After the Leaves Fall

by Nicole Baart

  I nodded slowly and he smiled.

  “Me too,” he said, and he sounded relieved.

  I gave him a little wave from across the cab of the pickup and slid out the door. “Good night,” I called.

  “Sleep tight,” he murmured back.

  Just as I was swinging the door shut, he raised his hand to stop me. “Hey, statics tomorrow? You need the help, girl. If you do poorly on the test, you’ll be knocking on the door of a D.”

  “Don’t remind me,” I groaned, and my heart dropped a notch or two.

  “I’ll help you,” he said. “Tomorrow morning at ten.”

  “Do you know what time it is?” I complained.

  “You’ve got less than nine hours. Get some sleep.” And he leaned across the seat and pulled the door shut from the inside.

  I felt somehow powerful slipping through the darkened halls of my dorm. I didn’t meet a single person on my way to my room, and I relished the knowledge that I was alone with my thoughts and singular among all the sleeping girls around me. Parker was intelligent, a grad student, handsome, older. The importance of it hung across my shoulders as if I were draped in yards of heavy silk.

  After staring at the ceiling for longer than was wise with a homework date fast approaching, I crawled out of bed and lifted my laptop out of the backpack that I had slung by the door. I curled back up under my sheets and propped a pillow against the side of the monitor so the light wouldn’t wake Becca, savoring the fact that for once I had gone to bed later than her.

  There was still no note from Thomas in my in-box, and I decided on the spur of the moment that I would be the mature one in this and put to rest whatever had come between us. I wrote him a nice, safe, ordinary message and pretended that nothing had ever happened. That I hadn’t accused him in some roundabout way of having feelings for me or at the very least disapproving of me seeing other guys. It was an olive branch but not an apology, and although I knew I was being the tiniest bit malicious, I couldn’t help including a short postscript.

  Parker says hi.

  Cipher

  PARKER BROUGHT MUFFINS AND COFFEE the following morning and acted as if having breakfast together were the most natural thing in the world. The morning had found me shy and uncertain, but by the time we staked out a secluded table in a far corner of the library, Parker’s laid-back smile and casual manner had begun to set me at ease. Even if sleep had brought with it second thoughts for me, Parker was doing everything he could to show me that he had no doubts, no regrets. It was hard to stay uptight when he was so relaxed and confident.

  I felt our age difference, though, when I tried to loosen up and follow his model of seemingly effortless acceptance of the situation at hand. It was impossible to know how to act. I got butterflies in my stomach when he leaned in close to point to something in my book. My palms were so clammy it was hard to hold a pencil. The laugh that I attempted to make light and carefree sounded hollow even in my own ears. Inexperience and apprehension collided to transform me into a stumbling, timid, inarticulate mess. And we were just doing homework together.

  We were a page and a half into the first problem when Parker threw down his pencil, tipped back on two legs of his chair, and began to laugh.

  I watched him with growing unease and tried to remember if I had said something amusing. When he continued to laugh—and I continued to have no clue what he was laughing about—I finally asked, “Something funny?”

  “Not funny,” he replied. “Cute.” And he folded his arms across his chest like a self-satisfied cat snuggling down to watch my reaction to the mess he had just made.

  “Cute?” I questioned, disliking his stance. It made me want to look behind me, to catch who was sneaking up on me before they shouted, Boo!

  “You’re being cute,” he clarified, and it was obvious he wanted me to ask him how I was being cute.

  I just raised my eyebrows.

  “I’ve got you acting all bashful, Julia,” he said with a hint of triumph in his voice. “You’re nervous to be around me.”

  “I am not!” I defended hotly, knowing as I said it that I was beginning to blush.

  Parker let his chair drop to the floor and put his forearms on the table to regard me with a smile. “Yes, you are. But don’t worry—it’s cute.”

  I opened my mouth to say something more, but I couldn’t think of any retort that would be worth the breath used to utter it. It was a little mortifying to know that my emotions were so pitifully transparent. But at least Parker didn’t find me pathetic; he found me cute. Was cute a good thing to be? I always considered cute to be strongly linked to all things fluffy and infantile. Puppies are cute. Babies are cute. Little socks with diminutive pink bows are cute. Eighteen-year-old college students should not be cute. I decided I was a bit offended.

  “I’m not sure I want to be cute,” I said with a little belligerence in my voice. I cringed. Tried to sound more mature. “I don’t think I like to be referred to as cute.”

  “I don’t think you have a choice,” Parker responded, still smiling that unreadable half smile at me.

  “Are you making fun of me?” I asked, and all the insecurity I felt turned my stomach so that the blueberry muffin that had left crumbs on my notebook started to feel sour.

  Parker’s face changed. His smile melted into something softer, and his eyes were big and serious. “No. I swear to you, I am not making fun of you.” Then he leaned across the table and sealed his solemnity with a kiss so sweet and light that I barely felt the brush of his lips before they were gone. He must have felt like he had kissed a frog.

  “So you kiss on the second date,” I finally said when I had collected myself enough to realize that I should respond somehow.

  Parker’s rich laugh rang out again, and this time I was happy to 45 have caused it on purpose. “That was hardly a kiss,” he teased. “I don’t think it counts. I think a real kiss has to be reciprocal.”

  “Hey,” I shot back, “I wasn’t ready—I didn’t know you were going to kiss me!”

  “So I have to ask your permission?” Parker assumed a beleaguered expression. “That’s going to get really tedious.”

  I balled up the closest sheet of paper and threw it at his head. It bounced off his forehead and fell under the table.

  “That was your homework assignment,” Parker alleged disapprovingly.

  “No, it wasn’t. …” I pushed a few things aside on the table in front of me. The first page of the assignment was missing. “Oops,” I said sheepishly. “I guess it was.”

  “Is that what happens to all your assignments?” Parker’s tone had shifted ever so slightly to reveal that there was more to the question just beneath the surface.

  I knew he was going to ask me about my less-than-fantastic performance so far in statics. It wasn’t that I wasn’t trying—most of the time I studied like a determined hermit—but with calculus and chemistry as well as psychology and philosophy for my gen ed requirements, I simply didn’t seem to have room in my brain for a subject that left my mind in a useless state similar to wobbly Jell-O. The information just wouldn’t go in. The pages of formulas and calculations on the way to a half answer that mattered less than the journey it took to get there became so confusing I could barely remember the objective. But I couldn’t say all of that to Parker, who, in this moment at least, was less a friend and more the teacher’s assistant of a class I was quickly failing.

  This morning was so lighthearted and fun, I didn’t want to go there. Besides, my fingers still rang with the faint resonance of a tingle from his unexpected kiss. So instead of responding to the serious slant in his voice, I pretended that I hadn’t caught it and said, “You should see the origami birds I have hanging all over my dorm room.”

  “Quite the talent, are you?” he asked, still flirty, though the sober edge had not disappeared.

  “There’s more to me than my looks,” I quipped and knew instantly that it was the wrong thing to say. It was an invitation for him
to bring the conversation around to my other attributes. My mind perhaps.

  He jumped on it. “Oh, I know there’s more to you. I’ve always been attracted to your brain above all else.”

  I was trapped. Quickly I tried to come up with some way to divert him, some way to direct him away from the question I knew was burning on his tongue. Everything was so nice—I wanted to sip coffee with him and share the last muffin and laugh together, not dive into some intense discussion about why I was pursuing a degree in engineering when I was obviously struggling to pass the most basic entry-level class. He was going to ask me why, and I didn’t have an answer.

  We were quiet for a few moments, and I took the opportunity to rescue my homework assignment from its premature grave beneath the table. I carefully unfolded the paper and smoothed it flat with my hand, smearing the pencil as my damp palm grazed the numbers and lines. I sighed before I could stop myself.

  “Statics is tough,” Parker said sympathetically.

  I knew that it was nothing of the sort. Sure, it was no walk in the park, but if I intended to graduate with a degree in biomedical engineering, it certainly shouldn’t pose as huge an obstacle as it had become for me. It occurred to me for the very first time that I would probably not pass the class. Or at the very least, I would not do well enough to continue on this path I had so randomly chosen and then painstakingly laid out for myself. It was an unnerving feeling. A slipping, tumbling, falling feeling. How could I ever admit that I was wrong, that this future of my own creation was one I could not achieve?

  Parker was watching me. I could tell he wanted to say something, but he didn’t know what to say. He didn’t want to offend me or hurt me or make me feel inadequate. I was aware that I should say something first, ease his discomfort, but I couldn’t.

  After a few more breaths in silence, he asked, “Why are you an engineering major, Julia?”

  “I don’t know,” I whispered. I thought he would make me repeat myself, but he had heard.

  He cupped his hand around the back of his neck and rubbed it as if he was tense. He made a sound like a low grunt and said, “Do your parents want you to be an engineer?” I didn’t think he would be able to say anything to make me laugh, but that did. Parker looked confused. “Or your parents don’t want you to be an engineer and you’re doing it to tick them off?” he guessed with grasping inaccuracy.

  “Parker,” I said, “I don’t have parents.”

  There was a shocked stillness as if all the air had been sucked out of the room, and I regretted my bluntness. “It’s okay,” I continued more gently. “My mom left when I was nine, and my dad died three years ago. I live with my grandmother.”

  While he processed this new information, I steeled myself for the troubled questions and sappy condolences that always followed when someone learned of my situation for the first time. This was exactly why I avoided the topic as much as I could—I hated the way I changed in people’s eyes when looked at through this deplorable perspective. I wanted to pin a sign to my chest that said “I am more than a product of my past.”

  I was so far down the road of self-preservation that when Parker spoke, it hit me like a slap in the face.

  “Bummer,” he said unceremoniously.

  I swallowed. In my three years of wearing the badge of an orphan I had never received such a response. I was still sifting through my emotions when a laugh bubbled up from somewhere deep inside, and against my will I began to giggle, a breathless, infectious laugh that gripped me until tears gathered in the corners of my eyes.

  At first, Parker watched me a little apprehensively, but before long we were laughing together and didn’t stop until we were both spent.

  When it was over and I felt tired and content, I crossed my arms on the table and laid my head on them, regarding Parker with amusement still lining my eyes. “No one has ever said anything like that to me.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Was it the wrong thing to say?”

  “No, I think it’s the best thing anyone has ever said to me.”

  Parker licked his index finger and drew an imaginary line in the air. “Score one for Parker.”

  “Ha-ha, you’re funny,” I groaned.

  “I’m so suave, so cool. … I can say ‘bummer to be you’ to a girl, and she thinks it’s poetry.”

  I rolled my eyes at him. “Hardly. I’m just thankful you didn’t ask me if I was in counseling—”

  “Are you?” he cut in.

  “No,” I said pointedly. “And I’m not some wacko or charity case or wrecked for life.”

  “So there,” Parker chimed firmly. He continued before I could reply, “But you still didn’t answer my question. I’m sorry about your parents, and I’d love to listen if you’re willing to talk sometime, but I want to know why you’re an engineering major.”

  I had almost forgotten that my choice of degree was what had brought us to this point in the first place. For a moment I balked, but then I heard Parker’s response ring in my mind again and I was gripped by the thought that I had nothing to lose by telling him the truth. It’s not like I was keeping some huge secret or about to reveal devastating personal information. It was just embarrassing to admit that my aspirations were little more than pipe dreams. An ideal me in an ideal world of my own invention.

  “I wanted to be different,” I said at last, avoiding his gaze. “I scored highest in math and sciences on my ACT. When we got the results, our school guidance counselor had printed out lists of the careers that would best fit our strengths. I can’t imagine being a doctor or a nurse. I’m not a huge animal person, so veterinarian was out. I don’t want to teach. …” I sneaked a glance at Parker, and he wasn’t looking at me as if I were crazy. “Engineering is so … respectable, exclusive, a little exotic. It screams distinctive, know what I mean?” I stopped. I didn’t realize I was holding my breath until my chest felt tight, and I wondered anxiously why Parker wasn’t reacting.

  He wasn’t going to blurt something out this time. I could tell he was trying to formulate exactly the right thing to say. I was a bit unimpressed when he finally asked, “Do you want to be an engineer?”

  “Yes,” I said without thinking. “No. I—I don’t know. I don’t really know what I want to be, but I have to choose something, right?”

  “Not now,” Parker argued calmly.

  “Yes, now. I’m in college, I’m a big girl, and I have to make decisions about my life—my future.” I sat up straight, and my back was so rigid it didn’t touch my seat.

  Parker kept pressing me. “You’re a freshman. Go undeclared for a while. Take some classes and decide what suits you.”

  “No,” I said quickly. “I started this and I’m going to finish it. I’m smart enough.”

  “I know you are.” Parker leaned forward, pulled my hand across the table, and covered it with both of his own. “You’re incredibly intelligent.”

  I didn’t want to be defensive, but I couldn’t stop myself from asking, “So why do you think I can’t do this?”

  “I think you can,” Parker explained. “I just don’t know if you really want to.”

  “I want to,” I said without thinking.

  Parker exhaled. “Does it make you happy?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, does it satisfy you? When you’re working through a problem—even though it’s hard and miserable and tedious—does there come a point when it clicks, when you feel content simply knowing that you’re doing what you were born to do?”

  The answer was an easy no, but for a moment I searched my life for a time—any time—when I had felt what Parker described. It was unsettling to find that I couldn’t think of a single thing in my past or present for which that rang true. I had spent my whole life waiting for that awareness, that acknowledgment of This is me. This is where I fit. This is who I am. And Parker had just shown me that my search was not over. I was not an engineer. For a fleeting second, it made me want to cry.

  Parker saw m
y expression and didn’t wait for me to answer. “I’m not trying to talk you out of a degree in engineering, Julia,” he said, pressing my hand beneath his own. “I just want you to do what makes you happy.”

  I shrugged because I didn’t know what to say.

  “I’ll help you pass this test,” he offered supportively.

  Managing a smile, I said, “Let’s start with that. I need some time to think about what you’ve said before I drop out of statics.”

  “That’s a relief—who would I sit by if you bail on me?” Parker joked. He gave me a wink and graciously closed the conversation by pulling the book in between us. “We’ve got less than a week. What are you doing every waking moment?”

  He had a way of making me laugh, and I was thankful for the diversion. Whether or not he had crumbled my plans with a few well-placed questions, I had to stay the course until I could see a more discernible road ahead of me. A part of me wanted to forget that we’d ever had this conversation, but somewhere hidden inside there was also a muted relief, a part of me that knew he was right even as I wished he were wrong.

  I pushed it all out of my head as I reached for my pencil and leaned over the book with him. I focused on every word he said. If nothing else, I would pass the test. The rest would sort itself out later.

  Assessment

  I HAVE NEVER WORKED HARDER in my whole life than the week that Parker helped me prepare for the test. Romance had absolutely nothing to do with our frequent study dates, and a little of the old Parker—the harsh, demanding, brusque Parker—resurfaced to push me to the height of my potential. I didn’t even mind when he was hard on me because for some reason it made me feel like we were getting somewhere, like I couldn’t expect results without a little blood, sweat, and tears. No pain, no gain, right?

  While I worked, Parker corrected papers and took periodic breaks to show me where I was going wrong or how one of my formulas was improperly used or off track. We usually studied in the library. Once, when someone I vaguely recognized as a statics classmate walked by, I froze almost guiltily—we had been spotted. I couldn’t help wondering if people would think I was trying to earn my grade some way other than deserving it. But as I caught my classmate’s eye, I realized his glance was condescending rather than accusatory, and I knew that no one viewed me as competition. They actually felt sorry for me. I was the poor, delusional little girl who needed the intervention of the TA himself just to pull off a passing grade. I studied harder.