Testing Kate (11 page)

“Brutal, huh?” Nick asked.

“We’re not discussing it,” I reminded him.

“I just mean in general,” he said.

I shrugged. “It was about what I expected,” I said.

“Well, it kicked my ass,” Jen said.

“Mine too,” Addison agreed. He blew out a big puff of smoke and sighed mournfully.

“I’d seen it before,” Dana said.

“What? How?” Lexi said, staring at her.

“It was the exact same test that Professor Vega gave to his Civ Pro class a few years ago,” Dana said.

“But how did you see it?” I asked her.

“It was on file with the rest of the tests in the library. I finished going over all of Chandler’s old tests, so I started going over Vega’s,” she said.

“But that’s
cheating,
” Lexi said sharply. Her voice had a shrill edge to it.

“No, it’s not,” Addison said. “The tests are there for whoever wants to look at them. Just because Chandler was too lazy to come up with a new test doesn’t mean Dana cheated.”

Dana looked at Addison as though he’d thrown his body between her and an oncoming bus, gratitude shining in her brown eyes.

“It just doesn’t seem fair,” Lexi grumbled.

“Kate, do you need a ride home?” Nick asked suddenly.

I nodded and stood. We said good-bye to the others and then walked down toward Freret, where Nick’s car was parked.

“Lexi can be such a bitch,” Nick said, once we were out of their hearing. “You don’t accuse people of cheating like that. She’s just jealous because she didn’t think to look at the practice tests from other classes.”

“Who would, other than Dana? I didn’t get through all of Chandler’s old tests. Hell, I didn’t get through half of them.”

“I didn’t either,” Nick said. “But that’s probably why Dana’s been cruising through finals, while the rest of us look like shit.”

“Hey! Speak for yourself,” I said, hitting him lightly in the arm.

We reached Nick’s red Mini Cooper, parked on a side street.

“Why didn’t you get the Mini Cooper with the British flag painted on top of the car?” I asked, once we were settled in and Nick was maneuvering down Freret and turning right on State.

“Hmm. Don’t know. Maybe because I’m straight and American?” Nick asked.

“I’d drive one, and I’m straight and American,” I said.

“Yeah, but you’re a chick. You can get away with it,” Nick said. “Anyway, what’s up with Addison and Dana?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t think there’s anything going on. Why, is Addison interested in her?”

“Actually, I think he’s into someone else.”

“Who?”

“I can’t tell you. It would go against the Guy Code of Honor.”

“Oh, come on. You have to tell me. You know you’re incapable of keeping a secret.”

“That’s not true,” Nick said.

I leaned over and poked him in the ribs.

“Hey! Don’t do that, I’m driving,” he exclaimed.

I poked him again.

“Stop! Okay, fine, fine, I’ll tell you, just stop poking me. I think Add likes Jasmine West,” Nick said.

“Who’s that?” I asked, trying to remember. The name sounded familiar, but exams were frying my short-term memory.

“You know. She sits in the first row in Torts and raises her hand all the time? Long curly hair and rather well endowed in the, um, chest area.”

“The
Sweaty Girl
? Add has a
crush
on the
Sweaty Girl
?” I asked.

“The Sweaty Girl—why do you call her that?”

“Duh—she’s always sweaty,” I said. “Always. Every time I see her. It looks like she sprays herself down with water before class.”

“I think she just works out a lot.”

“I’ve seen her sweaty at eight in the morning,” I said.

“Women are so critical,” Nick said, with an annoyingly superior air of resignation.

“I can’t help it if I notice she has perspiration issues,” I said. “And how is that any worse than you noticing how big her boobs are?”

“Because I was just appreciating the natural beauty of the female form.”

“Ha!”

“It’s true. How burned out are you on studying?”

“So burned out, I don’t know if I’m going to make it through Crim,” I said. “And, knowing Hoffman, it’s going to be a bitch of an exam.”

“Do you want to study together? Without the others, I mean. Jen and Addison joke around too much, so I never get anything done when they’re there. And Dana’s way too prepared. Studying with her would just freak me out,” Nick said.

“And Lex?”

Nick shook his head. “No, I can’t deal with her right now. If I hear her talk about her stupid boyfriend one more time in that annoying sticky-sweet tone of voice, my head might actually explode.”

“Okay. Where do you want to study? My place or yours? Or the Rue?”

“Let’s start at the Rue tomorrow when we’re fresh, but if it gets too noisy, we’ll head back home.”

“It’s a date,” I joked, because the only thing less datelike than studying for exams would be if Nick accompanied me to my yearly gynecological exam.

The day before Hoffman’s Criminal Law final exam, a cold front came through New Orleans. Initially I dismissed how panicky the weathermen were acting, as they reminded their viewers to bring in their plants and pets, to cover their pipes, and advising that any possible school closings would be listed on the morning news.

“This is the Deep South,” I laughed scornfully, when Graham called to wish me good luck on my last exam. “How cold could it possibly get? The temperature’s barely going to dip below freezing.”

“The houses around here weren’t built to withstand the cold. I’ve seen your apartment. It isn’t exactly well insulated. Every window and door lets in a draft,” Graham said.

“At Cornell we’d be sunbathing on the middle of campus when the temperature got up into the forties. I think I’ll survive one night of thirty-two-degree temperatures,” I scoffed.

“Even so, don’t forget to put an extra blanket on your bed,” Graham advised.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “I should probably get back to work, though.”

“Okay. I’ll call you tomorrow after your test,” Graham said.

“I won’t be coming home right away. Some of us are going out to celebrate after finals are over,” I said. “I’ll call you when I get back, okay? Oh, but wait—would you do me a favor?”

“Of course.”

“Will you call me tomorrow at seven a.m.? I’m worried I’m going to oversleep,” I said. “I need a wake-up call. I know that’s, like, five your time….”

“No problem. I’m getting up early to run tomorrow anyway.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

“I have never been colder in my life,” I said, through chattering teeth.

“Are you kidding me?” Nick asked. “You used to live in Ithaca. It’s like Antarctica up there for a good six months of the year.”

It was so cold out, the Rue had closed early, so we were back in my apartment, camped out in my living room.

Unlike our other finals, which were all open-book, Hoffman had limited us to a two-page outline for the Crim exam. He wasn’t even letting us bring in scrap paper; he said that we could always take notes on the exam itself, which was ridiculous, because there was hardly any room to write, except around the margins, and no one could outline their answer in such a small space. And all the outline page restriction meant was that everyone was coming up with creative ways for shrinking their text down and reducing the margins, so as to fit all crucial information onto the two sheets. I had my outline down to a six-point font, although I had to squint to read it.

“Yes, and in Ithaca we had houses with insulation and real heating systems,” I said, looking at my window unit with disgust. It was turned on high and was about as effective as a hair dryer would be at warming the room. “I’m thinking of lighting a campfire right here in the middle of the floor. Look at this, my fingers are actually turning blue.”

“So what do you want to do?”

“I’m getting under my covers.”

“You’re done studying for the night?” Nick said.

“No. Gah. Not even close. Come with me, and bring the books. Oh, and the Doritos,” I said. I rubbed my hands together, which were becoming stiff with the cold. The frigid wind was swirling around the house, finding its way into my apartment through every last creaky floorboard and crooked windowsill. “Look at this. It’s so cold, I can actually see my breath,
inside
my apartment.”

When I got to my bedroom, which was at the front end of the apartment, I pulled open a dresser drawer and rifled through it, pulling out extra sweaters, sweatshirts, and a pashmina scarf that I could use to layer, and then I jumped into bed and pulled the comforter up around me.

“Brrrr,” I said as I waited for my body heat to fill the cold layer between the blanket and me.

“Where should I go?” Nick asked, as he came into the room with our pile of books and notebooks, a half-eaten bag of Doritos and an unopened package of Oreos resting on top of the stack.

“You can get under the covers too,” I said.

Nick’s eyebrows went up. “In bed? With you?”

“These are exigent circumstances. And besides, I have so many layers of clothes on, even if you wanted to get fresh, you wouldn’t be able to get to me,” I said.

“Is that a challenge?” he asked, leering comically. But he climbed into bed and wrapped the other half of my comforter around him.

“Okay, where were we?” I asked.

“Conspiracy and attempt,” Nick said. He ran a hand through his hair, so that the curls stood up at wonky angles. “I will never get this.”

“It’s easy,” I said. “You’re just overanalyzing. Let’s go through it again.”

I woke up to the phone ringing. Loudly. In my ear.

“What? Phone?” I mumbled incoherently.

“Are you going to answer that?” a voice asked. A male voice. More specifically: Nick’s voice.

That got my attention.

I sat up straight in bed, and everything began to click into place. We were studying for Crim. Must have fallen asleep. Oh, God, the test’s
today
. What time is it? Am I late? Where’s my clock? Seven. That’s a.m., right?

The phone rang again.

I grabbed the black cordless phone and clicked the on button.

“Hello?”

“I was starting to worry that you were sleeping through my wake-up call,” Graham said.

“Oh, right, I totally forgot,” I said, slumping back against the pillows. “I fell asleep studying, and when the phone rang, I was disoriented.”

I looked at Nick, who had pushed himself up into a sitting position and was staring at me bleary-eyed. “What happened,” he mouthed to me. I shrugged and shook my head.

“Are you awake now?” Graham asked.

“As awake as I get without having coffee,” I replied.

Nick got out of bed. A minute later, I heard him softly close the bathroom door. Without thinking it through, I covered the phone with the heel of my hand so Graham wouldn’t hear the floorboards squeaking under Nick’s feet or the sound of muffled gargling coming from the bathroom.

This is ridiculous, I thought. Why am I hiding Nick’s presence from Graham? It’s not like I was cheating on him…. Nick and I just fell asleep studying. Graham wouldn’t care; he isn’t the type of guy to blow something so trivial and harmless out of proportion.

“Are you still there?” Graham asked.

“Sorry, yeah, I’m here. It was so weird, last night—” I began.

But Graham had also started to talk at the same time. “Good luck on your test today. I love you,” he said.

“Um, yeah, you too,” I said, and then I cringed painfully. I’m not known for my witty repartee first thing in the morning.

There was an awkward pause.

“Okay, well…call me after your exam. And good luck,” Graham said.

“Thanks. I’ll talk to you later.”

“Bye.”

I pulled the covers up over my head and groaned. Did I really respond to his “I love you” with “Yeah, you too”? And I hadn’t told Graham that Nick spent the night, which meant that if I told him later, it would look like I was trying to hide something.

“Kate?”

I pulled the blanket down slightly and looked at Nick with one eye.

“Yes?” I said.

“Is everything okay?”

I nodded. “Mmm-hmm. Do you want some coffee?”

“Gallons. The Crim exam starts in two hours,” Nick said grimly. “Are you ready?”

“I guess I’m as ready as I’m going to be,” I said, swinging my legs out of the bed. It was still freezing in my apartment, and the shock of cold air slapped me awake.

Not that it cleared my thoughts, which were tumbling around my head like mismatched socks in a clothes dryer: Nick spent the night in my bed. I have to take my Criminal Law final in two hours.

This last thought made my stomach lurch. I could only guess what kind of a final exam Hoffman would dream up. I had a sudden vision of him crouched over his desk, chuckling maniacally to himself as he conjured up bizarre and terrifyingly hard hypothetical scenarios to test us on.

“You okay?” Nick asked. He frowned, concerned, and took a step closer to me.

“Coffee,” I croaked, stepping back. “I need coffee.”

Chapter Fourteen

Y
ou will have three hours to complete your Criminal Law exam. When I call time, put your pen down immediately. Anyone who continues to write after I have called time will receive a failing grade. Do I make myself clear? Good,” Hoffman barked, as he stood at the front of the lecture hall, his arms folded over his chest, looking out at the sea of tired, worried faces.

“Asshole,” Nick muttered under his breath.

“The Honor Code is absolute,” Hoffman continued. “Honor Code violations will result in expulsion. Keep that in mind before you even consider cheating. Eyes are to remain on your own papers, and you are limited to a two-page outline for this exam. All other books, notes, and papers should be stored out of sight and stay there for the remainder of the exam period.”

Once Hoffman finished issuing his list of threats and ultimatums, he finally got around to handing out the tests and blue books. I was staring down at the back of my test packet, wondering what hell was waiting inside, when Hoffman said, “Begin.”

I drew in a deep breath, flipped the test over, and began to read. The first question had to do with a woman who stabbed her husband when he walked in the front door of their house. In her interview with the police, the woman claimed that her husband had beaten her earlier that night and, before he left to go out drinking with friends, issued threats that he’d kill her when he returned home. The question directed us to list all the charges that could be brought against the woman and any possible defenses she could raise. I picked up my pen and began to write as fast as I could.

I finished the exam with time to spare. When Hoffman gave the twenty-minute warning, I’d already removed my earplugs and was in the process of checking over my answers. But I was too numb to make much sense of anything I’d written, so I finally gave up. I closed my blue book, stacked it neatly on top of the examination book, and stood up. Hoffman didn’t look up as I walked to the front of the room to hand my test in. I wasn’t the first to leave; there was already a short stack of blue books and exam papers messily piled on the folding table where Hoffman sat. I carefully added my papers to the two stacks.

It’s over, I thought, and somewhere deep inside, despite the stress and mind-numbing exhaustion of the past few weeks, happiness stirred and then bubbled up inside me. I did it: I made it through my first set of law-school exams. And I will never have to suffer through another Hoffman lecture ever again.

“Done so soon, Ms. Bennett?” Hoffman murmured.

When I looked up, I saw that he was staring at me levelly. I nodded.

“I’ll look forward to reading your exam, then,” Hoffman said, so softly, I doubted that anyone—even those sitting in the front row, still hunched over their blue books, hands scrawling wildly as they raced the clock to get every last bit of legalese crammed into their answer—could hear him.

And then Hoffman reached forward and marked the corner of my blue book with a single, tiny dot.

“What are you doing?” I asked, more loudly than I meant to. Several of my classmates looked up, bleary-eyed and irritated. Adam Keeley, who was sitting in the front row, hissed, “Shhh!”

“Did you just mark my blue book?” I whispered to Hoffman. I could feel the blood rushing to my face, my heart pumping hard and fast.

“Of course not, Ms. Bennett. The exams are graded anonymously, even you must know that,” Hoffman drawled, but the look of triumph that flashed across his face was unmistakable.

“It’s an Honor Code violation for you to know whose paper you’re grading,” I said.

“That’s right, it would be. If I did know,” Hoffman said.

I stared at him, but Hoffman had tired of me. He returned to the law journal he was reading, not looking up even as I turned and stalked out of the classroom.

“Are you sure you weren’t just seeing things?” Jen asked, raising her voice so that I could hear her over the din of the streetcar rattling up St. Charles Avenue. A large portion of our One-L class was also on board the streetcar. We were all riding uptown to a bar-slash-bowling-alley on Carrollton Avenue called the Mid-City Lanes, although it was more affectionately known as the Rock ’n’ Bowl, since it was as popular for its live music as it was for bowling.

My classmates were laughing and yelling back and forth along the length of the streetcar, so relieved to be done with exams that for once they couldn’t even muster up the energy to obsess over how their answers compared to everyone else’s. Excitement spread through the trolley car, and the stress that had been building for months exploded into an exhausted, euphoric giddiness.

I wished I could share in the fun. But every time I thought of Hoffman’s cold, victorious smile as he dotted my blue book, defeat pressed down at me. All of my hard work, all of those tedious hours spent poring over casebooks and practice exams, had been wasted. My shot at grading onto Law Review, my entire legal career even, had been torpedoed by one sadistic boil of a man.

“He put a dot on the corner of my blue book. I saw him do it,” I said for about the four hundredth time since the test ended, as I slumped back against the uncomfortable wooden seat. Jen was seated next to me, Dana and Nick were directly in front of us, and Lexi and Addison sat across the aisle from them.

“Maybe he was just screwing with you,” Jen suggested. “It’s the last time you’ll ever have him as a professor, so maybe he was just trying to get one last dig in.”

“I hope so,” I said, unconvinced. I looked down at my hands. There were blue ink splotches all over the fingertips, and my nails were jagged and raw from where I’d chewed them.

Jen nudged me and nodded to Lexi and Addison. Addison was sitting sideways on the bench, leaning back against the window, and Lexi was facing him, her head tilted coquettishly, her hand resting playfully on his knee.

“I take it she and Jacob are on the outs again?” Jen whispered into my ear, cupping her hand over her mouth like a little girl telling secrets on a school bus.

I shrugged. “I don’t know. She hasn’t said anything to me about it.”

“What are you two whispering about?” Addison asked, watching us.

“Nothing,” I said, but Jen just folded her arms and looked annoyed.

Even though it was just after lunch when we got there, the Rock ’n’ Bowl was already filling up, mostly with law students ready to blow off steam. There were bowling alleys directly ahead and a bar and stage to the side, where, Jen informed us, bands set up when they played there. Framed autographs of movie stars who’d made the pilgrimage to the Rock ’n’ Bowl were mounted on the wall: Tom Cruise, Nicole Kidman, Ashley Judd, Liv Tyler. Zydeco music blared from the ceiling-mounted speakers.

“Come on, the shoe rental is over there,” Jen said, herding our small group along.

“Shoe
rental
?” Lexi said, wrinkling her nose. She was holding on to Addison’s arm as though he were her father giving her away on her wedding day.

“Don’t worry, I’ll make sure they give you a nice, sweaty pair,” Addison teased her.

Once we’d tied the grubby laces of our rental shoes, we claimed a middle lane and started to bowl. Which, once I got into it, was actually kind of fun.

“I haven’t bowled in fifteen years, maybe more,” I said, standing up to take my turn. I selected a marbled red ball from the stand and fit my fingers into the smooth holes.

“I would never have known,” Nick deadpanned. “Your technique is so polished.”

“Hey! What’s wrong with how I bowl?”

“Nothing…but I think most pro bowlers use only one hand,” Nick said.

“That’s what I’m doing,” I protested.

“What are you talking about? You use two hands, and you start from between your legs. Like a granny,” Addison said. He stood up to demonstrate my so-called technique, spreading his legs, leaning all the way down, his butt stuck comically up in the air, and rolled an imaginary bowling ball in front of him.

“I don’t look like that when I bowl!”

“Oh, my God, that’s a perfect imitation. He looks just like you, Kate,” Jen giggled. She sipped at a cup of tepid beer, poured from the plastic pitcher we’d chipped in for at the beginning of the game.

“Dana, back me up,” I protested, but she just shook her head and shrugged.

“I’m the scorekeeper. I have to stay neutral,” she said.

Dana looked especially cute today. She was actually wearing jeans—a first for her—and an apple-green cardigan sweater buttoned over a slim-fitting white T-shirt. Her hair, freed from its barrette, fell down to her shoulders in shiny curls. Her lips were glossy, and I noticed that her eyes kept flickering over to Addison, who was, as usual, treating her like his kid sister.

“I’ve got Dana in my pocket,” Addison bragged. “I bribed her with a hot dog, so she’s throwing all of the close calls my way.”

“There are no close calls in bowling, you dork,” Jen said.

“Still, it doesn’t hurt to have the official scorekeeper on your side,” Addison said, swinging an arm around Dana’s shoulders. She giggled happily and tucked a loose curl back behind her ear.

Nick took his turn, bowled a strike, and pumped his arm in the air.

“Woo hoo! I’m still winning, right?” he said, and then sat down next to me while we watched Lexi take her turn. As in all things she did, Lexi bowled elegantly, rolling the ball with a fluid sweep of her arm. She watched her ball sail down the lane and take down four pins, and clapped happily. I turned and noticed that Nick was watching me.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

I nodded and sighed. “Yeah. I’m absolutely sure I saw Hoffman mark my paper, but I guess there’s nothing I can do about it.”

“You can go talk to Dean Sullivan again,” Nick suggested.

“Because that helped so much last time?”

We watched Addison select a black ball. He waited for the pins to reset and then took a running start, stopped suddenly, and threw his ball down the lane. When all of the pins fell with a loud clatter, he whooped.

“I am the golden god of bowling!” Addison announced, raising his hands above his head in triumph.

“This is different. Flagging your blue book is a serious violation of the Honor Code,” Nick said.

“Who do you think she’s going to believe—him or me? And before you answer, remember that I’m not the one Teresa Sullivan is crushing on,” I said.

“Thanks for that image,” Addison said, interrupting us. I hadn’t realized he’d been eavesdropping. “You and Dean Sullivan wrapped together in a passionate embrace…”

I rolled my eyes. “What is it with men and their lesbian fantasies?”

“Two great tastes that taste great together,” Addison joked.

“Add, stop being such a pig,” Jen said with disgust, although Dana giggled.

“Are you going to talk to her?” Nick asked.

“No, I am most definitely not going to talk to her,” I said, putting down my plastic cup of beer and standing up. “And it’s my turn to bowl.”

“Just think of the bowling pins as ten little Hoffmans,” Addison yelled after me.

As the afternoon wore on, the crowd at the Rock ’n’ Bowl got larger and louder. It was still predominantly law students, but our presence was gradually diluted, first by undergrads from Tulane and Loyola and then, a little later, by people getting off work wandering in for happy hour. We ate cheese fries and buffalo wings and drank beer and listened to the music, which rotated among classic rock, R&B, and zydeco. When we grew tired of bowling, we handed in our rental shoes and migrated back to the bar.

“Come on, let’s dance,” Jen said. I shook my head, but Lexi, Addison, and even Dana joined her on the dance floor. Addison danced with all three women at once, twirling them around one after another and striking poses like John Travolta in
Saturday Night Fever
.

“How long are you going to stay?” Nick asked, once he and I were alone, perched on bar stools gathered around a high table.

“I don’t know, I’m getting a little tired of being here. The smoke is hurting my eyes,” I said. “And either the music is too loud or I’m too sober.”

“Do you want to go home?”

“No, not really.” I thought that I should probably call Graham—I’d told him I would—but I also wasn’t really in the mood to do that. I felt cagey and out of sorts and not yet ready to return to the comfortable corner of my life that Graham occupied.

“Let’s go down to the Quarter,” Nick suggested.

“Now?”

“Why not? We don’t have anywhere else we have to be.”

“Okay. I’ll get the others,” I said, but Nick shook his head, grabbed my hand, and started to pull me toward the exit.

“We’re just going to leave without saying anything to them?” I asked.

“Yes, we are. Because otherwise they might come with us, and I’ve had about enough of the love quadrangle,” Nick said.

“Love quadrangle?” I frowned, trying to figure out what he was talking about.

“Dana, Lexi, Jen, and Addison,” Nick said, as though it explained everything.

I looked at him quizzically and then shrugged, shaking my head.

“Dana has a crush on Addison, and Lexi’s flirting with him, probably because Jacob’s not here and she’s feeling put out by his absence,” I said. “How does Jen fit in?”

“I think she’s into Addison too,” Nick said.

“Jen?” I was incredulous. “But she’s married.”

“Even so,” Nick said, shrugging. I glanced back at the dancers, but the rest of our study group were still gyrating to the techno beat of “Everybody Dance Now,” which had incongruously followed the rock anthem “Love the One You’re With.” I followed Nick out the door and down the stairs, and a moment later we were out in the bright, chilly late afternoon.

With the afternoon rush-hour traffic clogging St. Charles Avenue, the streetcar ride down to the Quarter took over an hour. By the time we got to Bourbon Street, the sky was darkening and the brilliant lights from the bars lining each side of the street were spilling out, illuminating our way as we walked. Bourbon Street was closed to car traffic, so Nick and I walked right down the center of the street, careful not to step in the puddles of vomit that wouldn’t be hosed off until the morning. The music changed from bar to bar—pop, jazz, more zydeco—but it was all loud. The strip clubs featured photos of their women—or, in some cases, men in drag—and were guarded by bored bouncers with thick necks and arms like ham hocks. It was a Thursday evening, but the streets were already crowded, mainly with tourists sporting garlands of Mardi Gras beads around their necks, even though Fat Tuesday was still over two months away. In the Quarter, every night is Mardi Gras and New Year’s Eve all rolled into one.