by Anne Tenino
He couldn’t think of anything else that kept him staring at the screen and/or his research for hours on end, not really accomplishing anything. He’d start working, writing along, and suddenly find he’d lost his train of thought and the last paragraph didn’t make sense.
Once he even found he’d referenced the “Visijocks” instead of “Visigoths.”
Hello there, textbook Freudian slip.
He never should have assumed they’d start something more serious from that one night. All evidence pointed directly to Jock’s having just gotten out of a traumatic relationship. One serious enough that he’d trusted the other guy to take a picture of him and not share it around. He probably needed a break from emotional entanglements for a while. He needed some time to learn to trust again.
A relationship where they didn’t fuck?
Maybe the ex wasn’t into it.
Maybe he should stop thinking about it.
That turned out to be impossible. This sense of lost opportunity clung to his shoulder like an organ grinder’s monkey, no matter how hard he tried to dislodge it. The little bastard kept beating off, too.
Or possibly that was him.
He got some relief from his preoccupation with Jock when Professor Louise Van Veenen, graduate advisor extraordinaire, summoned him to her office for a meeting. Toby spent exactly no time wondering why.
Obviously, he was about to be called to carpet.
When he got to his advisor’s door at ten in the morning on the appointed day, his lungs were working like he’d walked up all four flights of stairs instead of having taken the elevator. Louise’s door was ajar, but he knocked before pushing it open. “Professor Van Veenen?”
She swiveled her desk chair around to face him with narrowed eyes. “I’ll assume, by your using my title, that you know I’m not happy.”
He gripped the jamb. “Because I’m one minute late?”
She shook her head very deliberately. “Because you’re a week and a half late with your work on your thesis.”
He teetered in the doorway. “Technically, I think it’s not a true half week until tomorrow.”
“Don’t even try that crap,” she said, giving him The Palm. “You’re a history major, math is your weakness.”
“Since when is keeping track of my days math?”
She looked down her nose at him, even while sitting at her desk. “Toby. Sit down.”
He picked his way carefully across her tiny office—roughly the size of one half of a dorm room—avoiding the teetering stacks of books and carefully skirting the floor lamp she insisted on keeping, even though it had a habit of leaping in front of students who were trying to navigate their way to her single armchair.
He made it without mishap.
Louise swiveled to face him again, regarding him levelly for a long moment. “Tell me precisely how much of your draft you have written.” She tapped her temple with an index finger. “Not how much you have planned, but words on the screen.”
Toby clasped his hands between his knees, interlacing them studiously. “Um, not quite five thousand.” If he counted notes still waiting to be transcribed from cocktail napkins.
Her sigh made him flinch. “I don’t see how you can possibly finish this quarter based on the work you haven’t done so far. It might be time to ask yourself how committed you really are.”
Toby snapped his head up to gape at her. “I’m almost finished.”
“Not with your thesis you aren’t.”
“With school!”
“Not with your thesis you aren’t,” she repeated, giving him bug eyes.
“I’ll get it done, I’m just, you know . . .” he gestured in the air, hoping that would explain things.
“Can you really finish something quality in time?”
Highly unlikely. At least if he intended to sleep anytime in the next three weeks. “I have to—I don’t have a fellowship next quarter.” He hadn’t needed it, since he’d essentially be done, but he couldn’t pay full tuition next quarter without it, and short of explaining to his mother he wasn’t going to finish his thesis this term. . . . Very much not an option. “Um, I can’t take until the end of spring term to complete it?”
“You could.” She nodded, but something about how she exaggerated the motion didn’t sit right with him. “But stay on fellowship money? No. The history department doesn’t have it in their budget, especially when you aren’t teaching.”
He leapt on that, because explaining away another term was much easier than telling his mother he wasn’t going to finish at all. “I’ll teach a class. Two.” He liked teaching. Felt more motivated when he was teaching.
“All the teaching fellowships are taken, Toby. It’s nearly spring break, and you know how competitive the positions are.”
“Don’t I have seniority or something?”
She gave him The Look. A sort of tilted-head, under-the-eyebrows look, with a “puh-lease” curve to one side of her mouth. “I’m not telling some poor student that he’s out of funding because my slacker thesis candidate was too busy partying to finish on time.”
Toby groaned and fell back into the chair, letting his arms dangle over the sides. “What am I going to do?” He’d have to come up with tuition on his own, which definitely meant calling his parents. He could try and talk to his father, but Dad always told Mom everything. The man could never keep a secret from her. Could Toby get a job? Kenny at the coffee shop had said something about needing another employee in the mornings. How much did baristas make anyway?
“There is one possibility . . .” Louise began, and Toby jerked his head up to see her tilting her head and looking at him like a cat sizing up a mouse.
He raised his eyebrows and threw out his hands, spreading his fingers wide. “Well? Speak!”
Her lips twitched almost imperceptibly at the corners, giving Toby the distinct impression that he was being set up. Hopefully whatever she was setting him up for wasn’t going to be too horrible. “The satellite campus in Provence has a situation, and they’re quickly running out of time. They need a resident advisor for a group of students who’ve had to arrange off-campus housing in a gîte between Saint-Rémy-de-Provence and Arles. There’s apparently a ‘pool house studio apartment’ for this advisor.”
Toby blinked at her. “Provence?” Her air of manipulating him into some onerous task was all out of proportion with sending him to France. “What’s the downside?”
“You won’t get a stipend,” she said. “But your living expenses will be covered, including meals.”
Toby took a breath, centering himself, because he knew there was worse—Louise always led with the good news. “Go on.”
“You’ll have to get your international driver’s license; it’s too remote for any public transit, and you’ll be responsible for getting the students to campus every day. The facilities where you’ll be staying will provide a van adequate for the purpose. You might also want a car for your own use.”
Toby did some quick calculations, mostly about how much he’d need to ask his parents for. “I could probably handle that.” His own vehicle sounded like an “emergency credit card” expense to him.
“I’ll have to cut some kind of deal with the International Studies department head. And someone will have to convince them you’re a”—she curled her fingers in air quote formation—“‘responsible party’ and are capable of keeping these kids in line.”
It was a fantastic deal. If he could get it. “So . . . would they consider me a ‘responsible party’?”
She tilted her head. “If someone vouches for you, I’m sure they would.”
“Would ‘someone’ be you?”
She raised her brows at him, smiling for the first time since he’d arrived.
“Okay, so what do I have to do?”
Louise chuckled. “Nothing really, except finish your thesis while you’re there and drive those students into Saint-Rémy every weekday. I suppose technically you’ll be responsibl
e for keeping them out of trouble. And of course you’ll owe me a favor. Now, do you want any more details or should I see if I can arrange it?”
He was tempted to say yes on the spot, but that wouldn’t be something a responsible party would do. Responsible parties asked for all the terms before signing the contract. “Details, please.” How many more pertinent facts could there be?
“The students going are members of that frat house that burned down.”
“Theta Alpha Gamma?”
She nodded.
“Oh God,” he muttered. That was a mighty fucking pertinent fact.
She gave him a sympathetic squint, reaching to pat his knee. He couldn’t get over the feeling that she was suppressing a smile.
He bent over, tunneling his fingers into his hair and resting his forehead on his palms. Best position to weigh out the pros and cons. Having to finish his paper was neither a pro nor a con, because he had to do it either way.
Maybe Jock is going.
That would be a horrible reason to go. He’d essentially be chasing after the dude, and that wasn’t something he did. He needed to make a decision based on the facts available to him. Pros first. If he went, he wouldn’t need a job and would have to sponge off his parents less. He could have his own place, even if small, and not have to live with Larry the Breeder another term. And the crowning pro: he’d be in his favorite part of France (out of the parts he’d been to).
What were the cons? The fratbros. That was it.
He sat up and nodded firmly. “Okay, I’ll do it.”
Because he was a good son, Toby called home within a couple of days of his quasi-disastrous meeting with Louise. He was such a good son, in fact, that when his mother answered the phone—because she would pick up once she saw it was Toby calling instead of letting Dad get it—he planned on not hanging up and calling back repeatedly until his father answered.
Besides, she knew that trick. So he’d made himself comfortable on his bed when he was alone in the apartment, took a few calming breaths, plastered his most insouciant smile on his face, and dialed.
“I suppose you still have that unfortunate predilection for boys?” Toby’s mother asked after the obligatory greeting stuff.
Toby sighed theatrically. “Yes, Mom. I have to admit I do, no matter how hard I try to find girls attractive.”
She snorted. “Thank God. Your brother has more girls than I can handle. Now, how much money do you need and for what—your father will want to know that part.”
“Who says I need money?”
“You’re a grad student, honey, every time you call you need money.”
“Are you saying I only call you when I’m financially strapped?”
“I’m saying that no matter why you called, you ask for money at some point.”
This was good. Witty banter. He could totally deal with this. “Oh. Well, that’s much less insulting.” Unfortunately, he made the mistake of not filling the silence afterward with chitchat.
“So, how much?”
Toby took a deep breath. “Enough for a ticket to Marseille and a rental car for three months.” He was pretty sure he could handle the rest.
“Mmm,” she said. “Need to do more research for your thesis? You know, if you’d gone directly into a PhD program like I wanted, you probably wouldn’t feel this need to do more work than the subject requires.”
God. A dissertation would fucking kill him. He’d never make it through that—he’d only done the master’s because he’d been hoping once he was done he could segue into something that she’d see as an acceptable substitute for an academic career. Then he’d never have to face her disappointment over having two capitalist offspring.
“It’s unnecessary,” she continued, totally oblivious to his discomfort. “Once you’re at Berkeley, you’ll have more research than you can handle.”
“I didn’t apply to Berkeley,” he blurted, cringing when he heard what came out of his mouth.
A shocked black hole of silence was his response. But his mother abhorred a vacuum, so she wasn’t quiet for long. “Where did you apply then?” Her upset was very apparent in the way she clipped off her words. Not anger, but disappointment.
Toby cringed further and considered conducting the rest of this phone call under his bed. Instead he pulled a comforter over his head, rolling onto his side and tucking the cell protectively between his shoulder and his ear. “Nowhere.”
It sounded like he’d knocked the wind out of her.
“I’m sorry,” he said over her tortured gasping for breath. “I’m thinking about taking a year. For some independent study. In Provence. That’s what this trip is about.” Oh, he was a shameful son, wasn’t he? Although he’d managed to keep her from asphyxiating.
“So you’re taking a leave of absence? Toby, I really think you should finish first.”
“I’m not taking a leave,” he said quickly. He could at least give her some of the truth. “Louise and I met and we both felt it would be beneficial for me to spend a little more time on my thesis.” Yeah, that’s the way it went down. “But since there weren’t any teaching fellowships available for spring term, I took this resident advisor position at the Provence campus.”
She bought it. She even complimented him on finding a position that would allow him to continue working toward his educational goals. “You can leave a few days early and go to Tarragona,” she said at one point. “I’m certain that basilica deserves more study.”
Toby squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head, but he didn’t object verbally.
After a half hour on the phone with his mother, she’d booked him a plane ticket, promised him money for a rental car and incidentals, and thoroughly shamed him. He was a wrung-out mess, lying on his bed staring stupidly out the window at the gray cloud ceiling while his mother gave him lots of advice and admonishments. Ending with, “And Toby? Keep your nose clean over there.”
“Pardon me?”
“I mean it,” his mother contended firmly. “I know all about you and your little peccadilloes, so watch it. You need to focus on your studies at this point, not your social life.”
Well, since most of his sexual energy was wrapped up in a guy who wouldn’t even talk to him, that was one thing he could promise. “I will, Mom.”
Toby checked the roster as soon as he received it a week and a half before the end of winter quarter, but there was no “Jock” listed as going on the trip to Provence. Well, presumably there were lots of jocks—possibly all six of the guys going were athletic meatheads—just none named that. But Jock wouldn’t be his real name, would it? Of course not—who stuck their kid with that kind of burden? “River,” “Stone,” or “Moon Unit,” sure, but “Jock”? If parents were going to go in that direction, wouldn’t they swing all the way to the dark side and label the kid “Bubba” or “Butch”?
So what was his actual name? In spite of racking his brain, he couldn’t think of Tank’s last name (likely because he’d never bothered to find out), and nothing leapt out at him as being the obvious progenitor of “Jock.”
He was left with two choices: give up or ask someone who’d know.
He texted Collin.
What’s Jock’s real name?
Collin didn’t text him back forever. But Toby distracted himself by working a few more hours on his thesis. He wasn’t writing it now so much as re-outlining. Talking with his mother had focused him—he’d finish it because he was too close not to, but he wasn’t getting a PhD.
Definitively deciding that had somehow liberated him, and he found himself able to look at the subject more clearly than he had since he’d been in Spain. Which allowed him to see how utterly he’d fucked up the stuff he’d already written. He’d spent the last week or so reorganizing his research and restructuring his arguments, his newfound detachment allowing him to obsess about the damn thing less and simply work more.
His phone dinged at him just as he was about ready to take a break.
Meet me
at the Beatnick Café at 1:30 and I’ll tell you his name.
Toby texted back, telling Collin he’d be there, the whole time wondering if this was a social appointment or a ransom demand. Would his friend expect something in return before coughing up the name?
As it turned out, Collin did—he insisted on chastising Toby in exchange for the information.
“I cannot believe you slept with Jock,” Collin said as soon as he sat down. They were almost the only people in here.
“I cannot believe it took this long for you to find out I hooked up with him.” Toby glanced up at the counter to see who the barista was, but no one was there at the moment. “I cannot believe you think it’s such a freaking tragedy. He didn’t seem to feel that way.” Not until afterward.
Collin scowled. “I cannot believe you’re the resident advisor for the TAG guys going on the trip.”
“Sad, but true.” He sat back in his chair, crossing his arms. “Now answer my question. The one I texted you hours ago.”
“I cannot believe you got together with him and you don’t know his real name.” Collin shook his head.
“What, you know the full legal name of every guy you’ve ever gone home with?”
Collin huffed, eyeing him. “I’d make it a point to find out the name of a guy I really liked. Who I wanted to see again.”
“Who says I want to see him again?” He pretended great interest in the espresso menu hanging over the counter. As if he didn’t know what he’d order. Should anyone ever show up to take his order.
“I cannot believe you’re trying to pretend you aren’t really into him.”
“There seems to be something wrong with your belief system. You should probably get that checked out. His name is . . .?”
“You really are into him, aren’t you?” Collin asked, dropping his scolding tone.
“Yes.” He gave up prevaricating and sat forward, meeting his friend’s eye. “It’s so very unlike me.”
“You’ve had relationships before.”