresso. “It would make them look bad in a very public way, and open them to a lawsuit they could lose. If it comes to that, I’ll represent you.” He laughs explosively and a powerful wave of nostalgia washes over me, making me wish more than anything that I was there, sitting on our porch in the Austin spring light, sipping his magical espresso.

  “And you really think Miranda’s dad will back down?” I try to squelch my longing by focusing on the task at hand.

  “Of course. He’s freaked out because she basically outed him.”

  “And made him look like a hypocritical fuckface his own family wants dead.”

  “Which is probably all accurate, judging from his reaction.”

  “Shit,” I sigh.

  “Come on, Bloomie. This is what you drama queens live for.”

  “You don’t get it, Ziv. We like make-believe drama. Not the actual, job-threatening live-action kind.”

  “I don’t believe that for a second.” I make a tiny, scared whimpering sound in response, and his voice goes soothing. “No worries, okay? You’ve got the law on your side.”

  “Yeah, maybe, except my enemy’s got all the money and power. You really think the First Amendment’s going to stand up against that?”

  “If not, then the First Amendment’s got to be amended. Just remember—” He speaks slowly and distinctly now, like a coach drilling his star player. “Make it as public as you can. The press is your friend. Turn this into the biggest scandal since OJ.”

  “Ha.” I chip polish off my toenails and let Medea gently gnaw on my hand. “Unfortunately I don’t have racial tension, organized sports, stardom, gender issues, billions of dollars or a bloody glove to spice it up.”

  Ziv makes a dismissive sound and I can hear him taking a drag off his cigarette. “So improvise.”

  Westby issued my warning Monday at half past one; by Thursday afternoon I’ve got the ACLU behind me, every newspaper in the area alerted, and a small army of student organizations ready to storm the castle as soon as I give the signal. I was wrong, actually, when I whined to Ziv about not having gender issues on my side. Evidently, Miranda’s backed by the Gay, Lesbian, Bi and Transsexual Resource Center. They see this as a bi-questioning author being silenced on important issues of sexual politics. As a result, they’ve galvanized all their affiliated organizations, including (but not limited to) the Down with Heterosexism Clan, the Kidz of Queers Club and the Jewish Transgender Organization. I’ve also got Students for Civil Liberties, Theater Students for Anarchy and the Slug Chess and Games Club (precisely why this last group cares, I’m not sure, but who am I to second-guess political fervor when it’s on my side?).

  So far, Westby hasn’t actually issued anything to publicly cancel the show; the only proof that she wants to censor it is our private conversation. So, going on Ziv’s and the ACLU’s advice, I’m proceeding as if that conversation never happened. Only if they tr
y to bar our performance Friday night will we rally the press and our ragtag army of radicals.

  I’ve been so busy e-mailing, phoning and researching I don’t have a spare minute to feel sick with remorse until Thursday evening around six o’clock. This is when it hits me: I’ve pitted myself against the University of California, Corporate America and somehow (though I’ve only the vaguest notions of how this happened) heterosexuality in general. I’ve probably pitted myself against God, as well, though I’m too tired to consider this possibility at the moment—Ruth Westby’s bad enough.

  Now that everything’s in place, the twenty-four hours that stretch out before me are too intolerably suspenseful to bear. I figure I’ve got two options: put a bullet in my head or walk the streets of Santa Cruz until my muscles cry out for mercy. Then—only then—when I’m on the verge of collapse, will I draw a hot bubble bath, have a cigarette, a vodka tonic and two of Rose’s sleeping pills to get me through the night.

  The sun’s been down for a while when I hit the streets. The sky’s taken on that ethereal hue of blue that washes everything in ocean shades and makes even the mundane sidewalks surreal, dreamy. I want to wash my brain in that color—drown out all the blinking red warnings and flashing green lights that have guided the congested traffic in my psyche all week.

  I stop at my favorite, passion-flower-covered fence and inspect one of the blossoms, marveling at its insectlike stamen and its wild splay of purple fringe. Passion flowers are tart. They’re eccentric, edgy and sexy. They disregard convention and refuse to be tamed.

  About an hour later, as I’m meandering along the bluffs, I try to concentrate on nothing but what’s around me. The seagulls surf the evening breeze, scan the ground for food and occasionally erupt in grumpy squawks. I look out over the darkening ocean. There’s a billowy white fogbank easing slowly toward town, and I can smell the sweet, waffle-cone and cotton-candy perfume of the Boardwalk. As I stand there, watching the lights blink on along the coastline, it occurs to me that fighting for Miranda’s play is the first thing I’ve ever done that isn’t just about me. Sure, my ego’s invested; the righteous rebel suits me, so it’s not selfless. But there’s also this little kernel of something else in there. For once, I know what it’s like to fight for something bigger than the immediate gratification of my petty little needs.