ironic smile on his lips, and-a phrase I haven't heard in a while-bedroom eyes. A guy who would break your heart. But you wouldn't know all this if you went by the sound of his name-which I did, an immigrant's failing, literalism.
I assumed he was late because he'd just whizzed in from his small barony somewhere in Austria.
The professor stopped the class. "Rudolf Brodermann Elmen-hurst, the third, I presume?" Everybody laughed, this guy too. I admired that from the start, to be able to make such an entrance without blushing and stumbling and arraying the floor with your books and the contents of your pocketbook. He could take a joke, and put on such an ironic self-assured face no one felt bad laughing.
The guy looked around and there was a space next to the territory I'd carved out for myself on the table with my pile of books. He came and sat down. I could tell he was looking me over, probably wondering who the hell I was, this intruder upon the sanctuary of English majors.
Class resumed. The professor
started explaining again about what all he expected from us in the course. Later, he asked us to write down a response to a little poem he passed around. This guy with a name like a title leaned over and asked if I could lend him a piece of paper and a pen. I felt honored to be the one asked. I tore some pages out of my notebook, then rummaged in my pocketbook for another pen.
I looked up with a sorry-eyed expression. "I don't have an extra pen," I whispered, complete sentences for whispers, that's what tells you I was still a greenhorn in this culture. This guy looked at me as if he didn't give a damn about a pen, and I was a fool to think so. It was such an intense look, I felt myself coloring. "That's okay,"
he mouthed, without really using his voice so I had to lip-read, his full lips puckering as if he were throwing little kisses at me. If I'd known what sexy feelings felt like I would have identified the shiver going down my spine and into my legs. He turned to his other neighbor, who didn't have a pen either. The word went round. Anyone have an extra pen?
No one. There was a dearth of pens that day in class.
I sunk my hand back into my pocketbook. I was the proverbially overprepared student; I had to have a standby writing utensil. I felt something promising at the bottom of my purse and pulled it out: it was a teensy pencil from a monogrammed set my mother had given me for Christmas: a box of pencils "my color," red, and inscribed with my so-called name in gold letters:
Jolinda.
(my mother had tried for my own name Yolanda, but the company had substituted the Americanized, southernized
Jolinda. right-brace Jolinda,
that's what this pencil used to say. In fact, it was so worn down, only the hook of the still was left. We didn't throw things away in my family. I used both sides of a piece of paper. I handed my find over to this guy. He
took it and held it up as if to say, "What have we here?" His buddies around us chuckled. I felt shabby for having saved a pencil through so many sharpenings.
At the end of class, I fled before he could turn around and give it back to me.
That night there was a knock on my door. I was in my nightgown already, doing our assignment, a love poem in the form of a sonnet. I'd been reading it out loud pretty dramatically, trying to get the accents right, so I felt embarrassed to be caught. I asked who it was.
I didn't recognize the name. Rudy? "The guy who borrowed your pencil," the voice said through the closed door. Strange, I thought, ten-thirty at night. I hadn't caught on yet to some of the strategies. "Did I wake you up?" he wanted to know when I opened the door. "No, no," I said, laughing apologetically. This guy I had sworn never to talk to after he had embarrassed me in class, but my politeness-training ran on automatic. I excused myself for not asking him in.
"I'm doing my homework." That wasn't an excuse in the circles he ran in. We stood at the door a long moment,
I assumed he was late because he'd just whizzed in from his small barony somewhere in Austria.
The professor stopped the class. "Rudolf Brodermann Elmen-hurst, the third, I presume?" Everybody laughed, this guy too. I admired that from the start, to be able to make such an entrance without blushing and stumbling and arraying the floor with your books and the contents of your pocketbook. He could take a joke, and put on such an ironic self-assured face no one felt bad laughing.
The guy looked around and there was a space next to the territory I'd carved out for myself on the table with my pile of books. He came and sat down. I could tell he was looking me over, probably wondering who the hell I was, this intruder upon the sanctuary of English majors.
Class resumed. The professor
started explaining again about what all he expected from us in the course. Later, he asked us to write down a response to a little poem he passed around. This guy with a name like a title leaned over and asked if I could lend him a piece of paper and a pen. I felt honored to be the one asked. I tore some pages out of my notebook, then rummaged in my pocketbook for another pen.
I looked up with a sorry-eyed expression. "I don't have an extra pen," I whispered, complete sentences for whispers, that's what tells you I was still a greenhorn in this culture. This guy looked at me as if he didn't give a damn about a pen, and I was a fool to think so. It was such an intense look, I felt myself coloring. "That's okay,"
he mouthed, without really using his voice so I had to lip-read, his full lips puckering as if he were throwing little kisses at me. If I'd known what sexy feelings felt like I would have identified the shiver going down my spine and into my legs. He turned to his other neighbor, who didn't have a pen either. The word went round. Anyone have an extra pen?
No one. There was a dearth of pens that day in class.
I sunk my hand back into my pocketbook. I was the proverbially overprepared student; I had to have a standby writing utensil. I felt something promising at the bottom of my purse and pulled it out: it was a teensy pencil from a monogrammed set my mother had given me for Christmas: a box of pencils "my color," red, and inscribed with my so-called name in gold letters:
Jolinda.
(my mother had tried for my own name Yolanda, but the company had substituted the Americanized, southernized
Jolinda. right-brace Jolinda,
that's what this pencil used to say. In fact, it was so worn down, only the hook of the still was left. We didn't throw things away in my family. I used both sides of a piece of paper. I handed my find over to this guy. He
took it and held it up as if to say, "What have we here?" His buddies around us chuckled. I felt shabby for having saved a pencil through so many sharpenings.
At the end of class, I fled before he could turn around and give it back to me.
That night there was a knock on my door. I was in my nightgown already, doing our assignment, a love poem in the form of a sonnet. I'd been reading it out loud pretty dramatically, trying to get the accents right, so I felt embarrassed to be caught. I asked who it was.
I didn't recognize the name. Rudy? "The guy who borrowed your pencil," the voice said through the closed door. Strange, I thought, ten-thirty at night. I hadn't caught on yet to some of the strategies. "Did I wake you up?" he wanted to know when I opened the door. "No, no," I said, laughing apologetically. This guy I had sworn never to talk to after he had embarrassed me in class, but my politeness-training ran on automatic. I excused myself for not asking him in.
"I'm doing my homework." That wasn't an excuse in the circles he ran in. We stood at the door a long moment,
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