He continued. “What is the first-in-time rule?”
OK, I knew this. “As demonstrated in the Tapscott case,” I began, “first-in-time is a common-law rule; it’s basically first-in-writing, meaning that whoever the property was transferred to first, that person is the legal owner of the property, assuming that the person transferring the property had legal title to it at the time it was transferred.
“Right.”
Phew.
But he wasn’t done. “So, the recording acts—”
I didn’t speak because he hadn’t asked a question.
“What do the recording acts do?”
I knew that, too. “They are exceptions to the common-law first-in-time rule. Each jurisdiction could have its own recording act, and you would need to read it to see how to apply it.”
“Right. So in a race jurisdiction—”
Oh God. Please don’t ask me to explain the different types of recording acts.
“—what’s the rule?”
I spoke slowly to give myself time. “The rule is—that the grantee, the person receiving the property, must be the first to record his interest. That is, whoever records the deed first with the local government gets title to the land, even if that person received the land after the land was transferred to someone else.”
“Yes.”
I exhaled to lower my pulse. This was so nervewracking.
“And so what does it mean when a jurisdiction is a pure notice jurisdiction?”
I got this, I told myself. I read from my notes. I would trip over my tongue if I tried to explain it in the abstract, so I used an example.
“For example, if A transfers land to B, and later A transfers the same land to C, the subsequent purchaser, here C, gets the land if he had no notice of conveyance to B, the first subgrantee.”
“That’s right,” the professor said.
Toma, Eric had messaged me.
But my high at getting those answers right was short-lived.
“And what about a mixed race/notice jurisdiction?” the professor asked me then.
What about it? I thought.
“Umm—,” I had struggled with this one. “When the subgrantee—”
I was taking too long. I would say who raised his hand now but by this point it’s freaking obvious.
Much to my dismay, Tarek explained what a mixed race/notice jurisdiction was to perfection.
My head was spinning. To add insult to injury, upon further questioning by the professor, Tarek also explained what actual, constructive and inquiry notice meant; and also demonstrated his knowledge about the shelter rule, which applied in notice and race/notice jurisdictions.
What made me even angrier than Tarek showing me up in class was the fact that I was rapidly taking notes on what he was saying because everything that he was saying was right.
When class was over, everyone was getting up to leave. Tarek stood up and closed his laptop, putting things away in his bag.
He didn’t look at me; he was looking down as he packed up, but I glared at him anyway. My expression was venom, bordering on loathing but with a touch of awe. I couldn’t believe it. Who the hell did this guy think he was?! Did he want to get me into bed that desperately? Or did it make him feel superior to show any female that he was better than she was?
To their credit, Josh and Dinesh didn’t say anything. I could see Josh looking at me out of the corner of his eye, half-smiling, or maybe half-smirking. But he kept quiet.
I stood up quickly, almost aggressively. As I did so, Tarek turned and looked at me. People, Dinesh included, wanted to leave the row, so I stepped out of the way and let them pass. I stood in front of Tarek, at the end of the long desk. I stepped closer to him, so that only he could hear. He was still looking at me intently.
I crossed my arms, tapping my dark nails on my bicep in my pent-up anger. “You’re a typical Arab man, you know that?” was the first thing that came to mind.
“How’s that?” He seemed wary.
“Freaking arrogant, like any other Arab man I’ve ever met. You think you’re better than everybody else, don’t you? Driving your fucking BMW and wearing your tailored shirts that you probably bought with your family money!” I kept my voice low but there was anger in it.
He seemed shocked. “I think I’m better than everyone else? Tell me, Isabel, why are you so intent on shutting everyone out?” He was calm, so calm that it made me practically rabid.
He knew me. I didn’t know how, but he had figured out a little bit. I was going to shut this line of inquiry down and fast.
“So were you fucking serious about studying together or not?” I asked him, arms still crossed. The angrier I got, the faster the f-bombs dropped.
He looked like he wasn’t sure what he should say. He also looked a little shocked every time that I cursed. “Yes,” he said carefully.
“So do you still want to or not?”
“Yes.”
“All right.” I was going to call his bluff. What the hell? At worst, it would be a disaster and I would go back to studying by myself. At best, he would help me with the material, maybe do some outlining for me, and I would have a better chance of pulling another 4.0 this semester. Maybe if it didn’t work out, I could still manage to get a good lay out of it.
“So,” I continued, still angry but controlling my voice, “are you busy this weekend?”
“No,” he said. I could tell that he was still wary of me.
“So let’s meet downstairs, at the main entrance, at 10:00 on Sunday morning.”
“10:00?”
I leaned my upper body toward him a little bit, arms still crossed. He seemed taken aback by the gesture, because he instinctively leaned backward a little.
“Yeah. Why? Is that too early for you? Will you still be recovering from your orgy on Saturday night?” My voice dripped with sarcasm, so much so that I was surprising even myself.
He laughed then. “No, that’s fine. I’ll be here.”
“And that doesn’t interfere with your religious observances?” I asked, still sarcastic.
He was still smiling. “No.”
I held out my hand.
He looked at my hand, then looked at me.
“Give me your phone,” I said icily.
He looked a bit suspicious, but he slowly handed me his phone. As he did so, our fingers touched. I scrolled through the options and got to the mailbox. I added my cell phone number and handed his phone back to him. “Here’s my number. Call me if you can’t make it.”
“Do you want my number?” he asked me, and I saw his eyes light up a little.
I opened my mouth in a hurry to say no, but then reconsidered. I could always cancel if I had second thoughts.
“Yeah,” I said nonchalantly, as if I didn’t care either way. I took out my phone.
He told me his number and I recorded it.
I put my phone away. Josh was waiting for me near the door, chatting with someone.
I relaxed a little bit, then looked back at Tarek. “OK, well then, I’ll see you Sunday. We’ll do Crim, then Property. So read the cases for next week and we’ll outline them. Then if we have time, we’ll start outlining all the other cases we’ve read so far. Pay attention to the main rules and the facts. And remember, I don’t suffer fools.”
“OK,” he smiled. “See you Sunday, Isabel.”
I shook my head, unbelievingly, and left him there.
I joined Josh and we walked to the metro.
“What did you say to him?” Josh asked on the way.
I suddenly remembered that I hadn’t told Josh about Tarek asking me to study with him a few days ago. I decided to give him the bottom line.
“We’re going to get together this weekend to study.”
Josh laughed.
I gave him a what-the-hell look.
“So you’re into him?” he said incredulously.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t answer my question.�
��
I breathed out a long breath. “No.” It was only a half-truth. I thought Tarek was amazingly sexy, and he had an energy about him, like in his head the lights were always turned on. Unlike so many of the jocks I saw around here. I was beginning to become very intrigued about him. But for now I was only going to pick his brain. I had no idea what I was actually getting myself into.
“We’re only studying together,” I told Josh.
“For now,” Josh smiled.
For now, I thought.
For the rest of the week, I couldn’t get Tarek out of my head.
SECOND WEEK: SUNDAY
It was 9:45 the following Sunday, and I was sitting on a sofa at the main entrance of the law school. The campus was deserted. I had known it would be. It was way too early in the semester to be outlining, or studying at all, really. I always started early, so I could cram as much as possible into my outline, and didn’t have to scramble so much at the end. On an exam, if I could include a few more ideas, a little bit more analysis, or throw in a couple of extra, obscure cases, I could get some more points, and that might be the difference between an A- and an A. In essence, my studying strategy was an all-guns approach.
I was wearing dark boot-cut jeans today, with a form-fitting black V-neck T-shirt. I was also wearing ankle boots with a small heel. The best thing about these boots was that they had silver zippers on the side, and that made them look a little biker-chic. I wore light makeup and mascara, my absolute favorite facial accessory. I wore my hair down and straight, and my sunglasses were pushed back on my forehead; I liked to use them as a headband.
I had my laptop open and was sipping coffee from my thermos, reviewing the Crim Pro cases. I loved that class. I was flipping through the most recent case I had read when my phone rang. It was Tarek.
If he bails on me this late, I’ll kill him! Freaking undependable, snotty, arrogant Arab!
“Yeah?” I answered half-pissed off already.
“Hey, Isabel. I’m at the Starbucks next door. Do you want anything?”
“Oh,” my tone changed. I felt a little bit like a jerk. “No thanks, I’m good.”
“OK, I’ll see you in a few minutes.”
“OK, bye.” We hung up.
A few minutes later I saw him walk up the steps in front of the main entrance. I pretended not to notice him when he walked in the door. I kept my head buried in my book. I felt a momentary panic. What the hell was I doing? I didn’t know this guy at all. This was totally unlike anything I would ever do. I kept my family and close friends close and everyone else miles away. What had possessed me to meet with him like this, just the two of us? It hadn’t been logical at all. Oh my God, I am losing my mind.
Well, if I was in fact losing my mind, I reasoned, then I needed him to help me get good grades this year and the next. That made sense.
I looked up as he approached. He moved very quickly, and almost silently. It was unnerving. This guy had Type A written all over him. I would know. I’m a Type A person.
“Hey.” I inclined my head without smiling.
“Hi,” he smiled. He looked great in jeans and a grey T-shirt. His hair fell in messy curls around his face. He must have tried to tame it, but it hadn’t really worked. He had also shaved this morning, I could tell, and his goatee was trimmed. I felt myself softening a little bit. Then I took a deep breath and steeled myself.
“How are you?” he asked, still smiling.
“I’m all right.” I sipped my coffee. Then a musky scent reached my nostrils. His aftershave smelled really good. Under normal circumstances, I would have shrugged this off. But since the beginning of the semester, everything had seemed a little off. I opened my mouth.
“Are you wearing cologne?” I asked, almost accusingly.
“No,” he said; he didn’t seem bothered by my question. “Probably my aftershave.” He looked at me. “Does it bother you?”
“No, it’s just—” I felt like I should say something, like I needed to set the stage. I was trying to figure out how to word it.
“What?” he asked. He wasn’t upset, or embarrassed; he seemed curious.
“I mean, you know this is just studying, right?” I paused, searching. “I can help you with your grades and you can help me with mine. This is a mutually beneficial thing. That is all it will be. You get it?”
The absolute last thing I needed was another Arab man coming on to me and badgering me. They were so direct and insistent. I had had enough of that at work and enough of it last year (it was a story I didn’t care to repeat). The only reason I was even going to hang out with Tarek was because he seemed smart enough to help me keep up my 4.0.
He nodded and half-smiled. He seemed a little embarrassed at first, but he quickly regained his composure. “Yes, no problem.” His expression was neutral, but for a split second I saw something in his eyes, something I didn’t have time to fully register.
I relaxed a little. “OK, then,” I said. “If it’s all right with you, I thought we could stay down here, no one will be around.”
“Sure, no problem,” he said. His faint French lilt came through a little bit. He sat down on the other end of the sofa, put his tea on the table and took out his laptop. “No one studies this early in the semester. Josh said that you’re pretty much the only person who does.”
I raised an eyebrow, annoyed. “Josh told you that, huh?” I wondered what else Josh had told Tarek about me. “When did you talk to Josh about me?”
“I’ve seen him around several times.”
Obviously he had seen Josh without me, to be able to grill him.
“He also said you had the best grades of anyone he knew,” Tarek added.
“I don’t see how he would know that. I never tell anyone about my grades.” I made a mental note to kick Josh’s ass.
Tarek shrugged. “Well, he seems to think that, anyway.” He looked at me and smiled. Stop smiling! I thought.
Tarek continued speaking about non-law-school-related stuff, much to my annoyance. “He also said that Vilanova is a Catalan name, not Spanish, and that you speak Catalan.” He looked really interested now. Did he even know where Catalan was spoken?
“Yes, that is true.” I made another mental note to kick Josh’s ass so hard he would forget he had other body parts.
“So you’re from Barcelona?” Tarek asked. OK, so I guess he did know where Catalan was spoken.
I put my coffee down. “Not exactly,” I answered cautiously.
“So where are you from?”
I hesitated, thinking how to answer. I didn’t know.
“It’s a loaded question.”
“Sorry?” Tarek looked a bit confused, and his brows furrowed together.
“I don’t know how to answer that,” I told him, hoping it would close the discussion.
It didn’t.
“Well, where were you born?” Oh my God, this guy didn’t stop!
“Virginia,” I answered honestly.
“Where are your parents from?” Tarek pressed gently.
I figured I would get this over with so we could get down to business, studying, that is.
I let out a long breath that I had realized I had been holding for several seconds. “My father was from Barcelona. He moved to the US as an adult.”
“Was?” Tarek asked.
Damn him for noticing the verb tense.
“He died a long time ago.” And I couldn’t stop it. And I think about that fact every day of my life.
Tarek looked instantly concerned, and there was something else in his eyes that I didn’t understand.
“Isabel, I’m so sorry.”
“It’s OK,” I said honestly. “It was a long time ago.” I was a jackass but even I wasn’t enough of one to make him feel badly about that. I changed the subject quickly.
“My mother is from Argentina; she immigrated here with her family when she was a teenager. My parents met here.”
He nodded, apparently interested in this family history
. “So you speak Spanish and Catalan?”
“Yes, I spoke Spanish at home with my parents. But my paternal grandfather’s family speaks Catalan and I speak Catalan with them. They all live in or near Barcelona.” Then I added, without really knowing why, “I also speak French.”
“Really?” Tarek smiled, and his entire face lit up. “I speak French.”
“I know,” I said without thinking.
“How did you know that?” he asked, curious.
“So you think I’m a moron?” I countered.
“I didn’t say that.” He looked confused again.
“I’m kidding,” I assured him, but I had only been half-kidding. “It’s your accent. You have a little bit of a French accent.”
“No one ever picks up on that,” he said, impressed.
It’s because you look Arab, I thought, and most people don’t associate French with that, although so much of the Arabic-speaking world was controlled by the French at some point, and French is still widely spoken in those areas. It’s because no one thinks anymore; people stereotype constantly because it’s easier. It’s the same with me, people look at me and see light skin and think gringa, despite my almost-black hair and attitude.
“I just—,” I was trying to figure out how to get back to the subject of studying for Crim Pro, “I have an ear for languages. I pick them up really easily.” I paused, wondering how much to divulge. “My day job is a translator. Je travaille comme traductrice, comme linguiste.”
From then on, we spoke sometimes in English, sometimes in French, depending on who was around and what we wanted to say.
Tarek continued to appear really interested.
“So how did you learn French?” he asked. “You have a great accent.”
“I started taking French lessons when I was really little, and I just continued them. My parents noticed early on that I loved languages. My mother had these French tapes that I would listen to. I’ve also traveled throughout France and I lived in Paris for a while.”
“How often do you go to Barcelona?” He was too inquisitive.
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