Expecting: A Novel by Ann Lewis Hamilton

there’s still no sex. “I have to maintain some degree of mystery, don’t I?” she says to him. She would never use a Sharpie as eyeliner. Normandie thinks tattoos are pathetic, an obvious attempt at attention. “What kind of person wants to go through life having people look at them and interpret their body art? It’s as desperate as a vanity plate.”
    Megan has one tattoo—not a butterfly on the small of her back, but a wolverine above her right hipbone. Because she thinks wolverines are fierce.
    Sometimes Jack imagines Normandie and Megan in bed together. They remind him of salt and pepper shakers his mother has, shaped like tiny bears that fit together as if they’re hugging. Would Normandie and Megan do that? No, if they knew about each other, there would be broken bones involved. Probably Jack’s.
    What would Jack’s mother think of Normandie? “Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Mulani,” Normandie would say with a firm handshake. “Jack’s told me so much about you. Except he didn’t say you look more like his sister than his mother.” Exactly the kind of thing his mother would be impressed with. And if Normandie mentioned her SAT scores and ambitions—bingo, who cares if she’s not from India? Test scores and a life plan trump anything .
    Together, Normandie and his mother would turn on him. He imagines the family sitting around the table, his mother patting Normandie’s hand and looking at Jack. “Isn’t it a shame? All that talent, those brains, and he still doesn’t know what he wants to do with his life.” Normandie will nod, agree. Jack’s mother will sigh. “I’m sure Jack’s told you about his sister, Subhra. Subhra got the overambitious genes and Jack got…” She’ll trail off and Normandie will smile sympathetically.
    “Jack has your eyes, Mrs. Mulani. And your kind heart.”
    ***
    Jack won’t think about Normandie and Megan. He’ll concentrate on his Western civ paper. He’s sitting outside at Falafel King in Westwood and he checks what he’s typed on his laptop so far. His name, the class, the name of the teacher, “Metaphor of the Sun in Plato’s ‘Allegory of the Cave.’” That’s it.
    “Hello, stranger,” a voice says, and Jack looks up to see Normandie. She’s wearing a skirt and blazer, practicing her courtroom wardrobe. Jack nods hello and she slips into the chair beside him. “My class got canceled so I thought I’d hang out around here until my next one.”
    “Want some lunch?”
    “I ate already. Is that iced tea?”
    Jack nods and pushes his drink over to her. She sips from his straw, looks up at him and nods at his computer.
    “Western civ paper,” he tells her.
    “How’s it going?”
    “Great.”
    “Econ would be better for you. I think you’ve got an econ brain. You should get an MBA. Did you ever consider arts management? That’s an interesting field. I could bring you some reading material.”
    Jack nods. Sometimes Normandie is overwhelming. Sometimes she reminds him too much of his mother.
    “I could help you study for the GRE,” she says. “I’ve got standardized testing down. It’s not just knowledge; it’s how they figure out the questions, like the traps they put in to catch you. I should start my own standardized test prep service.”
    She’d make a fortune. Jack could put up the initial capital, invest in Normandie. His parents might go for that. Jack thinks if his mother met Normandie and had the opportunity, she’d divorce Jack from the family and adopt Normandie.
    “Yeah, I’d love your help. I’m not sure about getting an MBA though,” he says.
    “You’re right. I think you need to concentrate on graduating. This century.”
    Jack laughs. She’s not wrong; he knows that. He pops a falafel ball in his mouth. But at least she’s offering a plan. What’s wrong with business school? Three more years of putting off a career decision? That sounds perfect.
    “Fucking shit, you are so not going to believe this.”
    Megan