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10
DEXTER
She said yes. She came in. She is here.
I watch her look over my place, wondering if she finds it stuffy and pretentious. Because it looks, clearly, both stuffy and pretentious, as are most gifts from my mother. She’s smiling, which could mean she’s pleased, or she’s amused. Maybe she’s pleased at how amused she feels?
“Have a seat,” I say, pointing to the couch. “Can I get you anything?” I instantly hope she’ll say no, because I might have a really excellent matched leather living room suite, but my three glasses are all dirty in the sink, and there is no food in the fridge except for a half-dozen eggs. There are noodles. I think. Please say no.
“I’m good, thanks,” she says.
Relief.
She’s staring across the room, and I cannot for the life of me think how to start a conversation.
She puts me out of my misery. “Um, so. Is that a Renoir?” she asks, pointing to the tiny, framed painting on the wall.
“Just a little one,” I say, and immediately regret it. Oh, come on. Seriously? “It was my grandma’s. A gift from a friend way back in the day.”
She laughs. “How would it be to have a friend who gives you priceless works of art?”
I sit down beside her on the couch. “It’s not exactly priceless.”
“Right. I’m sure it has a very exact price somewhere. In a catalog. Or a Christie’s register. Sotheby’s?”
She thinks I’m trying too hard. How could she not? I look so much like I’m trying too hard.
Desperate to change the subject, I point to the window behind us. “I broke that my first year here. Pro tip: Don’t practice racquetball in your living room.”
She pulls her phone out of her bag. Is she checking texts? Right now?
This is getting worse and worse. I try again. “Do you. . .”
She holds up a finger in a wait-a-minute gesture. With her other hand she types something. “Is there a c in racquetball?” she asks, looking up at me through the fringe of makeup-free eyelashes. She’s taking notes. She doesn’t despise me. Probably. She’s flirting with me.
“I have no idea,” I say. At this moment, I doubt I could reliably spell my own name. She is utterly captivating.
“What else?” she asks, still holding her phone.
“What else what?”
“What else do I need to know to succeed around here? It’s been almost a month, and I feel like Lola’s is the only secret I’ve learned. I’m ready to take all the advice you’re willing to hand out.”
“Really?”
She shakes her phone toward me. “Can’t you see I’m hanging on your every word? What exactly does this look like to you?”
I wish I could tell her what she actually looks like to me, but everything running through my mind sounds cliché and cheesy. Things like “beautiful” and “lovely” and “perfect” and “gorgeous” and “adorable.” Not going to say any of that.
“Okay,” I say. “Don’t make term projects due the last two days of term. You’ll die. Make it all due a week before finals. Then you won’t be swamped with grading.”
Her eyebrows go up, like she hadn’t expected me to offer anything useful. I’d like to see that again.
“Are you surprised?” I ask.
“What do you mean?” she asks, looking at her phone screen.
I wait for her to look up at me again. “You look, I don’t know, startled that I’m telling you this stuff.”
