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17
JOEY
Ilock the door behind us and try not to look too obvious as I check to see who saw us leaving my apartment together. Nobody, as far as I can tell. I know it’s silly to care who knows we’re walking around campus together. We’re working on a project. Anyone who cares already knows that. But "silly" is taking on new meanings after my little display of emotion this morning. I feel like a fool. Probably because I acted like a fool.
Add it to the list of foolish things I’m doing lately.
Settling into the school routine, figuring out how to be a teacher, is one thing. Keeping up with my photography is another. Taking care of my health is something else—and if I mess that up, none of the rest matters.
When the doctors discussed my case and came up with a new medication regimen, I was skeptical. But this pill seems to be working. My heart rate is steady. Orderly. Just like I like it. I’ve tested it out with super low-impact exercise, done some casual hiking just off campus, and a little dancing in the living room. So far, so good. I’m doing so much better. I’m optimistic and relieved.
Obviously, I want to see if it will keep being so good. When I texted Dexter and invited him over, I only meant to try out the effectiveness of the medication in his presence. Close contact and interaction with Dexter caused some negative physical effects before—and some deeply positive ones, although those came with consequences. Now maybe my reactions won’t be scary. I want to see if my heart rate stays in the safe zone when I’m near him.
It should have been a simple test. I think I failed, though. Instead of sharing a supremely delicious breakfast of yesterday’s cookies, I threw myself at him. I leaned way too far in.
Literally.
Which is against the rules.
Dr. Moreau doesn’t approve of teachers at Chamberlain dating each other.
I don’t approve either. And I’m sure Dexter is not into me. How could he be? I look down at my sweats and self-consciously put a hand to my crazy pile of hair.
I know his type. I spent enough time stalking his Instagram feed to know what his elegant family looks like and the kind of women he goes for. Women who match his aesthetic. The a-little-too-put-together-to-be-real type, the expensive hair product type, the casual relationship type, the why-would-she-ever-say-no type.
I am not that type.
Okay. So.
I won’t look at him. And I hope that he won’t look at me.
We cross the quad and I have a flashback to when I was a little kid, practicing holding myself straight and walking without turning my head, which, of course, made it so nobody could see me. It was only a tiny bit less silly than sitting in my closet with my eyes closed so nobody could see me. I knew it then as well as I know it now, but habits are habits. And I want to be invisible. This is how.
But it’s ridiculous. I try to relax.
Trying to relax is a solid contradiction. The effort negates the relaxing.
Dexter isn’t talking, and I’m not sure if it’s because he’s annoyed with me for jumping all over him about the venue, or maybe because he’s uncomfortable about me making passes at him over leftover cookies. Either way, I feel the tension settling at the base of my spine and try to breathe it out.
“So. This place?” I’m not sure what I wanted to ask about it. Since I don’t know anything, I don’t have anywhere to start. But that’s not really true. I know I want to know about the light and the wall space and the width of the rooms. And I’m pretty sure he’d pay attention to the acoustics. But I don’t want to ask questions he can’t answer, because things are already awkward enough. “Is it far?”
He looks surprised. “Do you have someplace you need to be? Important appointment?”
I can’t tell if he’s being playful or annoyed. Sometimes those sound the same.
“No,” I say, “not really. Just wondering.”
Is there any chance for me to not look like a complainer?
“Just through the Arboretum.” He waves his hand in the general direction of the trees in front of us.
“Is that what that’s called?” He doesn’t answer. “It’s pretty. I mean, it seems pretty.” Could I sound dumber?
“Haven’t you been in here?” he asks as we walk into the shade of the trees. “I’d think you’d want to take pictures in here.”
I look up into the canopy of leaves and the aura of green light. “I do,” I say. “Wow.” I look at the underside of the leaves high over our heads, down to the bark dust beneath our feet, and finally at Dexter himself. “Wow,” I say again. I pull out my phone and snap a picture of him. “You look awesome in here.”
What is happening to me? Why do I have to say weird things that definitely sound like I’m hitting on him again?
