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I nod. “And I guess I need a student committee. Want to be on it?”
The girls look at each other, silent communication happening with eyebrows and smiles.
Hadley asks, “Who else is on it?”
An excellent question. I point from Hadley to Britain. “You two. I hope.”
They laugh. “Yeah, sure,” Hadley says.
Britain says, “We can get a few more people to help if you want.”
“I want,” I say so fast that they laugh. “Oh, does that sound desperate? I can explain that. It’s because I’m totally desperate. I don’t know how the Harvest Ball works, but apparently, it’s up to me to make it the greatest in the history of Chamberlain Harvest Balls.”
Britain pushes a chair away from the desk opposite them with her foot, an invitation to sit down with them. “First brainstorm session?” she asks.
I want to go home. I need to pee. I have to make this the best dance ever. “Yeah, sure. Let’s do it.”
I am an excellent time manager, and I know I can keep this to thirty minutes.
Eighty-two minutes later, the girls leave, laughing, and I sprint to the bathroom.
Heading across the quad toward my little apartment, I revisit their ideas, smiling to myself about their excitement.
“What’s got you so happy?”
I spin around and see Dexter, sitting on the steps of a small building. He moves over to make room for me and pats the concrete stair.
Very grateful that I hit the restroom before I left the classroom building, I lower myself to sit beside him. I’m so tired, even this cement step feels comfortable.
Our arms touch, and I feel his warmth through his sleeve. Not sure how I feel about the hum of energy running up my arm, I lean away, and then the air between us feels cold. I want to lean back in, but I don’t want him to think I’m leaning back in.
Why am I such a mess?
“Hi,” I say, hoping that if I start with something easy, I can get through a short conversation without sounding addled.
“Good day?” he asks.
“Pretty good. I’m still mostly vertical. Do you ever stop feeling exhausted?”
He shrugs. “I’m not exhausted. I feel totally energized. I love my work, and there’s nothing so fulfilling as teaching.”
I pull away a little more, turning to face him so he can see my full glare. “This isn’t an interview. You already have the job, Dexter.”
He grins. “Are you from Boston?”
Is this a trick question? “Why do you want to know?”
Holding his hands up in a show of innocence, he says, “I just don’t think I’ve heard you say my name before. I like it in your accent.”
“I do not have an accent.”
He shook his head, then held his fingers like he was measuring an inch. “Little bit.”
“Nope.”
He pointed to himself. “Kind of a dialect expert.”
“And so humble,” I reply.
