by Chana Keefer
“I, personally, never believe everything I read.”
Something in his sympathetic smile felt like the first touch of warm sunlight after a long winter. Some of the ice spilled over onto my cheeks. He nudged a square tissue box my way and I dabbed at the flow.
“Obviously, I’m not tough enough for this business.” I attempted a smile but a hiccup escaped instead. Not again. I threw my hands up and grabbed a fistful of tissue from the box to absorb the fresh deluge. So much for professionalism.
He leaned back in his chair and studied the painting on the wall as he spoke. “As a young officer in Vietnam, I saw a beautiful young lady with large, sad eyes. We didn’t even speak, but something about her made me feel at home, thousands of miles away from everything I’d ever known, caught in the middle of hell. I couldn’t speak to the other officers about her. They would have roasted me alive.” He chuckled.
“But her face haunted me. I would lie down at night, exhausted, dirty, homesick, and scared and the thought of her would, somehow, comfort me. Finally, I found an interpreter to help me interview her and some of the other locals to chronicle the effects of the war on her people. It was really an excuse to meet her… not the most professional motivation, eh?” He flashed a sly smile.
“Anyway, the national press picked up my story and launched my career. I learned to care deeply for those people; therefore, my writing could touch minds and hearts.”
“So, what happened to her?”
He smiled broadly, “When I finally came back to the states for good, she came with me—as my wife. My family was horrified and my friends thought I’d lost my mind but, twenty-five years later, she’s the best thing that ever happened to me.”
I sighed and smiled.
In a flash he retreated behind his public persona, pulling out the feature I had so rudely dropped on his desk in class.
He fixed me with those steely eyes over the rim of his glasses. “Much better. I didn’t snore once; interesting as well as informative… definitely not the type of writing I would expect from someone who needs to quit journalism.” He handed the paper across the desk. A large B+ marked the top. A grade that high was almost impossible to achieve in his class.
“Now get out of here,” he said. “And, try to stay out of the limelight, ya hear?”
Marti and I made up that afternoon, celebrating with a trip to our favorite “chocolate therapy” station, The Igloo. Over dishes of ice cream swimming in hot fudge we caught up with each other’s lives then headed back to the dorm laughing and teasing. It felt good for the pieces of my life to start coming back together. Now if only…. But finals were looming. Maybe sleepless nights studying would keep my mind off of superstars.
Suddenly it was Friday again and I walked to class through a light spring rain. I met Sky a full week ago and still no word from him.
For once, I welcomed the insanity of Finals Week. Marti and I took up residence in the library, muddling our way through ignored reading and class notes until we felt our brains would explode.
The various methods my fellow classmates employed to survive final exams—from calm, methodical review to complete panic—amused me.
Roland, our fiercely ambitious student editor, always planned to be sick the weekend after finals. As his caffeine-induced sleepless nights took their toll, his normally flawless appearance would deteriorate to an unshaven face, bloodshot eyes, and the wardrobe of a derelict, until, sure enough, he would succumb to a cold or the flu. I dropped a get-well card in his assignment box mid-week just to be ahead of the game.
My last final was on Thursday, the Political Science class that had been the bane of my existence due to reading assignments that could put me to sleep more effectively than cold medicine. I usually sold my used books back to the bookstore, but considered holding on to this one as a non-habit-forming sleep inducer.
I breathed a sigh of relief to realize the grind of classes was over for a couple months. Marti and I would move out of the dorm and into a small apartment for the fall semester. Wow. That almost sounded responsibly adult. Hopefully, I could get more agency jobs in between, meaning my profits might actually exceed expenses.
An end-of-year bash on campus Friday night sounded promising. It would be the inevitable beer fest, but nonetheless, I looked forward to the dancing.
Marti and I arrived with the party in full swing. The school-wide effort brought a substantial crowd to the lawn between several of the dorms where large bulb lights hung from high branches of the trees. The DJ did a great job keeping the crowd going with a mix of dance standards. Several friends from the dorm and journalism department attended so there would be no lack of partners.
As soon as we arrived, Danielle, who wouldn’t wait for the guys to ask, ushered us out on the floor and the mindless fun began.
My favorite song from senior high pumped across the yard just as I caught sight of Holden, our stealth photographer, in the center of the revelry. He was a very entertaining dancer, having drawn a crowd of students shouting dance requests that he would create on the spot. At the moment he was in the middle of “the sprinkler.” Somebody yelled, “lawnmower!” and Holden pantomimed pulling the cord to a stubborn mower and making rows back and forth.
After an impressive “robot” and as good of a “Michael Jackson” as the man himself, I yelled, “The Holden!” and crouched to the ground in front of him, then popped up like a camera-toting gopher. He laughed, imitated the ridiculous dance, and yelled, “Sorry about that.”
He grabbed my hand and moved into some swing dance steps. I wasn’t very familiar with that style and he paused for a quick lesson. For the next half hour, Holden and I cut up the dance floor. He had a compact little gymnast’s body and excellent instincts. I found myself comparing him to Wally.
Just as I began to think we had reached the end of my stamina, the DJ snuck in a slower number and Holden and I parted ways to seek much-needed refreshment.
As I struggled through the crowd, Sky’s “Passage,”—a beautiful Caribbean melody comparing the ever-changing ocean to the ebb and flow of life—pulsed around me. My high spirits took a nosedive.
A voice said in my ear, “Somebody needs a partner.” I turned to find Devin Graves, my Sigma Tau tormentor.
“No thanks. Kinda tired.”
“Then let’s get you somethin’ to drink.”
I protested, but he slipped his arm through mine and moved toward the refreshment table. He turned to me with two cups of red liquid. I felt more comfortable when both his hands were occupied.
“Thanks.” I reached for the fruity smelling substance. Whew! Big surprise. It was spiked.
Danielle watched us from a few feet away. I made a beeline toward her. “Danielle, you’ve met Devin, right?” She smiled a wary greeting. “Hey, you two talk. I have to... go to the restroom.” I handed Danielle the cup of punch and did my best zigzag through the sweaty crowd.
I rushed toward the closest dorm without looking back. It was a rotten way to use Danielle, but it seemed the most efficient method of dumping Devin. Besides, she dealt with his type all the time.
I looked back a couple times to make sure I had lost him then meandered through campus toward my dorm. Darn that Devin. I had been having such a great time, too. To be honest, I guess I should say, ”Darn that Sky.” His song had been the real turning point in my mood.
I slumped onto an accommodating bench by the sidewalk and sat in my customary thinking position. Sky. When I shut my eyes I could see him so clearly looking at me with such… love? Surely it had at least been the start of something along those lines. I shivered in my sleeveless top, a bit damp from all the dancing.
What about Sky’s last words? “Trust me.” What was up with that? I wanted to believe what I thought I saw in his character was the truth, but… time would tell.
I put my head down in my arms. Let it go. That’s all I could control. I could try anyway.
“Looks like somebody still needs a partner.” T
he voice startled me. I looked up. Devin leaned against a tree a few feet away. Oh great.
“You gave me the slip,” he accused.
“Yep.” I wasn’t in the mood to be coy.
“Now why would you do that?”
“I didn’t think you wanted to end up with punch on your shoes. I saved us the trouble.”
“Fair enough.” He came over to sit on the bench.
I got up to leave and he put out an arm to stop me. “Look, would you please stay just one minute?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t feel like being squeezed or groped or insulted and I don’t think you know how to do anything else.”
“Ouch.” He grimaced before trying again, “Then could you stand still long enough to let me say something?”
I crossed my arms with a bored, “Make it quick.”
“I wanted to apologize for embarrassing you the other day. Shane gave me a pretty hard time about that.”
“Good. Now you can go back and tell Shane you upheld the ‘Sigma Tau honor.’”
“Somehow I don’t feel very forgiven.”
“Your track record doesn’t give me much hope for improvement.”
“My track record?”
“You don’t even remember, do you?” I faced him again. “The Chili-Cook off? You ended up with soaked feet.”
“That was you? Aw man, I was pretty wasted that night.”
“Obviously.”
“Guess I owe you another apology.”
“Thanks. We’re up to speed so… ” I started toward my dorm, but stopped. Something wasn’t finished here. I looked back at Devin who still leaned forward on the bench with his hands clasped together. I sat down, not believing I was actually prolonging the encounter.
“You’re almost okay when you’re not drunk or showing off.”
“Gee, thanks.” He didn’t look up from his hands.
“So… why do you do it?”
“Why do I do it,” he repeated as if considering a Pandora’s box he was not eager to open. “Why do I drink like a fish and treat people like s#*%! and treat girls like—”
“Basically,” I cut in. “That’s the idea. I’m getting the impression there’s more to you, but you hide it. Why?” I leaned forward to wrap my arms around my shoulders.
He hesitated and looked up as if seeking an excuse to change the subject, ”Hey, you’re cold, why don’t we keep moving? Um…you wanna go get somethin’?” He stood up. “Coffee, a burger?”
“I guess.” My eyes narrowed. “But, I’m ordering something scalding hot to drink and if you don’t behave it’ll be on you. How’s that?”
“Fair enough,” he laughed.
I stopped by the dorm to grab a jacket then we walked to a diner down the street where they flipped pancakes twenty-four/seven—a handy service for all-night study sessions. I was partial to their chocolate chip pancakes smothered in whipped cream, but on this night I opted for a cup of cocoa while Devin ordered the huge breakfast special complete with eggs, sausage, bacon, and a large stack of pancakes. I was amazed at how he made short work of the steaming mound.
“I’ve never seen anyone who could put away food like my brothers, but that was impressive,” I commented as Devin leaned back in the booth with a contented sigh and belch.
“It was all boys in my family. If you didn’t eat fast, you didn’t eat. I don’t know what I’ll do when I don’t play football anymore. Probably just get fat ‘cause I’m used to bulkin’up.”
“So you play football?” I asked. Devin raised a brow in shock. “I was very into football in high school, but I haven’t really followed it since. It’s different when you know the name and number of every guy on the field.”
“Why did you know all the guys on the football team?” said Devin with just a hint of the jerk peeking out from the implication.
“Watch it,” I warned, flourishing my steaming mug. “It was a small town so everyone knew everybody whether you wanted to or not. Football was huge and they were great for such a small school. It was a blast.”
“Well, now you know somebody on this team so you’d better start coming to the games. By the way, I’ll be the one throwing the ball and calling the plays,” he said sarcastically.
“Most impressive. So why aren’t you out with the head cheerleader or trying to put away a keg of beer instead of shoveling down pancakes with me?”
“Just a glutton for punishment I guess.” He grinned.
“So, all boys in your family. Tell me about that.”
For the next half hour Devin painted a picture of life as the “golden child” of his father, a former pro player. As a young boy, he had basked in the attention devoted to him over his older brother who was more of an intellectual. He was encouraged to take pride in his athletic accomplishments and did what was necessary to get by scholastically, putting his main effort into getting a full football scholarship.
As a senior in high school, he suffered a knee injury that took him out of the running for one of the “Big 8” teams. His father had taken the setback hard, pushing the physical therapist to get his son in shape for college recruitment. He felt he had let his dad down by not being on the fast track to the pros.
It blew my mind this guy could feel like a failure. He was intelligent, gifted, and had good looks to boot; yet he thought he didn’t measure up?
“So, what do you want to do with your life?” He looked up in surprise. “I don’t suppose you’ll play football forever. What’s your plan?”
“I haven’t really thought about much else,” he admitted.
“Look Devin.” I took a steadying sip of cocoa and dove in. “Surely there’s more to you than football. So what if you’re not winning the Super Bowl? Your life can still count.” I was surprised to find I cared about this guy who looked frightened when his confident mask slipped aside.
“I’m not giving up my dreams just yet,” Devin protested. “Coach has scouts coming to our games. I’ll get my shot.”
“Great, I hope you do,” I said, disappointed he missed the point. “But, that’s got to be a lot of pressure from your dad.”
“He only wants what’s best for me,” Devin defended.
“Yeah, but he’d be proud even if you don’t play pro ball, right?”
I’d struck a nerve. Devin’s openness slammed shut like a trapdoor. Just as quickly, the anger gave way to his customary obnoxiousness.
“Hang around you long and I’ll be boo-hooin’ to some shrink.” He motioned to the waitress for the check.
I pulled out money for the cocoa and we headed toward the dorm.
“So what now? Wanna make out?” He threw an arm around my shoulder to emphasize the joke.
“Careful.” I slipped out from under his arm. “Hate for you to lose your throwing arm.”
“So is Sky playing guitar with one arm this week?”
Now he had struck the nerve. “I’m going in,” I said aiming toward my dorm, “Apology accepted. We’ll always have pancakes.”
“Aw come on, the music’s still playing. Just one dance?”
I had my doubts about his ability to stay out of “jerk” mode when in front of his friends, but his behavior so far had been good.
We re-entered the dance area and I saw Danielle, who gave me a relieved look, heading over for a report. “He’s not walking funny, so…?”
“He’s alright when he wants to be,” I admitted as Devin made his way to the DJ’s table. “Sorry about dumping him on you.”
“Just know you owe me.” Danielle grinned. “But, his cute friend made up for any inconvenience.” She smiled toward Shane’s bright red hair as he made his way through the crowd.
I was just assuring Shane that yes, Devin wasn’t always a complete jerk when the classic, “Shout,” made famous in the movie “Animal House” started up. Devin sent out a rallying call to the rowdy Sigma Taus. He drug me to the center and I had a split second to shoot an appealing gla
nce at Danielle who joined Shane in the wild crowd of inebriated frat guys.
We dodged through sweaty armpits lofting cups of beer I prayed wouldn’t end up on my head. Every time they yelled, “Shout!” the cups jabbed skyward. I could understand why this would be a frat favorite since no coordination, sobriety, or females were necessary. They just had to be able to hop up and down—a stretch for some. Luckily, Devin did a good job of keeping a clearing around himself, the leader of the pack. I appreciated the safety zone.
A few more rounds of, “a little bit softer now, a little bit louder now,” and the Animal House reunion came to a close. I breathed a sigh of relief—toes intact and no beer on my head. I was free of my one-dance obligation.
I could have won “name that tune” since I recognized the next song by the first chord. “The Changeling,” the very song Sky and I danced to at his concert, filled the night air and filled me with a horrible sense of foreboding. I glanced back at Devin who stood with a broad grin like I was expected to drift back and enjoy a slow dance with him in front of his buddies.
I didn’t know what to do. Continue to walk and try to ignore the big dope? I hesitated for a split second, just enough time for Sigma Taus to begin chanting, ”DANCE! DANCE!” Devin came after me. Oh brother, there seemed to be no way to escape this scene without making an even bigger one. I looked desperately for Danielle and Marti as Devin grabbed my hand to pull me back out on the floor.
“You said ‘one dance,” I accused as he led me in a clumsy rendition of the dance with Sky.
“You could at least smile. Everyone’s going to think you don’t like me.” He stuck out his lower lip in a pout that made me laugh in spite of myself.
There was the bright flash of a camera and I groaned. The last thing I needed was more publicity.
“Look, I’ve had enough, Devin. You better get all your friends out here or you’ll be dancing by yourself.”
“But the song’s not over,” he protested.
“We can do this the easy way or… not.” I smiled and refused to move, using his ego against him.