Love and Other Foreign Words (13 page)

Researchers have long studied the possibility of love at first sight. One engrossing article I find online describes how researchers observed the initial introduction of two study participants, Cedric and Adeline, and concluded, given the couple's subsequent courtship, that they had fallen in love with each other in the first three minutes of meeting. Adeline before Cedric. It is only when I reach the end of the article that I discover Cedric and Adeline are orangutans, but the author of the study wrote at length about this phenomenon
possibly
applying to humans too. (Also to peacocks and beavers.)

Apparently, the potential for love at first sight is hardwired into brain circuitry and occurs when we first lay eyes on someone who corresponds with our idea of the Pperfect Person.

I read a few more articles before climbing into bed and falling asleep on the thought that, according to research, it is entirely likely that I fell in love today. I'm fairly certain I fall asleep smiling, since everything I read tonight makes Pperfect Sense.

Text from Stu, 7:33 a.m.

No.

Text from Sophie, 7:33 a.m.

Yes. Y?!

Text from Jen, 7:33 a.m.

OMG yes!!!!!

Text from Emmy, 7:33 a.m.

Not since my mom's third divorce.

They're all responding to this text I just sent them:

Do you believe in love at first sight?

I text them all back:

Just wondering about an article I read last night.

• • •

Thursday afternoon, Mrs. Easterday and I have tea and shortbread cookies on her porch, which she calls Mr. Easterday's Room. It was his favorite. She keeps his monogrammed desk set exactly as he left it.

I ask her the same question, and she says, “Oh, heavens, no. I didn't like Mr. Easterday at all when I first met him.”

“You didn't?” I can't help grinning when she speaks of him. She reminds me of Jen Auerbach, but in a much more dignified way. Her lips don't produce an actual smile, but her entire face seems to whenever she mentions her husband.

“Oh, not at all. I thought he was a show-off,” she says.

“What changed?”

“Nothing changed,” she says, sounding surprised at the question. “I just got to know him better.” She beams at a nearby black-and-white photo of him in a naval uniform. “And I'm so glad I did. Think of what I'd have missed if I had trusted my first impression.”

“What if your first impression had been good?” I ask. “Would you have trusted it then?”

“After teaching children for twenty years, Josie, I have learned to withhold my opinion until I get to know the person better. Sometimes my first impression was right. And sometimes it was wrong. You can never tell.”

“Oh,” I say, and trace my finger in the capital
E
embossed in black leather on Mr. Easterday's old desk pad.

• • •

I text Stu as I walk home across Mrs. Easterday's yard:

Are there days when you find life terribly confusing?

Text from Stu, 5:18 p.m.

Only when I have a girlfriend.

Text to Stu, 5:19 p.m.

That actually makes sense to me now.

Text from Stu, 5:20 p.m.

Who's the guy?

Text to Stu, 5:20 p.m.

There isn't 1. But there could be.

“Eventually,” I say quietly, and expel a long, slow, confused breath I'm certain is in the shape of an embossed
E
.

• • •

On Friday, Ethan looks at
me
throughout the lecture, which he calls “getting the dry stuff out of the way.” I take copious notes on the history of sociolinguistics and its origins in three separate disciplines—sociology, linguistics, and anthropology—and nod periodically so that he knows I find him and this subject fascinating.

He's an excellent lecturer. Doesn't use notes, which means he knows this topic, which means it's important to him, which is one more thing we have in common.

Next week, we're going to start our semester-long Language Variation Project. From then until the end of the semester, we're going to be collecting units of speech—a word or phrase—used by different individuals to mean different things. Take the phrase
cool
or
that's
cool,
for example, which Stefan, who won't even look at me in the halls now, says, or said, all the time. Depending on how, when, and where, it has meant:

1. That's really interesting.

2. I approve or like that.

3. I've never heard or seen that before.

4. I guess I don't mind.

After we log thirty examples of our chosen phrase, or at the end of ten weeks—whichever comes first—we'll look for common patterns of usage by sex, age, location, things like this, and write a final paper about it. Some of the other people in the class complained about having to collect thirty examples, but I'm not worried, given the number of different social groups, complete with distinct languages, I interact with. I actually think this is going to be a breeze and wish I could write more than one paper on it.

• • •

Kate meets me at the breakfast table every day this week so far, including Monday, which was Labor Day, when I didn't have the excuse of school to get me away from her, so I spent much of the morning with Mrs. Easterday. Here Kate is again on Wednesday, sipping coffee and waiting patiently while I perform my breakfast routine.

For the past two days, she attempted to engage me in conversations about the news, and I answered as politely as possible.
Hmm
. Since she speaks fluent Josie, she knows not to push me just yet for elaboration.

Today, she says, “Josie, you can't still be mad at me. I told you I'm sorry. What more can I say?”

“How can I ever trust you with anything important if you're going to blab everything I tell you to Geoff?”

“I won't. I promise. From now on, when you tell me not to, I won't.”

“I don't like that I have to tell you. You should know that. What's happened to you?”

“Nothing's happened, Josie. I just wanted to share your happy news with the person I love most in the world. I won't do it again without your permission.”

“Maybe,” I say, and leave the house sick with an inchoate misery.

• • •

Ethan ends the class with, “Okay, that's enough about speech communities for today,” and, as usual, people hang around afterward, talking. Not Stu, who is hungry and says he'll wait for me outside Fair Grounds. I linger, collecting my books slowly, hoping to time my exit from the classroom with Ethan's, when I hear Samantha mention Styx.

“What do they sing that I'd know?” she asks.

“‘Lady.' ‘Babe.' ‘Come Sail Away,'” Ethan says, but she shakes her head to each title.

“‘Mr. Roboto,'” I say.

“Oh, right,” she says, and Mr. Football adds, “That's so random. I love it.”

And I actually hear myself mentally translating this phrase—“
so random” equals good; this is good
—which I've translated a hundred times before, at least. It's particularly popular here on campus but not unique to my mother tongue. I make translations like this all day, every day, but lately, for some reason, I'm more aware of the shift.

The general agreement then is that “Mr. Roboto,” I say, quoting Mr. Football, rocks.

I join the group on their way out, and we all talk about music but not necessarily about Styx anymore. Not until I suddenly find myself alone with Ethan, walking away from campus.

“Going my way?” he asks.

“Looks like it,” I say.

“So let me ask you something, Josie. How did you end up a senior at fifteen?”

“Well, I'm almost sixteen,” I say. “October third. That's a Friday this year. Mark it on your calendar and shop now for best deals.”

“Send me a wish-list.”

“I'll do that. But I skipped second grade.”

“I skipped third,” he says. “And Stu?”

“Stu's seventeen. Never skipped anything. Including a meal.”

“You two seem really close,” he says. “You and he are . . . going out?”

“Stu and I? No.” I look ahead in the distance at nothing, trying to appear and sound casual when I say, “Neither of us is going out with anyone at the moment.”

He responds with a cheery nod I cannot interpret.

We have come to the corner, where we wait for the light. Down the block we see Stu standing outside of Fair Grounds, eating a muffin the size of a softball. It's probably his second one.

“So I'm told there's a better coffee shop down here than the one back on campus,” Ethan says.

“Fair Grounds,” I say, pointing. “That's where Stu is. That's where I'm going.”

“Mind if I tag along?”

“I don't mind. We come here every day after class.”

“You shouldn't have said that. You'll get sick of seeing me.”

“I doubt it.”

“That's sweet.”

Light turns. We cross, and once again I feel that force—that rush of energy—I felt last Wednesday, and now, walking so close next to him, I want to ask him if he feels it too. But it seems a little early in our burgeoning relationship to discuss the physical phenomena of love or the research behind love at first sight, so I decide to wait.

We will have endless conversations about it and other things eventually. I hope.

“So what's your favorite Styx song?” he asks.

“I fell in love with them over
‘The Best of Times
.
'
First song of theirs I ever heard.”

“Love at first listen?” he asks playfully.

“Exactly,” I say. “And my devotion has never waned. What's your favorite?”

“Oh, I'd have to say ‘Lorelei,'” he says, and, oh, I wish my name were Lorelei.

When I think of Lorelei,

my head turns all around.

As gentle as a butterfly,

she moves without a sound
.

“So I imagine there aren't a lot of Styx fans at your school,” Ethan says.

“Are you suggesting there is no universal appeal of the greatest musical talent of all time?” I ask.

“No. It's just an, um, unusual thing to find a fan of theirs under thirty.”

“It's funny you say that because the joke in my family is that I'm going on thirty.”

“I can see that. So I imagine all your tastes run in that direction. Different from your friends. Older, maybe?”

“Some. Okay, many. But they stop short of sensible shoes. Although, I do see the value of sensible shoes. I just don't own any. Yet.”

“So let me ask you, Josie. Given the choice between the coolest party on Friday night or, say—”

“Making fudge with my eighty-one-year-old neighbor?”

“Yes.”

“I'd rather make fudge with Mrs. Easterday,” I say. “She and I have a really nice connection. We have great conversations.”

“Easterday?”

“It's a great name, isn't it? But I go to the parties too. I just don't feel as comfortable there as I do with Mrs. Easterday.”

“What don't you like about the parties?” he asks.

“They're okay for a little while, but then I've had enough. Enough noise, enough shouting, enough drunks, enough being bumped into, enough everything, and I
have
to leave.”

“Ah!” he says, appearing happy and excited by the thought. “Let me ask you. If a shirt has a tag or knot—”

“I can't wear it.”

“And what about strange noises? Not loud but strange and repetitive?”

“Can't be near them.”

“Sensual Overexcitability.”

“Exactly,” I say.

Sensual Overexcitability is a term coined by a Polish psychologist who performed some of the first large studies with gifted kids. He found that people with very high IQs profoundly overreact to certain sensual input—lights, noises, smells, textures—to the point, at times, of impaired functioning.

“You are the only other person I've ever met who knows what this is,” Ethan says, and I don't tell him that Stu does too. We're quiet for a few more steps before he says, “I think we may be a lot alike, Josie. If you ever want to talk to someone who's been there, my door is always open.”

“Really? Thanks.”

“Anytime. I'm serious. I know how rare it is to meet people who can understand where you are and what you're going through. Rare and important.”

People who speak the same language,
I want to say, but say this instead: “It is.”

Then he nods contentedly, or so he seems to.

We meet up just then with Stu, who asks Ethan, “So how do you like Cap after a week?”

“Yeah, I like it.” He looks right at me and turns my ears hot with: “The people are sweet, easy to talk to, and have excellent taste in music.”