Faking It (3 page)

"Hi! You were at the meeting, weren't you?"

"Yeah, I was."

"I really liked your ideas about peer review."

"Thanks," I said, half listening, finding an empty mailbox and turning to leave. I was halfway down the hall when a voice in my head said,
Pay attention!
He followed me out.

"I'm Andrew."

"Andi."

"I prefer Andrew."

"No, I mean, my name is Andrea; people call me Andi."

"Oh," he said, furrowing his brows (probably thinking,
this is going to make for some dumb jokes down the road
). "Maybe we can get together for coffee sometime and brainstorm ideas for assignments?"

I looked at him. He was lanky and wore jeans with dress shirts and ties. Normally, I thought most guys looked dorky in such attire, but on him it looked cute.

"Sure," I said. My stomach had fluttered the moment I'd said it, and I smiled back at him.

When I found out that he played the guitar, I knew I was doomed.

And that's how our fourteen-month relationship began. I moved back to New York less than six months after we broke up; just passing him in the hallway was too much for me to bear.

Since then, I'd gone out with Maggie and Jayce and met lots of guys; yet, most of those times my friends had to coax me out with promises of dessert or payment of my subway fare (which, they almost never did). But dating was a whole other story. Dating was a jungle too scary for me to safari through. Being a stay-at-home, single woman had devolved from a New England comfort to a New York refuge.

***

One month later, the semester ended in its usual hustle of week-long student conferences followed by week-long portfolio reading and grading sessions followed by week-long meetings on program assessment and reflection and projections. Along with the end of the semester came the end-of-semester party that was usually held at the Heartland Brewery in

Union Square

. Apparently a couple of professors who lived nearby had started the tradition of meeting there so that they wouldn't have far to go after they'd gotten plastered. Once again, Maggie and I took the train in together and joined our colleagues. Immediately I spotted Devin at the bar, this time wearing black (Versace again), and my insides tightened as I stiffened my lower back. I hadn't seen him since the seminar. I was dressed in my favorite blue jeans, a black t-shirt with a fraying, thrift store-bought, men's velvet blazer, and black leather boots. My hair was straight and shiny and fell in wispy flips. I glanced towards his direction, trying to be as subtle as possible, nudging Maggie on the arm.

"Look who's here," I said under my breath.

"Ooh, is that the male hooker?" Maggie asked. "Wonder who he's with." Before I had a chance to investigate, he caught my eye, smiled, and started to walk toward me. As Maggie nudged me back, my abdominal muscles pulled even tighter as I began to tremble. Even the hellos from my female colleagues and their attempts to block his path to steal a free moment with him didn't slow him down. The male professors looked at him resentfully, and no wonder. He was perfection. Michelangelo would've dropped his chisel and cut off his hands if he saw Devin.

"Hi!" he said jubilantly. "Remember me? We met at a cocktail party a few months ago." He sounded a lot like Andrew did that day in the department main office.

"Yeah, I remember you. It was back in February at the National Arts Club. I can't remember your name, though," I lied.

"Devin." He extended his hand for a new handshake. "You are..." he paused for a minute and closed his eyes as his memory performed a quick search. "Andrea?"

My eyes widened. "Wow, I'm surprised you remembered!"

"I have a good memory for names. It's good for business. So, Andrea..."

"Most people call me Andi."

"What brings you here this evening?"

"End-of-semester party. And you?"

"I was meeting a client for drinks, but I think I've been stood up. Can I get you a ginger ale while you're waiting for the rest of your party to come in?"

Geez, he even remembered the ginger ale. I turned to Maggie with a get-me-out-of-this expression and grew self-conscious as my colleagues watched me talking to Devin, eyebrows raised, certain they were thinking I'd hired him for the night, or previous nights.

"Listen," I said, moving away from the crowd and pulling him with me. "I know what you do for a living. And if you're trying to recruit me as a client, well, I'm not interested. First of all, I couldn't afford you. And second of all, I don't do--I'm not that kind of... I'm not interested, okay?"

You know that voice in your head, the one that screams at you like your third grade soccer coach as you've just kicked the ball into your own goal by mistake:
What kind of shmuck are you?
Devin confirmed my shmuckness with his twisted grin. He stood there and let me ramble. When I finally stopped, he spoke.

"For the record, I don't recruit--I have more than enough business. You look like an interesting person to talk to, that's all."

"Isn't that a conflict of interest?"

He started laughing as I felt my face turn a shade of burgundy that matched the glass of wine in his hand.

"That's cute," he said. "I'm sorry; I don't mean to embarrass you--are you uncomfortable with me?"

"Well, yeah."

"Look, Andi. I just wanted to say hello. Sorry if I made you uncomfortable. I'll let you get back to your colleagues."

He waved to them. They all waved back, with flirty, white-toothed smiles and their chests sticking out.

I stood there, my feet cemented to the floor.

"Okay."

Neither of us moved.

"It was nice to see you again. I like your hair like that, by the way," he said.

"You too."

Dear Lord, kill me now. Please.

"See ya."

Devin finally walked away, and I unstuck my feet and headed for the ladies' room, shaking as I looked into the mirror.
Get a grip.
I took several deep breaths and a tissue from my purse; my nose was shiny. When I regained my composure, I took one last look in the mirror and looked at my hair: not a strand of my neo-shag was out of place. Chestnut brown and landing slightly past the bottom of my neck, it looked as if I'd just come out of the stylist's chair. He liked it like this. A smile escaped me as I exited the ladies' room.

Chapter Four

June

F
OR THE LAST FIVE YEARS IN MASSACHUSETTS, I HAD taught summer school English at a public high school. A year after Andrew and I started dating, he had signed up to teach as well. He always stuck to the high school curriculum; during the last summer we were together, he had tried to motivate his students to read
The Canterbury Tales
by converting it into a musical, while I invited my students to write argumentative essays about why the high school's mission statement was a crock. Andrew's class fanned themselves with rolled up Spark Notes booklets, while my class conducted peer reviews not unlike those I supervised at the college level. I'd refrained from telling him that his students were cutting his class to sit in on mine.

"I don't get it, Cutch," he said one afternoon in Pop's Coffeehouse, sweaty and deflated. "I'm not getting anywhere with them. I thought taking a fresh approach would help."

"It's
summer
, Hon," I said, sipping my iced vanilla chai. "Without air conditioning in the classrooms, you couldn't even get them excited about
American Idol
."

By the time I de-toxed from the academic year, then prepped for summer school, then de-toxed from that, then prepped for the upcoming semester, I hardly had time to sit down and write anything. But here in New York, I looked forward to my first full summer vacation stretched out ahead of me just like my students did. Except rather than go to the beach and work on future melanomas, I had excitedly planned to catch up on writing a collection of creative nonfiction essays and reading journal articles, not to mention Maggie's and my textbook project.

At the moment, however, I sat in front of my computer in my apartment surfing the Internet, with a floor-stand fan whirring loudly and rotating from left to right and left again. I was bored, tired, and lonely, and hadn't written a damn thing--heck, I might as well have been sitting in Andrew's summer English class, sweating and listening to him ramble on about
A Midsummer Night's Dream
and extol the virtues of the mandolin, trying not to pass out from dehydration.

I started looking through personal ads and match sites:

* Smart is sexy! Intelligent WF seeks educated WM for long conversations into the night.

* Trim SJM seeks slim, SJF for good times.

* Books, beaches, and basketball are what this woman likes. No unemployed men, please.

* I love women with curves! Come meet this lonely, 40-year-old male. No kids or smoking.

Oy.

I looked up at the bulletin board cluttered with post-it notes for essay and memoir ideas; phone numbers and email addresses of friends and textbook editors; photos of my two brothers, Joey and Tony; Maggie and me at the Language Arts Conference in Chicago two years ago; and one of Andrew and me, with Andrew's face scratched out. (I had kept it up as a reminder whenever I started to miss him.) Devin's card was still tacked up.

My phone sat in its cradle next to the computer. My eyes shifted back and forth from the phone to the card. Finally, I picked it up and dialed. After two rings, a voice mail answered, just as I was told. When it beeped, I began:

"Hi, uh, this message is for Devin? Uh, this is Doctor Andi Cutrone. From BrooklynUniversity? We, uh, met a few times? I was wondering if I could, uh, talk to you? Uh, please call me at this number..."

Oh, that was smooth...and why the hell did I use "Doctor."? Three years to get a PhD, and this is what I reserve my title for--leaving messages for escorts on hot June days?

Two hours later, Devin returned the call.

"A colleague gave me your number," I said with a wavering voice. "I hope that's okay."

"Sure, it's fine. What can I do for you?"

"Well, I'd like to meet with you, but not as a business meeting."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean I just want a consultation."

After what seemed like a long pause, he laughed.

"That's cute," he said. "Okay." I could hear his smile over the phone. "Why don't we meet at the W Hotel?"

"I live on the Island, remember? Is there something a little more in the middle? How 'bout Junior's in Brooklyn?" I wasn't too keen on taking the drive, but it was fair. Besides, it'd been awhile since I'd had a slice of cheesecake.

"Okay. When?"

"What's good for you?" I asked.

"Weekdays between one and four work for me."

"Let's make it two o'clock on Tuesday."

"I'm entering you in my palm pilot," he said.

"Me too," I said, scribbling on a napkin.

"Thanks. See you then." I hung up the phone. My heart was racing.

What the hell are you smiling at?

***

I'd spent the days leading up to Tuesday trying to keep myself distracted--shopping at the Roosevelt Field Mall, trying on outfit after outfit (nothing, and I mean
nothing
looked good on me--I did not have a body for summer clothes), going to Jones Beach and drenching myself in sunblock for fear of getting a blistery sunburn and showing up to Junior's with a face akin to bubble wrap, and even going out to lunch with my mother one day, which goes to show how anxious I really was, although I said nothing to her about it--even Maggie didn't know about this meeting.

The smell of baked goods and coffee wafted through my nostrils as I flung open the door to Junior's. Located two blocks down and around the corner from the Brooklyn U campus, Junior's Restaurant was a New York icon, as familiar to Brooklynites as the BrooklynBridge, or Ebbet's Field once upon a time. Its autumn colored decor offset by black and white photos of the city was inviting enough, but the cheesecake--oh, the cheesecake! When restaurants in Massachusetts touted their "New York cheesecake," I knew they were hoping, praying that it might be worthy enough to be as tasty as a Junior's cheesecake left on someone's fork (and how there could be any trace of leftover Junior's cheesecake on someone's fork was beyond my comprehension). They served regular food, too, although I couldn't for the life of me remember anything on the menu. When I had first stumbled across Junior's website from which one could order a cheesecake to be shipped to just about anywhere in the country, I almost resented it, like a kid reluctant to let her friends play with her Barbie Townhouse and Corvette. Some things were meant to be coveted, savored, shared with as few people as possible. (Just so long as I was one of the included, I guessed.) Some things shouldn't be so available--you had to work for it. That way, you could appreciate it even more.

Even in the middle of the day, the place bustled with busboys, waitstaff, and patrons of all nations. As I waited to be seated and took a swig of water from the plastic bottle I always carried with me, I felt a light tap on my shoulder. I whisked around and instantly contracted the muscles of my mouth to refrain from a full-blown smile, but it was too late. The water dribbled from the side of my mouth and onto my shirt.

"Hey," I said, knowing I had already blown playing it cool. I capped and shoved the bottle into my Westford-Langley tote bag.

"Hi." He wore vintage Gap jeans and a faded midnight blue t-shirt, and his hair was tousled with pomade (and clearly Versace wasn't the only thing he looked good in). I, on the other hand, felt frumpy in light cream capris and a brown scoop-neck t-shirt, and was having a bad hair day thanks to the morning humidity.

We were seated at a booth, and without looking at a menu, I ordered a slice of plain cheesecake, my mouth already salivating for it, while he ordered coffee and rugelach. At first we made small talk.

"So, how long have you been back to New York?" he asked me.