By the Book

by Julia Sonneborn

At the end of the evening, Rick offered to walk me back to my apartment, and I let him. He insisted on walking on the curbside (“I’m old-fashioned that way”), and I felt myself relaxing, enjoying Rick’s courtesies and easy banter. He placed his hand on my waist as we climbed the porch steps to my house, and I felt a thrill at the steady pressure.

  “I really enjoyed that,” he said, pausing at the doorstep. “I hope I can take you out to dinner next time.” Before I could answer, he leaned over and kissed me, and I caught a faint whiff of smoke and some cologne. I felt my chest seize up and a sudden rush of heat overcome me. His hand was still in my hair, and I didn’t want him to take it away. I didn’t want him to leave, didn’t want to spend the evening alone in my desolate apartment. I wanted him to kiss me again.

  “Do you want to come in?” I stammered, pushing the door open.

  “I’d been wondering when you’d ask,” he said.

  chapter eight

  “WHERE ARE YOU GOING?” Rick asked, still lying in bed. It was Saturday morning, and I’d spent the night at Rick’s place. He was stretched out on the sheets, one arm behind his head, smoking a cigarette. I paused to enjoy the view, and he winked at me flirtatiously.

  “I’m supposed to meet my sister and her family in half an hour,” I said. “We’re taking my dad to the Fall Fest. Want to come?” I looked in the mirror and tried to fix my hair, wondering if I had time to shower and change my clothes when I got home.

  “I’ll pass,” Rick said, yawning lazily. “I don’t do kids or animals.”

  I leaned over to kiss him good-bye, and he pulled me in playfully. “Call me later,” he whispered into my ear.

  I jogged home, feeling sheepish in my rumpled clothes. Rick and I had been together for less than a week, and I still felt secretly embarrassed to be hooking up with a colleague. I was glad it was the weekend and that the chance of bumping into another professor or—God forbid—a student was practically nil. As I rounded the corner to my place, I made sure to give the President’s House a generous berth, keeping my head lowered and my hair partially covering my face. From the corner of my eye, I noticed the house was being painted, with some scaffolding covering one wing. An American flag hung from the porch, and the flower beds had been refreshed with new plantings. In the driveway, obscured by a hedge, I could make out the top of two people’s heads. Without thinking, I crouched behind a tree.

  This is ridiculous, I thought. There was no other route to my apartment, which was on a cul-de-sac, and I’d have to walk past the mansion without having a panic attack. I straightened myself up and emerged from behind the tree. The heads were bobbing out of sight, and I heard the sound of a door open and close.

  Phew, I thought, and continued on my way, glancing furtively at the driveway as I passed by. There was a white BMW convertible parked there, with a rhinestone-studded license plate frame that spelled out “Kappa Kappa Gamma.” I stared at it incredulously. Tiffany.

  Tiffany was one of Pam’s favorite people to gossip about. She was always dating someone, and that someone was always tall, handsome, and athletic. Why she hadn’t settled down was the source of Pam’s unending curiosity. “She’s a man-eater!” I’d hear Pam tell one of her friends on the phone. “She just loves all the attention.” Someone had told me Tiffany had been married once before, to a professional surfer, and they’d traveled the world, living in places like Hawaii and Australia and Costa Rica. At some point, the two had parted ways, maybe because Tiffany was tired of living in surf shacks and fishing villages. “I’m totally a Cali girl,” Tiffany liked to say. She lived in Santa Monica, by the beach, but kept a small place in Fairfax, where she stayed during the week.

  What was Tiffany doing at the president’s mansion, and on a Saturday, no less? Maybe they were having a breakfast meeting? Or maybe they were heading off to play some tennis? I scolded myself for even wondering. It was none of my business, anyway.

  I had just arrived at my place and fed Jellyby when Lauren pulled up in her black SUV and honked.

  “You’re early!” I said, dismayed.

  “Did you just wake up?” Lauren yelled from the car.

  “Um, I overslept.”

  “You look like it,” Lauren said, wrinkling her nose. “Hurry up—jump in.”

  I peeked into the car and saw my father in the backseat, staring vacantly out the window as Lauren’s three kids quarreled beside him. Brett, Lauren’s husband, was in the driver’s seat, trying to broker peace.

  “Hayes ruined it,” Tate wailed, holding up a torn piece of construction paper covered in glitter.

  “I did not, dumbass,” Hayes said, trying to punch Tate in the arm but accidentally grazing Archer, the oldest. With a yelp, Archer lunged at Hayes and yanked a fistful of his hair.

  “STOP IT RIGHT NOW,” Brett bellowed. “You doofuses better behave or I will KILL you. NOW SAY HELLO TO YOUR AUNT.”

  All three kids sulkily settled down and mumbled hello as I climbed into the car, wedging myself between Tate and Hayes. The car was huge, with three rows of seats and a built-in DVD player. Lauren switched on a show for Hayes, then handed Tate and Archer their own individual iPads as Brett pulled out of the driveway and floored it through the streets of Fairfax.

  “You smell like smoke,” Hayes said, sniffing the air conspicuously.

  “Cigarettes cause cancer, you know,” Archer said.

  “Since when do you smoke?” Lauren asked, turning around.

  “I don’t!” I said. “I was, um, at a party last night. I, uh, didn’t have a chance to take a shower this morning.”

  “That better just be cigarette smoke I smell,” Brett joked, sucking on an imaginary joint while my sister looked on disapprovingly. He chuckled loudly and then reached over the back of his seat to give me a fist bump. “Just kidding, Prof. I know you’re an upstanding citizen.”

  Brett and Lauren had met in business school a decade earlier, and he now worked for some large hedge fund in Irvine. He was built like a refrigerator, with a thick neck and huge shoulders, looking like the rugby player he once was. The older he got, the more hulking he became, with all the weight seeming to go directly to his upper body. I rarely saw him because he was always working, though he did always make time to attend his kids’ Little League games, screaming profanities from the bleachers while taking business calls.

  “How are you doing, Dad?” I asked, glancing over my shoulder.

  “I think someone’s stealing the Q-tips from my bathroom,” he announced.

  “He’s been hung up on these Q-tips since we passed Monterey Park,” Lauren said, shooting me a look.

  “Q-tips? Why would anyone want your Q-tips?” I asked.

  “How should I know? I’m also missing my blue towel.”

  “Augh, can we get off the blue towel already?” my sister groaned.

  “Are you sure it’s not being washed?” I asked.

  “No, it’s gone. Someone took it.”

  “Dad,” Lauren interrupted. “Why would anyone want your ratty old towel?”

  “It’s a very nice towel, Lauren,” my dad said testily.

  “Wait, what’s that?” Lauren asked, pointing to a scabby purple bruise on my dad’s forearm. “How’d you get that?”

  “I don’t know. I must’ve bumped into something in the middle of the night. Damn prostate keeps me up.”

  “Don’t touch it, Dad!” Lauren yelled. “You’re just going to make it worse!”

  “I wan’ diff’ent show,” Tate suddenly cried, waving his iPad around.

  “What’s wrong with the show you’re watching?” Brett asked.

  “It’s bo-wing,” Tate pouted. “I wan’ surprise eggs.”

  “Tough luck, kid,” Brett said. “You get what you get and you don’t get upset.”

  “Diff’ent show!” Tate yelled, louder this time.

  “Suck it up, Tate,” Brett growled.

  “Daddy—you are bad man. You are bo-wing.”

  “I think you need to check the d
ictionary, kid. That’s not what ‘boring’ means.”

  “You guys let the kids watch too much TV,” my dad interjected. “I just watched something on Dateline. It’s not good for their brain development.”

  “Not now, Dad,” Lauren said. She turned to Tate. “Now, honey,” she said, using a singsongy voice. “I know you want to watch a different show. You must be very frustrated. I know it must feel very irritating.”

  I looked at Lauren like she was crazy.

  “It’s in a book I read,” Lauren whispered. “You’re supposed to acknowledge their feelings. They just want to be heard.”

  “I don’t think it’s working,” I said as Tate started screaming and flung his iPad on the floor.

  “Tater-Tot,” Lauren said, turning around and grabbing his flailing leg. “You have a choice. We can pull over and put you in Stop and Think, or you can finish watching your show. It’s up to you. Let’s make good choices, OK?”

  “Are we there yet?” my dad asked.

  “I’m feeling carsick,” Archer said.

  “I have to pee,” Hayes said.

  “Fuck me,” Brett muttered under his breath.

  Lauren picked up the iPad and switched to a new show. “OK, here. Now shut up,” she said, handing it to Tate. Tate immediately stopped crying, grabbed the iPad, and zoned out.

  *

  IN PREVIOUS YEARS, THE Fall Fest had been a half-hearted affair, with a handful of sororities and fraternities participating as part of their community service requirement but scant attendance by local residents. This year, I was surprised by how packed the place was, with people from miles around, it seemed, converging for a day of games, live music, and performances. Every student group on campus seemed to have sponsored a booth—the International Students Organization, the Black Students Union, the Cooking Club, the LGBTQ Alliance. The Hawaiian Club was holding a traditional luau pig roast, digging a pit in a corner of the field and smoking an entire pig under a layer of banana leaves. Wisps of smoke escaped enticingly from the underground oven.

  While Brett and I helped my dad out of the car, Lauren and the boys made a beeline for the bathroom. “Meet us by the Ferris wheel!” she yelled over her shoulder.

  Brett bought tickets, and we headed toward the rides, passing an outdoor stage where student performances were taking place. A Mexican folk dance group had just left the platform and an MC was at the mike. “Listen up!” he yelled. “Help us raise money for our local Boys and Girls Club! Don’t miss your chance to take a shot at dunking President Martinez! It’s all happening right now!”

  Some kids sprinted past us, joining a raucous crowd that had gathered around the dunk tank. From where we stood at the back, we could see Adam, dressed in a Fairfax T-shirt and swim trunks, climb into the cage and begin egging the kids on, pretending to be scared when a ball got a little too close, raising his arms in triumph when he escaped dunking.

  “You can’t dunk me, Jasmine!” Adam teased a little girl who stepped up to the podium, a ball clutched in her tiny fist.

  “Wanna bet?” she shouted back, winding up for her pitch. Her first ball went wide and landed in the grass, and the crowd gave a disappointed groan. Her second ball glanced against the tank and rolled away into some bushes. But the third ball was a direct hit, smacking the target with a satisfying clang and releasing the platform where Adam was sitting. He hit the water with a tremendous splash, and the crowd went crazy, kids rushing up to watch Adam bob to the surface, shaking the water from his hair and eyes. Jasmine was jumping up and down and shrieking, and Adam gave her an affectionate high five as he climbed out of the tank.

  “You got me,” he said, reaching for a towel and wiping his face. “You’ve got a deadly aim. I hope you come to Fairfax one day and pitch for our softball team.”

  Jasmine’s face lit up, and Adam gave her a big hug.

  “That kid has a good arm,” Brett observed.

  “How long are we going to be standing here?” my dad asked. “I’m hungry.”

  By the time we got to the Ferris wheel, the kids were eating cotton candy and popcorn and arguing over which ride to go on first.

  “I wanna ride ponies!” Tate yelled.

  “Bounce house!” yelled Hayes.

  “Ferris wheel!” yelled Archer.

  “Should we divide and conquer?” Lauren suggested.

  “I’ll do the Ferris wheel with Archer,” Brett said.

  “Dad and I’ll take Hayes to the bounce house,” Lauren said. “I can’t stand the smell of horses.”

  “I guess that means you and I are doing the ponies,” I said to Tate, who immediately seized my arm and started to pull me toward the pony corral.

  The line for the pony rides snaked halfway around the perimeter, and Tate spent the next thirty minutes hanging off the fence and whining, “When is it gonna be myyyyyyyyy turn?”

  “Which one do you want to ride?” I asked, trying to distract him by pointing to the different-colored ponies plodding around the dirt track. “I like the white one with brown spots.”

  “NO!” Tate said. “I want the BIG ONE.”

  “Which one is that?”

  “THAT one,” Tate said, pointing to a mangy-looking gray pony with a half-bitten ear. While we watched, the pony took a dump, leaving a trail of dung pies in its wake. “Ewwwwwwww!!!!” Tate screamed delightedly. “The pony did a big POOP!”

  When we finally got to the front of the line, Tate was given a docile brown pony with a star on its forehead. “This one’s good with the little ones,” the pony’s handler told us, but Tate was despondent. “I want the POOPING PONY!” he wailed. He threw himself on the dirt-and-straw-covered ground. I winced.

  “He’s three,” I apologized. “Is there any chance we can get that gray pony? Otherwise, he’s going to be on that ground for a while.”

  “Sure,” the handler said, looking at Tate with a pained smile. “Hey, kid,” he said to Tate. “The ground’s kinda nasty. You might want to get up.”

  “Sorry, sorry,” I said, sheepishly rolling Tate over to one side and letting the people behind us cut us in line.

  The gray pony finally trundled in, looking bored and unimpressed as Tate bounced up from the ground, covered in dust and straw, and clambered into the saddle. I watched them head off, a handler guiding the pony on a lead and Tate bouncing excitedly up and down, yelling, “Giddyup!!” They did three slow revolutions of the track, and I waved each time he passed by. He stuck his tongue out each time.

  As Tate headed in after the final circuit, I steeled myself for another tantrum. He’d insist on staying on the pony, I thought. He wouldn’t relinquish the pooping pony to the next child in line. He’d fling himself off the horse and onto the ground and maybe break a bone in the process.

  Instead, Tate happily gave up his pony without complaint. And rather than flinging himself on the ground, he flung himself onto my head, wrapping his stout legs around my neck and using my hair as reins.

  “Go, horsey!” he screeched as I stumbled out of the corral and tried to make my way to an open space.

  “You’re choking me, Tate,” I said, trying to pry his legs from around my neck. Tate only pinned them tighter against my throat and then clapped his grimy fingers over my eyes.

  “Seriously, Tate!” I said, getting frantic. “This isn’t funny! I can’t see!”

  From behind me, I could hear Brett’s voice. “Hey, knucklehead!” he yelled. “Get off your aunt right now.” But Tate ignored him, cackling loudly and yanking my hair. “Go faster, horsey!” he shouted, jabbing his heels against my rib cage.

  “I’m SERIOUS, Tate!” Brett yelled. “YOU LISTEN TO ME!!”

  I felt someone pull Tate off of me. “Stop!” I heard Tate shriek, his arms and legs pinwheeling wildly through the air. I was sweaty and covered with brown streaks of dirt, and my throat felt tight and sore.

  “Thank God,” I sighed, turning to thank Brett. “I thought I was going to suffocate.”

  But it wasn’t Brett
standing there. It was Adam, looking at me amusedly as he kept Tate from trying to lunge at me. He was dressed in a black sport coat with a crisp shirt and a red tie, a small Fairfax College pin on his coat lapel.

  Brett ran up, Archer in tow, and grabbed Tate by the elbow. “You’re busted, kid,” he bellowed. To Adam, he said, “Thanks, man. I owe you.”

  “Not at all,” Adam said. “I could tell Anne needed some help.” I stood there, trying to clean Tate’s shoe prints from my day-old shirt and smooth my hair. I must look like a wreck, I thought.

  “You guys know each other?” Brett asked.

  Just then, Lauren appeared with my father and Hayes. She looked confused and then surprised when she recognized Adam standing with us. “What’s going on?” she asked. “Did I miss something?”

  “This guy just saved your sister from being choked to death by your son,” Brett said. “We should buy him a beer.”

  “Hi, Lauren,” Adam said, extending his hand. “Nice to see you again.”

  “Adam,” Lauren said, her voice tinny and falsely cheerful. “How funny to bump into you!” She looked him up and down in a not very subtle way. “Thank you so much for coming to the rescue,” she said, gathering her kids to her. “This is my husband, Brett, and my three sons—Archer, Hayes, and Tate, who I take it you’ve met already.”

  I couldn’t believe how ingratiating Lauren was being. The last time they’d met, Lauren had virtually interrogated Adam: Where was he from? What did his parents do? What was he planning to do next year? How was he planning to make a living doing that? When I’d told her we were engaged, she’d blown up at me, calling me naive and “even dumber” than she’d realized. Adam was a loser, she’d declared, with crappy career prospects and even crappier taste in rings (she’d taken one look at my cameo and sniffed, “You’re kidding. No diamond?”). Now, though, Lauren was ladling on the charm, smiling with all her teeth and practically falling over herself to introduce Adam to everyone.

  “Oh, and of course you must remember my father, Jerry,” she simpered, gesturing to my father.

  “Mr. Corey?” Adam said, shaking my dad’s hand. “It’s been a long time. Welcome to Fairfax.”