what?”
It turned out that Celeste hadn’t invited him. I’d assumed she had, when she referred to her guest as a “he” a couple days ago. “You should definitely come,” I said, trying to cover my surprise and to smooth over the awkwardness. “I’m sorry we didn’t invite you sooner.”
“That’s cool.” He was looking at me strangely. “You know,” he said, “as long as we’re getting stuff out in the open, there’s something I need to talk to you about, too.”
“There is?” I felt a little surge of nerves at his serious tone of voice.
“Uh-huh. You seem to have a problem, and I’m not sure you realize.” He reached forward and softly brushed the side of my head, then grinned as muffin crumbs sprinkled my chest. “Every time you eat, you get food in your hair.”
I quickly wiped the crumbs off. “Yeah. That’s been pointed out to me before.” Shit. My nervous system had had a mini-conniption, wondering what he was going to say and then feeling his hand touching my head and—
“Hey, Leena, David.” Simone Dzama, a doe-eyed, environmentally friendly hippie chick, stood by the couch. It was only after she squatted next to David and began talking excitedly about a trip to a green rally in Boston that I realized she was whom he had been meeting. I picked at my muffin as they talked, trying not to listen to them making plans. I studied the shifting sky out the plate-glass windows, then read and responded to a couple of messages that had arrived while I was in class.
Simone finally stood. Before walking away she said, “We should find a time for that other thing, too, David. This weekend or something.”
My pulse sped up again, and I knew it wasn’t from caffeine.
“Hey.” David nudged me.
“I didn’t know you were into that stuff,” I said. “I mean, enough to go to a rally.” I didn’t know you were hanging out with Simone.
He shrugged. “I’ll go if I don’t have too much work. Simone’s nice. We have English together.”
I nodded and took another sip of my now tepid coffee. Obviously, it wasn’t just Celeste’s involvement that made this friendship with David complicated. I might not want him, but I didn’t want anyone else to have him either.
With everything that was on my mind, I forgot to call Dean Shepherd until I was on my way to lunch. When I did, Marcia said that the dean wanted to talk to me in person and asked if I could come in at four this afternoon. I told her it wasn’t great—I had field hockey at three and wouldn’t be done. She said the dean would wait. I briefly wondered why we couldn’t just talk on the phone, and why she was willing to stay in the office late for me, but didn’t think much of it. I was always happy to see Dean Shepherd.
Some days, I barely got any exercise during field hockey, since I was assistant coaching JVII instead of playing. I wasn’t good enough for varsity, and coaching younger kids sounded more fun than a noncompetitive “sport” like “Freedom Movement” or “Boot Camp.” Today, though, the team had needed extra players for a scrimmage, and I didn’t have time to go home and change before my meeting. I arrived at Irving Hall a mess, in cleats and sweatpants and sweatshirt, bringing along my field hockey stick and the smell of grass, mud, and sweat.
“Sorry I’m so gross,” I told Dean Shepherd as I sat across from her. “And you look so nice. I love your blouse.”
She glanced down distractedly. “Thanks. Michael gave it to me.”
“We’re having a dorm dinner soon and if you and Mich—”
“Leena,” she interrupted, “I have to pick up Anya in a little bit and didn’t call you in here to socialize.”
“Oh. Okay, sorry,” I said, a bit taken aback.
“A couple of days ago, did you tell Nicole Kellogg that . . .” She looked down at a piece of notepaper in front of her. The yellow sheet was covered with her loopy handwriting, illegible from where I sat. “. . . that she doesn’t
It turned out that Celeste hadn’t invited him. I’d assumed she had, when she referred to her guest as a “he” a couple days ago. “You should definitely come,” I said, trying to cover my surprise and to smooth over the awkwardness. “I’m sorry we didn’t invite you sooner.”
“That’s cool.” He was looking at me strangely. “You know,” he said, “as long as we’re getting stuff out in the open, there’s something I need to talk to you about, too.”
“There is?” I felt a little surge of nerves at his serious tone of voice.
“Uh-huh. You seem to have a problem, and I’m not sure you realize.” He reached forward and softly brushed the side of my head, then grinned as muffin crumbs sprinkled my chest. “Every time you eat, you get food in your hair.”
I quickly wiped the crumbs off. “Yeah. That’s been pointed out to me before.” Shit. My nervous system had had a mini-conniption, wondering what he was going to say and then feeling his hand touching my head and—
“Hey, Leena, David.” Simone Dzama, a doe-eyed, environmentally friendly hippie chick, stood by the couch. It was only after she squatted next to David and began talking excitedly about a trip to a green rally in Boston that I realized she was whom he had been meeting. I picked at my muffin as they talked, trying not to listen to them making plans. I studied the shifting sky out the plate-glass windows, then read and responded to a couple of messages that had arrived while I was in class.
Simone finally stood. Before walking away she said, “We should find a time for that other thing, too, David. This weekend or something.”
My pulse sped up again, and I knew it wasn’t from caffeine.
“Hey.” David nudged me.
“I didn’t know you were into that stuff,” I said. “I mean, enough to go to a rally.” I didn’t know you were hanging out with Simone.
He shrugged. “I’ll go if I don’t have too much work. Simone’s nice. We have English together.”
I nodded and took another sip of my now tepid coffee. Obviously, it wasn’t just Celeste’s involvement that made this friendship with David complicated. I might not want him, but I didn’t want anyone else to have him either.
With everything that was on my mind, I forgot to call Dean Shepherd until I was on my way to lunch. When I did, Marcia said that the dean wanted to talk to me in person and asked if I could come in at four this afternoon. I told her it wasn’t great—I had field hockey at three and wouldn’t be done. She said the dean would wait. I briefly wondered why we couldn’t just talk on the phone, and why she was willing to stay in the office late for me, but didn’t think much of it. I was always happy to see Dean Shepherd.
Some days, I barely got any exercise during field hockey, since I was assistant coaching JVII instead of playing. I wasn’t good enough for varsity, and coaching younger kids sounded more fun than a noncompetitive “sport” like “Freedom Movement” or “Boot Camp.” Today, though, the team had needed extra players for a scrimmage, and I didn’t have time to go home and change before my meeting. I arrived at Irving Hall a mess, in cleats and sweatpants and sweatshirt, bringing along my field hockey stick and the smell of grass, mud, and sweat.
“Sorry I’m so gross,” I told Dean Shepherd as I sat across from her. “And you look so nice. I love your blouse.”
She glanced down distractedly. “Thanks. Michael gave it to me.”
“We’re having a dorm dinner soon and if you and Mich—”
“Leena,” she interrupted, “I have to pick up Anya in a little bit and didn’t call you in here to socialize.”
“Oh. Okay, sorry,” I said, a bit taken aback.
“A couple of days ago, did you tell Nicole Kellogg that . . .” She looked down at a piece of notepaper in front of her. The yellow sheet was covered with her loopy handwriting, illegible from where I sat. “. . . that she doesn’t
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