Love and Other Foreign Words (20 page)

Peripherally, I see a smile grow gorgeously across Kate's face—the kind of smile that usually precedes a bit of wicked laughter, but Kate exercises impressive control and just basks in satisfaction.

“Instructor? Ethan Glaser?” she asks, then directs her eyes at me for a second, just long enough to tacitly harass me.

“Ethan,” he says, and they shake hands as Kate invites him in.

I still haven't moved. Can't seem to move anything but my head, enough to watch Ethan step inside and extend my purse to me.

“Josie, you left this in class this morning. I'm sorry. I haven't had a chance to get it here sooner.”

“Uh-huh,” comes out of my mouth, and I manage to raise one arm to take my purse from him.

“‘Thank you,' Josie would say if she hadn't just woken up,” Kate says.

“Long day?” Ethan asks me. “You did seem a little tired in class this morning.”

“Uh-huh.” I clear my throat. “Uh—yes.”

“I don't want to keep you,” Ethan says. “I've probably interrupted dinner.”

“Ladies, what's going on out here?” my dad asks, entering the hall from the kitchen. “Oh, excuse me. I didn't know you were expecting company. Hugh Sheridan,” he says, reaching to shake Ethan's hand.

“Ethan Glaser.”

“Ethan is Josie's sociology instructor at Cap,” Kate says.

“Ah. Josie talks about your class all the time,” Dad says. “I know she enjoys it.”

“Thank you. I enjoy her insights.”

“What brings you here, Ethan?”

He explains. Then Dad asks, “Ethan, have you ever seen an authentic eighteenth-century barber bowl?”

“No, I haven't,” Ethan says, and that's when Kate leans close to him—she puts her hand right on his arm—and she whispers, “It's a blood-letting bowl.”

“Is it? I'd love to see one,” Ethan says, and my dad brightens.

“Well, then you have returned a purse to the right house,” Dad says, leading Ethan—one hand on his back—to his study for the medical antiques tour.

Kate follows, intentionally bumping me with her elbow as she passes, and whispers, “We'll talk later.”

In perfect synchrony, we narrow our eyes at each other, but Kate wins the contest by adding that fiendish grin to her gaze.

Then I bolt—BOLT—up the stairs.

In record time, I wash my face, apply what little makeup I own—eyeliner and mascara, concealer, and note to self: Thank Sophie for showing me how to use this—re-comb my hair and secure it with a black band that matches the black T-shirt I scramble into. And just before rushing downstairs again, I grab my new padded bra and pause long enough to consider donning it. Hold it up. Stand sideways.

Maybe.

Oh, forget it.

I toss the thing back into my underwear drawer and stroll down the front staircase as if Ethan's arrival were both routine and insignificant. But he is gone. I lean into Dad's study and smell the light remnants of Ethan's cologne lingering in the air, but apparently I have missed him. The house is quiet, and I find myself relaxing neck and jaw muscles I had unintentionally flexed.

In the kitchen, I find Mother chopping an onion, which promptly obliterates the memory of Ethan's sweet scent from my mind.

“Need help?” I ask

“You could keep me company,” she says, and I hop up on one of the bar stools at the far end of the room.

I start spinning slowly, soothed by the repetitive, near-hypnotic motion.

“You were awfully tired today,” Mother says. “Do you feel okay?”

“I was up late. Too late.”

“Doing what?”

“Contemplating,” I say.

“Anything you'd like to share with me?”

“The complexities of all relationships on Earth.”

I start pushing myself a little faster.

“That
would
keep one up late,” Mother says, and I catch a glimpse of her smiling at me as I zip round and round on the stool. “Which particular relationships do you find most vexing?”

“Ethan Glaser,” Kate says as she enters the kitchen by the back stairs, with Ethan and Dad following. “This is my mother . . .”

Er . . .
crash!

That would be me, falling off the barstool as the introductions are made.

“You know my daughter, of course,” Mother says, one hand gesturing to the twisted mess of me on the floor.

Dad leans close to Ethan and adds a somber, “We normally don't mention it in public, but she
is
gifted, you know.” To me he calls, “How's the floor routine coming?”

“The dismount's not exactly where I want it yet,” I say, rising, brushing myself off, ignoring the raging embarrassment that I'm certain has turned my face scarlet. I can't even tell if I've hurt anything.

“Well, the dismount is the hardest part,” Dad says as Ethan asks if I'm okay.

“Yes, thank you. Clumsy and mortified, but fine,” and as I gather my limbs and thoughts, I miss some important exchange, because when I turn my attention back to the other end of the kitchen, Mother, Dad, and Kate are drinking wine with Ethan. Drinking wine and talking. Drinking wine, talking, and laughing. And, wait, when did Geoff get here, and how can anyone be that entertained in his presence when all the man can talk about is ticks?

I wander to the sink and busy myself pouring a glass of water. As I sip, I try to find a contextual handle in their conversation, something I can grasp and process that will allow me entry. But nothing makes sense. Geoff and Ethan speak quickly, their voices rising, rising, then laughter. Dad says something about Chicago, adds a sweeping gesture, then more loud, happy chatter. Kate says, “And there I am . . .” And Geoff joins her to say, in two-part harmony, something that sounds like, “no kings mettle in thespian tea.” And over the roar of laughter, I nervously sip water, stunned and perplexed that the five of them are speaking a language I do not know. Stunned, perplexed, and irritated. I do not like this one little bit.

My shock turns to abject panic when I hear Kate ask Ethan, “Are you seeing anyone? I have a friend you would love.”

And suddenly Madison Orr is on the phone and a foursome date is arranged for the upcoming weekend, and I'm at the door, shaking Ethan's hand as he leaves and offers me this benediction:

“See you Friday in class, Josie.”

• • •

After the blur that is dinner, I walk almost robotically to my room, lower myself onto my bed, and direct my eyes to the abstraction of the floor. There, I replay, with wretched accuracy, the alien conversation from earlier—the one involving Mother, Dad, Geoff, Kate, and Ethan. The adults. I swallow hard. Everyone but me.

The words were familiar, but the rhythm felt foreign. And the gestures. And the laughing. In that way. It seemed as if it were the language of a private club I was not asked to join.

“Oh, for G-d's sake, Josie,” Kate says as she walks in, scaring me into jumping up quickly and snapping at her, “Don't you ever knock?”

She shuts the door behind her.

“He is twenty-six years old,” she says.

“So?”

“He's too old for you.”

“Now, yeah. In a few years he won't be.”

“Josie, come on.”

“No, you come on. You know how I feel about him, but there in front of me you set him up with Madison.”

“Madison is his age. My age. Our age.”

“It was cruel, no matter how old you are.”

“Josie, enough.”

“Four weeks ago you completely understood how I feel. We talked about it right here in this room.”

“Four weeks ago I thought you were talking about a college kid.”

“Four weeks ago the only thing that was different was that you didn't know Ethan's age. Nothing else has changed.” Kate puffs out a laugh, and my face flushes hot. “How can you stand there laughing at me?”

“Because it's funny, Josie.”

“I can't believe you're saying that.”

Again, that puff—that dismissive, airy kind of smirk.

“You have a crush on your teacher,” she says.

“It's more than that.”

“It's a crush.”
Puff.
“Ross, Dennis DeYoung, Ethan Glaser.” She ticks them off on her fingers. “Crushes all.”

“Yeah, maybe Ross and Dennis. But how do you know I'm not in love with Ethan? Why is this one a crush? Why isn't this one different?”

“Okay. Then tell me what love is.”

“It's—
uh
.” Now it's my turn to puff.

“It's a crush. Frame his picture and put it there,” she says, pointing to Dennis DeYoung on my desk. “And I love it. Because it makes you just like everyone else. And trust me,” she says as she walks to the door. “It makes that letter you wrote even more valuable for the
darlingness
factor. Think global embarrassment.”

“Uh!” I say after she closes the door, and it's a full-body
uh
! Jaw and fists clenched, shoulders shuddering. Then I act. Within seconds I take my seat at my desk, bring up her wedding photographer's site, hack into her account on the third attempt at her half-witted password—kate&geoffbrill—and upload
Queen Kate on the Throne
in the file that reads
Reception Slide Show
.

Emotionally paralyzed somewhere between rage and satisfaction, sadness and determination, embarrassment and confidence, I look across the room at my journal. But I make no movement toward it.

Its very existence irritates me more than sounds and smells and seams and bugs, and if it actually started speaking to me—
“Jooosieee. Jooosieee. Here I aaa-aam. Come and tell me every scrumptious detail about your disconnected little life”
—I would not be surprised.

I think my mother finds me distracted lately and wants to ask but doesn't, which I appreciate. I'll tell her everything—almost everything—once I'm ready, once I've worked out what I want to say and how to say it. Couple years from now. Or maybe never.

Did I just say disconnected? Oh. No, my journal did. My word was distracted.

Finally, I open it up and write:

Wednesday October 15, 8:17 p.m.

What is the nature of love?

I don't answer. I want my journal to do it for me.

When I enter class Friday morning, Ethan greets me with a smile, emphasized by raised eyebrows that seem pleased to say
I've been to your house now and know where you live
. Two days ago I would have thrilled—maybe even swooned—over this confirmation of intimacy. It is intimate, after all, when two people share knowledge or history or even jokes that few if any others are in on. Or speak a language all their own. But today I do not thrill or swoon. Today, I shrink—collapsing inward on myself, or wanting to, anyway.

I smile back briefly, politely.

“You okay?” Stu asks, leaning over a little.

“Yes. Why?”

“You look like you're about to dissect a fetal pig.”

“Don't you think if I were about to dissect a fetal pig, I'd be vomiting about now?”

“How do you know I wasn't suggesting you look like you're about to vomit?”

“
Are
you suggesting I look like I'm about to vomit?”

“No. Bad but entertaining metaphor. Let's start again. You okay?”

“Yes,” I say, trying not to smile, which always amuses Stu. “Why?”

“You look like you just realized you're not wearing pants.”

“You honestly think I could get this far from home before realizing I'm not wearing pants?”

“No, I don't. That's the irony. That's why I had to ask if you're okay.”

I concede my thanks with a smile he shares as I say, “I'm fine, thanks.”

• • •

Class begins. For the first few minutes, I take unnecessary notes just for someplace to put my eyes other than on—I gulp—my teacher. When I finally hazard a glance, I see him as I've always seen him—handsome, bright, perfect. And today, handsome, bright, and perfect turn me small, pink, and miserable.

“Think about it,” Ethan says to the class. “If I stood here not speaking but merely handed you copies of my lecture and demanded that all questions and answers be submitted in writing, every one of you would drop this class. It would be weird. A weird relationship. Awkward.”

I nod.

“Language transcends awkwardness,” he says. “Now think about the number of times I've seen you guys outside of class. We've talked. Right?”

To my left and right, lots of heads are nodding. Lots. Wait—lots?

“I didn't just walk up to you guys and stand there without saying anything. Or walk with you without saying anything,” he says, and a couple people in the class laugh. “Yeah. Too weird,” he says. “No, we talk. Mostly about neutral subjects. Safe subjects as we get to know each other. That's one of the functions of language. It contributes to civility and to a sense of polite comfort between strangers. It fills awkward silence.”

I leave. Get up and leave. It happens in class. No drama. Nature calls in most cases but not in mine. Not today. My face is hot; my heart is pounding; my stomach is trying to turn itself inside out. I mentally tick off the possible causes:

massive coronary

delayed anaphylaxis

slowly bursting cerebral aneurysm

hot flashes

This is serious.

In the ladies' bathroom, I pull my phone out of my pocket.

Text to Mother, 9:17 a.m.

I think I'm having a cerebral aneurysm.

Text from Mother, 9:18 a.m.

No you're not.

Text to Mother, 9:18 a.m.

I can feel it swelling.

Text from Mother, 9:19 a.m.

No you can't.

I click my phone off, return it to my pocket, and avoid my reflection while I wash my hands and splash a little water on my face. If not an aneurysm, heart attack, allergic reaction, or early onset menopause, I can be in the midst of only one life-threatening condition: global embarrassment.

Back in class, Ethan's presence—his handsome, bright, perfect presence upon which all eyes and ears are directed—forces me to confront three painful questions that lead in only one mortifying direction.

What if Kate is right?

What if this is a crush?

How could I have mistranslated my feelings so profoundly?

• • •

What is the nature of love?

There must be a way to figure this out.

I contemplate the possible formulae lying on Stu's bed, staring at the ceiling but seeing only
x
's and
y
's and parentheses and question marks. Stu lies next to me and joins me in my ceiling-ward gaze.

“It's a good question,” he says. “I have absolutely no idea how to answer it.”

“You have a ton of experience,” I say.

“That's what you keep telling me.”

“Hey—” Sophie enters the room. “What are you guys doing now?”

“Interpretive dance,” Stu says, and raises his left leg and right arm toward the ceiling for a couple seconds.

“We're contemplating the nature of love,” I say as Sophie lies on the bed next to me.

“
You're
contemplating. I'm practicing my routine,” Stu says.

“Who wants to know about love?” she asks.

“I do,” I say.

“Really?” she asks. “You're not thinking about Stefan again, are you?”

“No,” I say.

“Is there someone else?”

“No.”
Not anymore,
I want to say. Maybe. I don't know. “No. I thought I was ready to be in love, but now I'm not even sure what it is. Plus, I figure that if I understand precisely how it feels, how it looks, how it sounds, how it acts, and why it's different from liking, from liking a lot, even from hooking up, then I'll be able to understand Kate better.” And by
Kate,
I mean myself.

It's been over a week since Ethan showed up at my house with my purse and spoke Ethan with my family. Since then I've walked with him three times to Fair Grounds. Along the way we talked, or so I thought. I talked. This time I also listened. He asked questions—about me, about class, about music, about volleyball, about high school, about Cap, about my family. Music. School. Pastimes. All these weeks I have failed to notice that while I was speaking fluent Josie to Ethan, he was merely transcending the awkwardness of silence with me. Geoff tried that with me the night we met but with much less success.

After school this afternoon, I wrote this in my journal:

Friday, October 17

Ethan has a good rapport with adolescents.

“I've been telling you for months that Kate
is
in love,” Sophie says to me there on Stu's bed.

“How do you know?” I ask.

“She's getting married.”

“But you can't point to marriage as proof of love, since so many marriages end in divorce.”

“You can fall out of love,” she says. “I've done it like nine times.”

“Well, then why do some people fall out of love while others stay in love for life?”

“I have no idea, Josie. You're making my head swim.”

“But it's in the shallow end, so you won't drown,” Stu says, and Sophie reaches across me to slap her brother's arm.

“I thought the two of you would be more helpful,” I say.

“Nope,” Stu says, getting up and settling in at his keyboard. “I am no help at all, having no experience of it myself.”

“He's so in denial,” Sophie says to me. “You know he's going to homecoming with Jen Auerbach.”

I prop myself up on my elbows to ask, “You are?”

“Yeah,” he says, and plays a few, quiet chords.

“Composing a song for her too?” I ask.

“A looooove song,” Sophie teases.

“I would, but I no longer know what the nature of love is thanks to Josie's questions and
your
answers,” he says.

“So you admit you did understand its nature until this moment,” I say, and he merely shakes his head at me as he plays the first four chords of the Hallelujah chorus.

“No, he admits you're both over-thinking it,” Sophie says. “You can't over-think love, Josie.”

“Well, how are you defining over-thinking?”

“Oh, you're impossible,” she says, and marches out of the room.

This
is impossible, I tell myself, and lie back for a better view of Stu's ceiling.

“So Jen? And homecoming?” I ask.

“Yep.”

“You realize she's all wrong for you,” I say.

“I thought I was wrong for her by your account.”

“You are.”

“So don't two negatives make a positive?” he asks.

“I'm not entirely sure there
is
a formula for this,” I say. But I wish there were. I would have followed it, plugging in all my data for
x
and all of Ethan's for
y
. And I would have worked out the results before involving my emotions, and I wouldn't feel as I feel now—like I've been dumped for real by an imaginary guy.