Unmistakable

by Lauren Abrams

  Evidently, he’s on friendly terms with my advisor, who is so in love with the idea of himself that he insists on signing his name as Dr. Allen, Ph.D. Every time I get one of his e-mails, I want to send off a snarky comment about redundancy. Only the vague threat of a bureaucratic nightmare keeps my finger from hitting the send button.

  “Take a seat,” he offers, motioning to a comfortable-looking armchair in the corner of the office.

  I glance around. I don’t see any unopened boxes, towering piles of books, or half-eaten cartons of Chinese food. I can’t even find a dangling power cord. The space is overwhelmingly organized, which fits nicely with my type-A sensibilities. It’s also completely unlike any professor’s office that I’ve ever seen.

  “The woodland creatures did all of the hard work,” he says casually in response to the bemused expression on my face.

  “Maybe you should let them out once in a while. The economics building is in serious need of some fairy cleaning.”

  His unbridled laugh disarms me, and despite all of my best intentions to remain firm, I smile.

  “I’m impressed,” I admit.

  “Thank you. I spent two days unpacking. I need a clean space to work. It improves my productivity.”

  That’s a surprise, too. Most of the professors I know are inclined towards chaos. My mother is included in that number.

  “Thanks for seeing me.”

  “Undoubtedly.” His mouth curves into a smile. Oh, yeah. He definitely heard the douchebag remark, and unless I’m very much mistaken, he’s still amused.

  I have to bite my lip to keep from smiling back, because he has the kind of smile that warms me from the inside out. The hot chocolate after sledding kind. The second shot of whiskey kind. I’ve only ever met one other person who had a smile like that. I push Jack to the back of my head and tap my nervous fingers on the edge of the chair.

  “Dr. Evans…”

  “Look. Three months ago, I was living on ramen noodles and writing my dissertation on a crappy Dell that I got from Goodwill. My degree hasn’t technically been conferred yet, so I would feel like a fraud if I allowed my students to use a title I haven’t earned. I’m still trying to convince myself that I’m actually qualified to be teaching here. Do me a favor and call me Holden. Please.”

  “Fine.” I have no intention of doing any such thing, but I’ve surmised that there are few arguments in which this man comes out on the losing side. I need to save my strength for more pressing conversations.

  “Before you ask, Catcher in the Rye is not my favorite book and no, I don’t share any character traits with Holden Caulfield, the prototypical hipster.”

  He looks so disgruntled that I can’t help myself. I smile. Again.

  “I wasn’t going to ask. I really wasn’t. My name is Stella, remember?”

  “Ah,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “Estella or Stella?”

  “Both were intended, but no one calls me Estella.”

  “You might have me beat, then. That’s a first.”

  “I don’t know. Catcher in the Rye is a rite of passage for angst-ridden teenagers. Most people get Cliff Notes for Dickens, so I lucked out there.”

  He inclines his head in agreement, but his eyes linger on my face and I get the distinct feeling that he’s trying to psychoanalyze me. He can go right ahead. Others (with far more impressive credentials than a recently completed dissertation and a neat office) have tried and failed. Miserably.

  I extend the olive branch anyway.

  “I’m sorry for my behavior earlier. I was a little bit worked up, and I didn’t mean to take it out on you.”

  “I’m the one who should be apologizing. I was a little worked up myself. There seemed to be quite a few students who had…” He pauses, clearly searching for the right word.

  “Scheduling concerns?” I suggest.

  “That’s very diplomatic of you. Anyway, you just happened to come along when I was running out of patience.” He clears his throat. “But you didn’t come here to make small talk about the class.”

  “I tried to follow your advice, which was to either talk to my advisor or to drop the class. Unfortunately, all of the other lab sciences this semester are either full or reserved for premeds…”

  “And you need a lab science to graduate.”

  “It’s kind of a complicated situation. Theoretically, I could take one next semester, but…”

  “You’re Greenview’s top candidate for either the Fulbright or the Rhodes scholarship and your basic requirements need to be completed or in progress for the administration to recommend your application.”

  He made quick work of checking up on me. I stare at the floor.

  “It’s not every day that a student calls you a…what was that you said again? I think it’s possible that it wasn’t meant for my ears; however, I couldn’t help overhearing.”

  Oh my god. I want to die. My face is burning. My ears are burning. My chest is burning. I am combusting. Right here. In Dr. Delicious’s incredibly neat office.

  “I am so sorry. So sorry. I just…”

  He holds up a hand. “Stella. I spoke to a colleague of mine in the economics department, someone that I knew from Berkeley. He said that despite your somewhat odd appearance, you’re the most delightful, thoughtful, considerate, and singularly impressive student he’s ever had the pleasure of teaching. I also looked at your record. Internships at Goldman Sachs and the UN, in addition to a handful of publications and presentations at academic conferences, notwithstanding the glowing recommendations from everyone who has ever worked with you.”

  It’s not fair to call it a blush anymore. I’m a putrid shade of purple.

  “I lucked into a lot of that stuff. I think Dr. Keller probably wrote most of those recommendations himself,” I stammer.

  “I doubt that.”

  I muster a weak denial, but he’s already moved on.

  “You said you had a personal issue with the instructor for your lab session. Luke Dixon, is that correct?”

  “I don’t have an issue with him, it’s just…I…I don’t…” I scramble for an excuse, anything but the real reason why I can’t be in the same room with Luke Dixon. Ever.

  His eyes twinkle. “One of the recommendations remarked upon your eloquence. I think the exact phrase was, ‘She has a remarkable ability to speak in poetics. If politics wasn’t such a repulsive business, I would recommend that particular career path for Stella.’ So, I’m sure you can come up with a more articulate response than that.”

  “Please stop.” I sound like a whimpering buffoon. Handling flowery, over-the-top compliments mixed with thinly barbed insults has never been my strong suit. “I just…”

  He backs off. “Do you have a personal relationship with Luke?”

  Not far enough. A personal relationship. Sure. It’s true enough.

  “Would it matter if we did have a personal relationship?”

  He sighs. “Honestly? Not at this point. Since you’ve been at Greenview for the last three years, I suspect that you’re more than aware of the red tape that must be untangled in order to change the instructor of record. Normally, I would just assign you to another section and ask Luke to follow the other TA’s recommendation in terms of a grade, but that requires handing over liability, and then we’re right back where we started. Since I’m new here, I’m not much help in navigating murky institutional waters.”

  “No matter what?”

  “Even if he was your long-lost brother, I don’t think it would make much of a difference.”

  His offhand remark hits just outside the bull’s-eye. I search his face for some hint that he knows more than he’s saying, but I find only contrition and a wisp of a smile. No pity, no mysterious understandings of my psyche, and thankfully, no sick, twisted fascination. I let out a deep breath.

  “So, I’m stuck.”

  “It appears that way.”

  Then I’m finished here. I stand up.

  “Thank you.
I would very much appreciate it if you didn’t mention any of this to Mr. Dixon. I still haven’t decided whether I’m going to drop the course or not, but I’ll be sure to let you know when I’ve made up my mind.”

  “Of course.”

  I extend my hand and he takes it in his own. His handshake is like his smile—irresistible. I have to jerk my hand away before he melts the last of my carefully built defenses.

  “I sincerely hope that you choose to stay enrolled, Stella. I really do think you would make a very interesting addition to the course. Also, Dr. Keller would never forgive me if I allowed his prize student to miss out on the opportunity of a lifetime because of a minor, and mysterious, personality conflict.”

  “I’ll take that under advisement. Have a good weekend, Dr. Evans.”

  “Holden,” he says firmly, his eyes locking onto mine. He’s already beaten me once today, and I can’t lose again, so I hold the gaze to the point of discomfort. Eventually, he leans back and concedes defeat with a slight shrug and a long, wicked eye-rake over my face.

  It’s been a long time since I’ve had a chance to play the coquette. Queens of devastation don’t generally spend a lot of time honing their flirtation skills. However, I was good enough at that particular game, once upon a time, to know chemistry when I see it. Unless I’m very much mistaken, Holden Evans was eye-flirting with me.

  What’s worse, I think I kind of liked it.

  Chapter 6

  Before I make it through the doorway of our dorm room, Izzy pounces.

  “Girl, you better spill. I’ve been sitting here for two hours, waiting for you, practically out of my mind with worry. The ice cream has melted, so we can cross that off our to-do list. Didn’t you get my messages?”

  I crumble into the couch. I’m exhausted from fighting with Holden, with Dr. Allen, with myself. If it were anyone but Izzy, I might be able to fake some kind of normal. But Iz is the only person, besides my parents and Luke, who knows the whole story. And I have to tell someone.

  She flops next to me and puts her hand over mine. “Stella, what’s wrong?”

  “Apparently, there’s only one Luke Dixon in the world,” I mutter, my eyes fixed on the ceiling.

  “What?” Slowly, the meaning dawns on her. “It can’t be. The same Luke Dixon? Where? How? What happened?”

  “I ran into him in the hallway. Literally ran into him. And when I say literally, I mean literally. He didn’t recognize me. I couldn’t say anything. I just stood there like an enormous lump of human flesh. It was seriously embarrassing. I mean, really. I’m such an idiot.”

  I sound manic. Insane. I take a long breath and force myself to speak slowly. “Iz…How could he not recognize me? Have I changed so much?”

  Wisely, she doesn’t answer, but she does open her arms and I curl myself into them. Long minutes pass before she draws back, a pensive look on her face.

  “What are you going to do?”

  I straighten my spine and ram my head against the couch in frustration. “Avoid him at all costs, which in itself is kind of a problem, since it appears to be Luke Dixon or bust. I already tried to pick up another class, which was a total fail, and then I tried to talk Dr. Delicious into switching my lab section.”

  “And…” she prompts.

  I groan. “He was absolutely no help. And…” I hesitate. She’s going to think I’m crazy. “I think maybe he was flirting with me.”

  “Who? Luke?”

  “No. Luke thinks I’m some mute airhead who doesn’t know how to walk in a straight line.” How is that even possible? How could he not recognize me? “No, I think Dr. Evans was flirting with me. I mean Holden. His name is Holden.”

  Iz is dubious, at best. “Are you sure? No offense, Stella, but you haven’t been on the dating wagon for a long, long, long time now. Maybe he was just trying to be friendly. You know, like maybe he wanted to make a good impression on the students so he doesn’t get slaughtered on the end-of-semester evaluations?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Did he take extra opportunities to touch you? Offer private tutoring? Ask you out?” She giggles, forcing her voice into a deep register. “I’ve taken a personal interest in your understanding of Maslow’s hierarchy of needs.”

  “It wasn’t like that.”

  “Then it’s not flirting.”

  She’s probably right. I’m out of practice. It’s totally normal for professors to make eye contact. A lot of eye contact.

  Seeing my annoyance and mistaking it for injured pride, she says quickly, “He’s not even your type. You know that I love that sun-kissed, All-American, man-boy thing that he has going on, but your taste runs in a different direction. You have a thing for tortured bad boys with tattoos and motorcycles.”

  She doesn’t say the last part—specifically, I have a thing for boys named Luke Dixon. I’m grateful for her restraint.

  “You’re right. It’s not like it matters. He wasn’t flirting with me.”

  “No, he probably was,” she adds, generously. “But we have bigger problems right now than a potential Dr. Delicious romance. What are you going to do about Luke?”

  She’s right. Bigger problems. Enormous problems. I sigh. “Basically, I’m screwed. Either I drop the class or attend twice-weekly sessions with him. I’d rather claw my eyes out with a dull pencil than see his face twice a week. I don’t even own a pencil. Do people even use pencils anymore?”

  She ignores my ramblings. It’s probably best. “You’ve busted your ass for the last three years to get a Rhodes scholarship. I’m the unemployed art history major. You’re supposed to be the one college graduate in the country who actually gets a job that pays enough to cover your student loans. That in itself is kind of ironic, since you don’t need a job. Or have any loans. Or need to work. Hell, I’m banking on your dad hiring me to curate the Granger art collection.”

  “Good luck with that one. I think there might be a few crayon drawings in the basement. Masterpieces by a toddler without an ounce of talent. And I do need to work. My mom thinks trust funds are the root of all evil in the world, remember?”

  “Fine. Then neither of us will use your family connections, and I’ll still be unemployed and you’ll still be the next self-made billionairess. When that happens, I’ll manage your art collection. Stella, you’re my only hope.”

  I pick up the ball and run with it. “What are you talking about? You have plenty of job prospects. I hear there’s a huge demand for people who study 18th century American silver-making.”

  She flips her middle finger at me. “Stop dallying. What are you going to do about Luke?”

  I groan. “If I drop the class, I’ll be right alongside you on the bread lines. If I don’t drop the class, I might have to spend some time in a sanatorium. It’s a pretty easy choice, really. I can’t take the class.”

  “But…”

  My pointed look makes it perfectly clear that I don’t want to discuss this any further.

  “Okay. Well, if you’re going to end up on the bread lines after all, I can at least offer you a distraction.”

  I have a sneaking suspicion that I know exactly what kind of distraction she’s talking about.

  “Tell me, Iz. What kind of distraction do you have in mind?”

  “The best kind. A party.”

  There really wasn’t any point in asking. “I was at a party last night, and I can tell you that it wasn’t all that distracting, unless you count Reese’s poignant rendition of Streetcar.”

  “That was a frat party. Let’s be real, Stella bella. We matured past frat parties about two years and eight months ago. But I heard that there’s another kind of party tonight. A Phillips party. Since we’re finally 21, I think it’s time to see what all the fuss is about.” She wiggles her eyebrows, anticipation written all over her face.

  I owe Izzy one. Or two. Or two thousand. I can’t disappoint her, even if the first thing I want to do is to crawl under my covers and the last thing I want to do is to go to Phil
lips.

  Which happens to be a club. A swanky, lavish, over-the-top club. First of all, the bouncers check ID, which in itself makes it stand out from every other freaking bar in the vicinity of campus. It’s also the holy grail of the party scene. It’s impossible to get in on a normal night, but forget about it on the night of one of their infamous parties. Those little “soirees”—masquerades and black-tie murder mystery dinners and flawlessly themed balls—are invitation-only, over-the-top, and usually include a smattering of Atlanta’s nouveau rich and famous. Girls in their best slutwear start lining up four or five hours before the doors open to take a chance on being randomly picked from the crowd. 99% of them go home disappointed.

  As freshmen, Izzy and I made a bet with Danny and some of his frat brothers that we would be able to get into a Phillips party by Christmas of our senior year. There’s a thousand bucks in it for each of us if we bring back photographic evidence. If we lose, we have to wash the car of every guy in the house. To music. In bikinis. It’s too humiliating to contemplate.

  “A thousand dollars, Stella…” Iz taunts. “Do you know how many really bad emo music downloads that would buy you? You’ll be swimming in indie rock.”

  I shoot her a dirty look. “My emo rock phase was two years ago. It’s jazz again.”

  “Of course. Jazz. The rich woman’s emo indie rock.”

  I throw a pillow at her. “There’s no way we’re getting in, Iz.”

  “I have a surefire way of getting us in.”

  “Bribery? Blackmail?”

  “They’re calling it the Bootlegger Masquerade Ball.” She pats my arm affectionately and grabs the two plastic garment bags that are sitting on the chair in the corner. “It’s a stroke of incredibly good fortune,” she continues, pulling the first one out and grinning. “That my favorite roommate of all time happens to be a brilliant fashion designer and seamstress.”

  “Your only roommate of all time happens to be a former, amateur fashion designer and seamstress,” I counter. “It was a rebellious phase. My mother hates fashion and I’m not tall enough or hot enough to be a model. It was part of my former life.”