Sneaking Candy

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by Lisa Burstein

“Are you kidding?” She jumped off the counter. “I mean, look at me. Look at my outfit.” She ran her palms down her white halter top and red skirt. She resembled an untwisted candy cane, in the best way.

  “Maybe you’ve met your match,” I said.

  “Maybe he’s met his,” she replied, cocking an eyebrow.

  “Maybe he was on his period,” I said. It was something we joked about when guys were acting in a way we didn’t want them to. I mean, they said it about us, so why not throw it back at them?

  “I’m all for a guy who wants to take things slow,” she said, finally sipping her coffee and wincing from the bitterness, “but at least have sex with me first so we can get it out of the way.”

  “That is so backward, Mandy. I don’t even have time to dissect it for you.”

  “Why are you up so early anyway?” she asked, drinking another mouthful of coffee. I saw the steam from the mug rise up and tickle her lip.

  “Professor Dylan.” I sighed.

  “It doesn’t look like you just got home,” she said, scanning my outfit.

  “If that had happened I wouldn’t be home,” I joked. “I would definitely still be there, probably on round four.”

  “Lightweight.” Amanda said. “Seriously, though,” she grimaced, “speaking of a guy on his period.”

  After our almost kiss, according to Mandy, Professor Dylan was always on his period. Playtex’s profits would soar if he could really have one. He was also the only professor who had office hours before classes even started in the morning. It wasn’t because he was an early bird, but because he wrote all night long in his office, even slept there sometimes. It was how he and Julia had first gotten together, according to the lore passed on from second-year grad students to first years during the beginning weeks of school.

  I admired Professor Dylan for his work ethic and his ass, but mostly for his work ethic. Even if it was biting me in the ass right now when it came to his red-eye office hours.

  “Are you making his breakfast now, too?” she asked, fluttering her eyelashes.

  “He informed me yesterday I would have to sit in on his office hours”— I paused— “for the next month.”

  “I told you he liked you,” she said.

  “I thought you just said he was on his period.”

  “Maybe you’re his tampon.”

  “Sick.”

  “Or his Midol!” she howled.

  “Incorrect, Mandy, he dislikes me. Dislikes me so much he is punishing me by making me observe his snooze-fest office hours. I’m not sure what will be more interesting—that, or reading books for his ode to waning testosterone Modern Lit Class.”

  She slurped on her coffee. “For someone you say ‘dislikes’ you, he sure seems to want to spend a lot of time with you.”

  “To torture me,” I said.

  “You say torture. Candy says pleasure,” she purred.

  “Candy has nothing to do with this,” I said.

  “Says who? One morning you’re sitting in the back of his office observing, the next you’re sitting on his lap defiling. Be assertive, Candy.”

  Amanda used those words a lot when it came to guys. Unfortunately, when I’d tried it yesterday with James, it had backfired. It had whimpered.

  “You write worse than that in your chapter headings,” she added.

  “It’s one thing to write it. It’s another to live it,” I said.

  She put down her mug and looked at me seriously. “You need to go after what you want, whether it’s Professor Dylan or someone else or no one at all,” she said.

  I rolled my eyes. “That’s easy for you to say.”

  “Honey,” she said, putting her hand on my arm, “you publish your work for other people to see, to buy or not buy, to love or to criticize. That takes more muscle than putting the moves on someone, than taking what you need.”

  “I guess,” I replied.

  “You’re a lot stronger than you give yourself credit for,” she added before she walked down the hall to her bedroom. “That’s all I’m saying.”

  I realized that Mandy pushing me to chase Professor Dylan wasn’t about him at all. He was a symbol, a talisman, a finish line—something Candice could conquer.

  As a writer, I should have seen it sooner.

  Chapter Five

  I reached campus just as the sun was directly level with my eyes. I put on my sunglasses and headed toward the Language Arts building. It was so early, barely anyone was out except the campus safety and grounds crew, riding around in little white carts and on lawnmowers making sure everything seemed and appeared perfect every day, all year long.

  It didn’t take much time for me to realize none of this was really for current students. Instead it was for the clumps of high school kids or recent college grads when they came to visit. I had been fooled just like they would be into thinking this place was tropical perfection.

  For the most part, it was. I mean, it had an outdoor pool where students actually sunbathed between classes. But you learned quickly this was a campus first and foremost—a place of learning. Especially as a grad student who had a fellowship to keep up with in addition to her classes.

  Not surprisingly, I’d never been to the campus pool.

  Last night I’d made the requested changes to my syllabus. I’d added more men, just like Professor Dylan had requested, but in what I wasn’t sure was as much derision as I hoped; I’d chosen all proud, openly homosexual ones.

  They were men like Professor Dylan had asked for, but probably not what he’d had in mind. But I’d followed his rule, even if one of the books I’d chosen to teach was Breakfast at Tiffany’s.

  I was almost to the pink clay Language Arts building when I thought I saw James coming up on my right.

  Yes, that James.

  The one who I practically opened my legs for, and in response he’d given me no missed calls.

  I lifted my sunglasses off the bridge of my nose to be sure and felt my insides lilt, my skin go cold. It was him, wearing a blue polo instead the white T-shirt I’d wanted to be. His hair was wet, slicked back off his face, and he was carrying a backpack.

  What the hell is he doing here? my mind screamed, even though his backpack and clean hair was a glaring clue.

  He was a UM graduate student. Of course he was. There were thousands of students here. Crap.

  I guess avoiding Buzzers wouldn’t be enough to assure never seeing him again. Now I would have to dodge him in every sunny nook and cranny of campus for the next two years.

  I ducked behind a palm tree and waited for him to pass. I hadn’t even considered he was a student, too. I guess it was silly—his ambition couldn’t have just been “barista.” There was something else in his cavern-deep brown eyes that revealed he wanted more. It was part of why I’d liked him. Well, aside from the fact he had a body that could make you spontaneously combust.

  I pulled my back tight against the palm tree—the worst hiding place in the world unless you’re as tall and thin as a cattail. Damn the curves I usually cherish.

  “Candice?” I heard James ask.

  I didn’t answer, even though he had obviously seen me. I stayed still and closed my eyes behind my sunglasses, wishing myself invisible. If I stayed still and quiet, maybe he would just walk away. I mean, the awkwardness of what had already happened between us should have been enough to repel him, if me clearly hiding from him didn’t.

  I heard his footsteps move on and exhaled, assuming he’d given up on me and I would have to parachute into my classes from now on.

  Maybe Mandy could help me submarine in somehow. Maybe that was what the pool was really for. Thinking he was gone, I stepped away from the tree.

  James leaped in front of me and yelled, “Boo!”

  I jumped. I don’t think it matters how stupid a word boo is, it always scares you. Considering it was coming from a guy who had rejected me after I had offered myself practically naked and standing in front of him, it did more than scare me.
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  “I thought that was you,” James said. “Why didn’t you answer me?”

  “Oh hi,” I said, trying to act like I had been studying the backside of the palm tree and not avoiding him. I couldn’t believe I was hiding from him like a child. Like Mandy had said, it took strength to write as Candy. She didn’t hide from people. She opened up her mind, heart, and fantasies and exposed them to the world.

  I couldn’t help but feel my face turn red, having been caught doing something so silly. A perfect sunburn formed below my sunglass bug-eyes. I touched the rims, straightening them. I was glad I was hidden behind sunglasses because I could feel humiliation boiling.

  He squinted in the sunlight. “I’m still not used to this weather.”

  Great, back to small talk; not exactly what I’d hoped for after my invitation yesterday, but I guess it was better than silence.

  “Glasses help,” I said, pointing at mine. They’re also great at hiding what a tool you feel like.

  “I would never be wearing sunglasses this late in the year in New York. I’d be drinking hot cider and eating Halloween candy by now,” he said.

  “You’re from New York?” I asked, our small talk suddenly becoming specific, microscopic.

  He’d never been this close to me before. We’d always had a counter between us. He was so much taller than me, tall enough to shade the sun from hitting my face.

  “Born and raised in Rochester,” he said. “Why?” I wondered if subconsciously that had been some of the attachment I’d always felt toward him.

  “I’m from Syracuse,” I practically squealed. I held myself back from smacking his arm, but I wanted to; the hour drive between the two places we grew up seemed to demand it.

  “Seriously?” he asked, squealing as much as a guy would.

  I nodded. “I miss it,” I said, because he would understand what I really meant.

  His brown eyes sparkled, realizing what I had, that memories and life experiences and common ground fused us like invisible strings. “I still haven’t figured out how I’m going to handle all this sunshine. There’s nothing like being stuck inside during a blizzard.”

  “I know,” I said, hearing my own declarations about snow, feeling my own reason for writing Melted, other than wanting to jump James’s bones.

  Neither of us said anything for almost a minute. We just listened to the birds starting to wake up in the trees around us and the riding mowers buzzing like electric razors on the perfect green grass.

  I couldn’t walk away and it appeared he couldn’t, either. He wasn’t just some hot guy anymore. He was someone who would understand things about me that even Mandy wouldn’t.

  “We could have talked all about New York, if you would have called me,” I said, pushing down the humiliation I’d felt and pulling my confidence up. I hitched my messenger bag higher on my shoulder and straightened my stance.

  He cocked his head in amusement, his lips turned at the corners. “You only gave me your number yesterday.”

  “Right,” I said, standing my ground, even though I knew I was heading into psycho-needy-stalker territory. But I had done what one of Candy’s characters would have, and being presented with that offer, her love interest should have called immediately.

  “Fourteen hours and eleven minutes ago, if we’re going to get specific,” he continued.

  “Exceptionally precise,” I said. Even if he hadn’t called me, he was flirting with me. He was calculating the minutes since we’d talked.

  “I have a good memory for things I want to remember,” he said, moving closer to me.

  The air was hot; with him standing so near it was blistering. “So do you have a standard time after fourteen hours when you call someone who’s given you her number?” I asked, matching his stance.

  “Don’t forget the eleven minutes,” he volleyed back. His gaze moved up from my toes. He regarded me like I was a melting ice-cream cone he wanted to lick. “You should at least give a guy a chance to program your number into his phone.”

  “You must have a very complicated phone,” I said. “Does it work with a hand-crank?”

  “Not complicated at all,” he said. He took out his phone and scrolled, then turned it to me so I could see the face. It read: For a Good Time Call, with my number underneath.

  “You obviously don’t follow directions,” I said, feeling a tingle fill my limbs. My number was in his phone, which meant at least in theory he wanted to call me. He had intended at some point to call me.

  Hopefully I hadn’t ruined it.

  “Usually I do.” He paused. “Especially when it’s a direction I want to follow, but I had an early meeting today.”

  “Me, too,” I said. “I could have woken you up,” I added, surprising myself. If Amanda had been watching, she would have been holding up perfect 10s like I’d made a dive without any splash.

  He smoothed his lips together, like he’d just tasted something yummy. “I wasn’t in a position to have a good time last night. Tonight is another story.”

  “Well, you know what you have to do, then,” I said.

  He touched the face of his phone.

  I felt mine vibrate in my pocket. I answered it.

  “Is this Candice?” he asked.

  “It is,” I replied.

  “I was hoping we could schedule that good time I’ve heard so much about.”

  “I’m kinda busy right now,” I said, looking right at him.

  “I was thinking more like dinner, seven o’clock?”

  “Doesn’t sound like much of a good time.” I smiled.

  “You haven’t had dinner with me,” he said, with an expression that attempted to latch onto mine, “or dessert.”

  My throat felt dry. The way his eyes resembled sweet tea in the sunlight was making me thirsty. “My favorite.”

  I couldn’t believe we were still on our phones, speaking into them but staring at each other. That we were talking about dessert that I knew didn’t really mean dessert.

  (Shared double-entendre alert.)

  It felt so much more intimate than just talking. The way our bodies were precariously close but still too far away to touch. The way our voices echoed on top of each other in our ears. The way our eyes were parallel and shooting lust lasers at each other.

  Lust lasers. I squirreled it away in case Candy ever wanted to write sci-fi.

  “How about your address?” he asked, sweeping a piece of his hair from his forehead.

  His eyes didn’t move off me as I touched the end button and texted it to him.

  I saw him check his phone and register he’d received it. The space between us narrowed even more, and I could feel the palm tree scratching my back.

  “I’m going to be late for my meeting. I’ll see you tonight,” he said, leaning in and grabbing my arm lightly; the intensity of his touch seemed to radiate from there and saturate every inch of my skin.

  Candy was open for business.

  Chapter Six

  I stopped in the copy room to print out my new syllabus before heading to Professor Dylan’s office. I was determined even he wasn’t going to bring me down today. There was something about someone saying, Yes, you are worthy of my time that made whatever other people think about yourself vanish.

  Over the hum of the printer, I heard my phone ding with a Facebook notification. James Walker has sent you a friend request.

  Walker. I had a last name before even Mandy did. I accepted it and scanned his profile for one thing and one thing only. Relationship status, which was: Single.

  Not like I wanted anything serious with him, but I did want to make sure he wasn’t a lying, cheating, prick-face like Keith had been.

  That was another little nugget Keith dropped on me. He told me he had been with a lot of other girls during our relationship. That he had to be, because I didn’t satisfy him sexually. I didn’t know if he was lying about the other girls or not, but the fact he felt the need to tell me was mean enough.

  I put the
new syllabus in my bag. Whatever attacks Professor Dylan planned to heave my way today, I had the perfect shield—James had asked me on a date. My first since I’d moved to Miami.

  Maybe my mojo had just needed a little time to percolate.

  Maybe Amanda had been right all along and being assertive had been exactly what Candice needed.

  Maybe I’d been wasting too much time thinking about what almost happened with Professor Dylan.

  Maybe Keith could become a distant memory.

  Maybe I needed to stop thinking about maybes.

  I clicked into my Candy Facebook Fan Page and posted: What are your favorite ways to impress a sexy new guy?

  Why not get some guidance from the people who knew and loved Candy best?

  I rushed down the hall. I was fifteen minutes late. I hoped it wouldn’t matter. That Professor Dylan’s door would be open, and he would be sitting at his desk waiting for any student (none) who was enough of a kiss-ass to come to office hours the first week of school.

  Hopefully I could slip in without interrupting anything and spend the hour I was mandated to sit there catching up on the reading I had to do for his class. I was a fan of literature—as a writer it’s kind of required—but some of the books Professor Dylan chose made me reconsider. He was making the poor students in his class read Ulysses. I mean, if that doesn’t make you wonder what the point to putting anything on paper is, I don’t know what would.

  It wasn’t the first book on his syllabus, but it was the longest and Professor Dylan’s self-admitted (finger gag) favorite. I tried reading about twenty pages a day. Being forced to read Ulysses was basically like boring yourself to death very slowly; being forced to read Ulysses while being forced to sit in on Professor Dylan’s office hours was like boring yourself past death and into un-death.

  I was about to become a textual zombie.

  The door was closed when I arrived, which meant there was a student who was enough of a kiss-ass to attend office hours during the first week of school—enough of a kiss-ass even to be there right as they started.

  I took a long breath. I couldn’t wait to walk in on someone fawning all over Professor Dylan. It was probably one of the undergrad girls from class yesterday who, having seen him in the flesh, felt like it was okay to approach him. Now she had a starting point.

 

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