Stowe Away

by Blythe Rippon

  “Nah, you’re right. Wait here—I’ve got another idea.” Natalie disappeared into a sea of clothing racks and Sam sat down on a bench. She studied her own clothing, wondering if she had found a style that expressed her essence. If so, she was boring and nerdy. Which was more or less fine with her, she supposed.

  Natalie breezed past her with an armful of clothing and shut the dressing room door. “Have you thought about what classes you want to take next semester?” she called, her voice muffled by whatever she was pulling over her head.

  “Organic Chemistry, Molecular Biology, Math 215, Physics 217, and Advanced Latin.”

  Natalie opened the door and stuck her head out. “That’s too many classes. But, more importantly, you’re not taking a single fun course. Where’s your sense of adventure?”

  Never having particularly valued a sense of adventure, Sam was pretty sure she hadn’t properly cultivated one. “Well, I’ll admit the math course sounds dull, but I’m excited about everything else. Why, what are you taking?”

  Natalie closed the door again. “I don’t know yet. There’s a class in the English department on American bestsellers that sounds great. I was kind of hoping we could take it together.”

  Sam hesitated before answering. The path toward excellence in medicine was specific and direct, and didn’t allow for other interests. But she had always believed herself possessed of an infinite capacity for expansion; while others might struggle to balance a rigorous premed course load, she felt confident she could fold in a couple of unrelated courses and still maintain an impeccable GPA. Besides, if there was anything she could make room for, it was Natalie—in her course schedule, in her always-churning mind, in her heart, in her bed. She checked that line of thinking before she did something embarrassing like ooze into a puddle on the floor. “Actually, that does sound great. I don’t need to take my math requirement until next year anyway.”

  She heard the door latch open, and Natalie walked toward her wearing acid-washed jeans and a midriff-baring white tank with “U.S.A.” in rhinestones across the chest. She twirled. “Do you like it? In the movie, it’s basically what Piper Perabo wears the first time she works at the bar, before she gets all corrupted and stuff.”

  Sam was pretty sure John Goodman would be as pissed at this outfit as he was at whatever his daughter wound up wearing at the end of the movie, but at least this was slightly more conservative than the leather ensemble Natalie had just discarded. “You look great,” Sam said, trying not to stare at her taut stomach. “And, your outfit relates to the movie, so, you know, that’s cool.” Sam put her hands in her jacket pockets before her fingers reached out of their own accord and caressed Natalie’s exposed skin.

  Natalie glanced at herself in the mirror and fussed with the pocket of the jeans. “Yeah, this works.”

  On her way back into the dressing room, she started removing the top, and Sam couldn’t look away. How the hell was she supposed to be just friends with this girl? She wasn’t even sure if she’d survive a romance with her—being near Natalie made her feel like she was on one of those carnival rides that take you straight up in the air, really high, and then drop you. When she asked, “So who’s teaching this bestsellers class?” she was pretty sure her voice cracked.

  “A new professor named Bell. Elizabeth Bell, I think. I looked her up on the English department website, and she looks really young. Cute too. Dark hair, dimples, librarian glasses.”

  Sam tried not to read anything into Natalie’s description, but seriously, how many straight girls would call a potential female professor cute? She quickly tamped down the flicker of hope. “I don’t know about young professors. I’m not sure they know what they’re doing yet.” Blinking, she was startled to hear those words come from her mouth; historically, she believed people new to their field were cutting edge and, frankly, better at their job. They had something to prove, which made them work harder. They were also typically more self-aware and familiar with the latest schools of thought in their discipline. It was possible, she supposed, that she was hedging about taking a class with Natalie. While they enjoyed easy repartee about non-academic topics, she wasn’t sure they could maintain their connection in a class together.

  “Well, we can sign up and if she’s awful, drop it later.”

  On the other hand, Sam reasoned, maybe if she spent more time with Natalie, or saw her dozing in class, she’d find a way to get over this infatuation that wasn’t doing either of them any good. “I suppose. Sure.”

  Natalie breezed past her, holding her new outfit, and headed toward the cashier. “And even if she’s a bad teacher, at least we’ll have something nice to look at.”

  Sam thought about teasing Natalie for picking a class just to spend time with a pretty girl, but something about the pot and the kettle both being black stopped her.

  Natalie paid, grabbed her bag of new clothes, and walked past Sam toward the door, giving her a kiss on the cheek. “Thanks for your help, Nerd. Oh, there’s a little something in here for you, too.”

  Sam’s cheek burned, and by the time she could get her feet to move, Natalie was halfway across the parking lot, leaving Sam to hurry after her. “You got me something?” she called, and a T-shirt hit her in the face. She pulled it off her head and read it: Adorkable. When she got to the car, Natalie was waiting for her. “Are you calling me adorable or a dork?”

  “Yes.” Grinning, Natalie deposited her purchases into the back of the car and dropped into the passenger seat.

  Sam struggled to come up with a reply. Hope coursed through her veins, and if she closed her eyes, she could easily imagine her girlfriend Natalie giving her a thoughtful and slightly flirty present in the early stages of courtship. She braved a look at Natalie, swallowing the image and concentrating on the fact that she was straight.

  “Ice cream?” Natalie asked, the picture of innocence.

  “Um, yeah. Of course,” Sam said, sliding into the driver’s seat. There was something about the easy way in which Natalie commanded situations that made her feel as though she was a passenger in her own car. Hell, if she wasn’t careful, Natalie might make her feel like a passenger in her own life.

  “What’s your favorite ice cream flavor?” Natalie asked questions about mundane issues as if the answer mattered more to her than any other possible thread of conversation they could ever pursue, and it was more than a little addictive. As Sam pointed the car toward Ben and Jerry’s, relief washed over her that she wouldn’t be expected to give a response to Natalie calling her adorable. It was also possible that she was collecting bits of insignificant information about Natalie to catalogue and obsess over when, alone in her dorm room, she attempted to sleep that night.

  There was something very visually appealing about her chemistry problem sets. Sam had never been that interested in drawing, much to her mother’s disappointment, but sketching the bonds between molecules for her problem sets made Sam feel like an artist. She could envision her mother’s take on the images she’d created, water colors on a canvas, framed and hung above Sam’s bed at home. Eva would paint it if she asked, but Sam had never been comfortable commissioning work from her mother. Eva had given her so much already.

  Because she was significantly more adept at painting with words than oils, when she completed her last problem set before Thanksgiving break, she wrote a sonnet about the images on the pages. It was better, she reasoned, than writing poetry about a straight woman she didn’t have a chance with. Besides, she had seen a flier on the corkboard in the Trumbull Hall common room inviting submissions for the annual Yale Undergraduate Poetry Anthology. Maybe she could submit anonymously.

  On her way to chem class the next day, she swung by the English department and snuck the paper with her sonnet on it into an envelope labeled Poetry Anthology Submissions pinned by the office mailboxes. It was a bit disappointing to walk away knowing she hadn’t written her name or e-mail
address on her submission. If they accepted the poem, she would find out only when the anthology was released. But she didn’t write it for the recognition—not really. It just captured for her the artistry of chemical bonds.

  She was still musing on her decision to show the poem to other people when she handed in her problem set before chem class started. Before she could take her seat, however, Dr. Jeremiah West asked for a moment of her time.

  “Samantha Latham.” He crossed his arms and gazed at her through thick glasses. “I have been assuming you wish to major in chemistry. Please disabuse me of this assumption if I’m off base.”

  Considering Dr. West wasn’t one for small talk, Sam felt distinctly awkward standing there with an entire classroom of students glaring at her back. “That’s correct, sir.”

  “Excellent. I’m in search of a new research assistant. Would something like this interest you?”

  Sam’s neck almost hurt from looking up at her exceedingly tall, broad-shouldered professor. As if he weren’t tall enough, his salt-and-pepper hair added another couple of inches to his height. His eyes were so black, she couldn’t see really discern his pupils, and while his jaw was set in a grim line, those eyes seemed to smile at her. Truth be told, she had been a shade nervous about signing up for his course; his research on DNA replication and repair was having international effects on medical treatments for chromosomal abnormalities. It was no secret that he wasn’t much for teaching; but since even the most world-renowned researchers appointed at Yale had pedagogical requirements, once a year he taught a first-year undergraduate course in chemistry. No one could quite figure out why he preferred teaching beginners, but Sam suspected it might have something to do with grooming bright-eyed freshmen. “I’d be honored, sir.”

  His smile made him a lot less foreboding. “Please e-mail your TA before the semester is over—he or she can put you in touch with my scheduler. Once we’ve talked through what I’m looking for in an assistant, you can take winter break to decide, and we’ll hit the ground running next term.”

  Sam wished she had more to say than “yes sir,” but she was distracted by all the whispers behind her. The s in her name had a way of cutting through a room, and she always knew when people where talking about her. She shook Dr. West’s absolutely huge hand, wondering briefly if he ever played basketball, and took her seat amidst dirty looks from some of her classmates. Claire caught her eye, though, and gave her a thumbs-up.

  Between her excitement at being singled out by a brilliant professor and her edginess about the poetry anthology, class was a blur. Thanksgiving break was coming just in time—she was looking forward to clearing her head.

  The day before Thanksgiving break, Sam walked through the Trumbull College courtyard, her feet crunching on snow that reflected light from the arched windows all around her. She glanced, as was her habit, at the tree she and Natalie had laid under when Sam first asked for piano lessons, and smiled at the memory. Flags with the three bulls, signifying Trumbull College, hung on both sides of the door to the common room, which she managed to open and close silently. She didn’t really need to sneak in, since she was having a scheduled piano lesson with Natalie instead of surreptitiously watching her play, but some habits died hard. The grandeur of the room washed over Sam, reminding her that whatever else was going on, she was at Yale, a singularly impressive university that prized both history and innovation and analytic rigor and creativity.

  Relieved that Natalie was the only other person there, she walked slowly toward the piano, gazing at Natalie’s back as she played a mournful piece Sam had never heard before. If she had to guess, Natalie had had a bad day. But what did she know about making music? Instrumentalists seemed infinitely capable of summoning emotion to match whatever piece they were playing. Stopping at the side of the piano, Sam had a clear view of its keyboard and the way Natalie’s fingers danced across the keys. Piano playing required such strength, such percussive motions from each finger, and yet the music coming from the instrument in front of her lilted across the space between the strings and her ears, each note trickling over the one before, cascading seamlessly from high to low until it ended with a dark chord. The song perfectly suited the atmosphere of the room itself; the walls, the vaulted ceiling, and the ornate rugs seemed just as likely as the piano to produce the somber harmonies.

  When she finished, Natalie put her hands in her lap and gazed at the keys for a minute. Whatever it was she was experiencing, she blinked it away and turned to Sam. “Hey you. You ready for this?” She scooted over on the piano bench and patted the impossibly small free space next to her.

  Fervently hoping her fingers weren’t shaky and that they wouldn’t slip off the keys from sweat, Sam perched on the bench. Try as she might, she couldn’t create any space between her hips and Natalie’s on a bench that small. The heat from Natalie’s body made Sam lightheaded, and the piano keys swam in front of her. She cleared her throat.

  “Okay, do you know where middle C is?” Natalie asked.

  Sam pointed, remembering some of the basics from grade school music class. Natalie put her index finger on the key, brushing against Sam’s, and suddenly this whole thing seemed like the worst idea Sam ever had.

  “Good, so, can you identify all the keys?”

  Sam nodded, not trusting her voice. She felt like a puppy when she looked at Natalie, waiting for instructions and validation.

  “Full scales have eight notes, but let’s just start with pentascales.” As Natalie explained the intervals comprising five-note scales and then showed Sam, she poured her energy into teaching with single-minded determination. It was a side of her Sam had never seen: confident yet generous—and focused. Above all, focused. So, she did have the ability to stick with something. That had to mean that she had the ability to stick with someone—despite the string of boyfriends she’d had in the first few months of college.

  “Very good, that’s the five-note scale in C. Each key can have its own scale—you just change the starting note and adjust the intervals accordingly. So the C-sharp scale looks like this, see?” She played, and Sam imitated her movements. Music was basically math, with pitch and rhythm fitting into recognizable patterns.

  “Okay, five-note scales are relatively easy—the fingering is pretty much straightforward.” Natalie took Sam’s hand in hers. “Other skills will require you to master fingering. This is number one.” She gently squeezed the tip of Sam’s thumb before moving on to the index finger, which she held briefly. “Number two.” When she moved on to the middle finger, Sam’s throat went dry. “Three.” Sam barely heard her say “four” as Natalie took her ring finger; her heartbeat seemed to drown out all thought. “Five,” Natalie said, and Sam’s legs trembled.

  Natalie described the intervals that comprised eight-note scales, then demonstrated, then accompanied Sam. She was attentive when Sam faltered, offering gentle feedback and soft words of encouragement, and Sam gave herself over to Natalie’s care. Eight-note scales led to arpeggios, with their fingers, wrists, arms, moving in synchronicity. Natalie’s breath sounded louder than the piano, and Sam’s chest rose and fell with it. Making music together seemed to join their heartbeats as much as their fingers, and it was the most erotic experience of Sam’s life.

  Eventually, Natalie glanced at her watch. “Oh, wow, we’ve been at it for two hours. I’m so sorry, Sam, but I have to run—I’m meeting Travis,” she said, kissing Sam’s cheek.

  “Thanks,” Sam murmured, reeling from the connection they’d just shared, and the abrupt way Natalie severed it. As Natalie slipped out the door, Sam was aware for the first time of the chill in the air of the drafty common room. Someone might have turned off all the lights and heat, she might have been locked in that room by herself for hours—that’s how alone she felt. She walked slowly toward the door, her legs made of wood. The intensity of their lesson couldn’t have come from her alone—it just couldn’t have.
/>   Maybe Natalie just needed time.

  Considering neither of her parents would tolerate her presence in the kitchen for more than ten minutes at a time, Thanksgiving morning was a dull affair. Her repeated offers to help with the feast rebuffed, Sam wandered from room to room until she finally admitted it was no use pretending she wasn’t going to e-mail Natalie. Besides, she’d started composing the e-mail in her head during the drive home the day before, and she was generally pleased with its tone and arc. As she settled down with her laptop in her father’s downstairs office, Aphrodite purred at her feet.

  Hey Natalie,

  Salutations from the Northeast! I trust your travels home were uneventful—I seem to remember you mentioning that you often fall asleep before the plane leaves the gate, and a flight attendant usually has to wake you up to exit. You seem to have quite a talent for sleeping.

  My visit home has thus far been nothing short of dull. My mother has been laboring in her studio over some new project, and my father has been seeing patients in his office downtown. Well, to the extent that Stowe has a downtown. Both of them, independently and repeatedly, instructed me not to bring work home for the holidays. So while they spend the better part of Thanksgiving toiling away, I’m quite pleased to have sneaked my chemistry textbook home in my suitcase underneath my socks. I’ve been reading it in front of the television, a blanket on my lap ready to hide my contraband, should either of them reenter the house.