“What’s the coffee for?”
“It’s a diversion. You’ll look weird standing around with nothingin your hands.”
There’s a pause while Alex blinks those long, black lashes. “You’re like James Bond. I feel like your Moneypenny.”
I smooth the front of my dress again. It’s a dark green shirt dress with tiny gray arrows printed all over it. I’ve got on a skinny, pale pink belt that matches my shoes. I’m no one’s James Bond, but Alex does make me feel like I’m wearing everything that’s on the inside of myself—all my weird, imagination-brain thoughts—right on the outside. Right wherehe can see it.
“Moneypenny would’ve been the one giving the directions, probably,” I say, and his low chuckle is like fireworks in my bloodstream. “Just look casual. Relaxed.”Groan. I’m pretty sure I wince. “I wasn’t referring to your—thing. I only meant you should look like this was part of yourday all along.”
“No problem. There are currently no other parts of my day.”
“Right.”Restless, he’d said, but you’d never know he’s struggling now, the way he stands there. I don’t suppose I’ll ever really be able to see what’s on the inside of him, not completely. I don’t suppose he stays anywhere long enough for that to happen. “Wish meluck, I guess.”
He smiles at me, a closed-lipped, crooked thing, the lines around his eyes somehow deeper as he watches me. Iwait and wait.
But he doesn’t wish me anything before I go.
* * * *
Peter Hiltunen is definitely what I would categorize as a “cool prof,” quotations and abbreviation an essential part of the moniker. He’s got a reddish brown beard that he’s manicured into a slight point at the chin, a pair of unrimmed, sharply rectangular glasses, and one of those tiny-print plaid dress shirts that every man who’s ever hit on me at Betty’s is always wearing. His office is also minimalist in the way that makes a point, the way that suggests he’s not the kind of plebeian to have problems figuring out where to put an extension cord. I’m sitting in a red plastic chair that seems like it’s modeled on an internal organ. A kidney, maybe, or adiseased lung.
I’m also doing a really bad job of convincing him. It’s not my shyness that’s ruining this; if anything, it’s my over-preparation, my wholehearted willingness to make this case. I’d started by showing him my completed degree application, hoping to sway him with my very impressive course list; then I’d passed him a copy of my offer letter from Holy Cross, signed by Dennise and her direct superior. I’d folded my hands on top of my lap and explained that I’ve completed several of my courses in overload, independent study format, that I’m very self-directed, self-motivated. That I could meet any challenge hemight give me.
“It’s not that I don’t believe you,” he says, and my stomach gets that horrible, hollow feeling, not unlike the one I had on Friday afternoon.I’m not going to graduate.He’s already handed my paperwork back to me, but my signal cough is stuck right at the base of my throat. “It’s that I’musedto you.”
Used to me?I don’t know if I imagine it, but I hear movement outside the half-ajar door. A shuffle, maybe. I clear my throat, but hold thecough for now.
When he speaks again, his voice is slow, scolding in tone. “Listen, Greta—”
“It’s Greer.”
“Pardon?”
“It must be Greta that you’re used to. Myname’s Greer.”
“Yes, sorry. Anyways, listen. You’re not the first one to come in here thinking you can get away with forgetting about the requirement, and I’m not—”
The knock on the door is so forceful that the dooropens a little.
“Excuse me,” comes Alex’s voice, different than I’ve ever heard it before. Gruff, impatient. Also, hot in a way that makes me shift slightly in this diseased-lung chair, whichis very gross.
Professor Hiltunen stands from his own chair, pulling the door fully open, and for a second I can almost feel the shock that goes through him, a beat of stunned silence that seems to radiate off his back. “Aleksandr Averin,” he says, sticking his hand out for Alex to shake. In the frame of the doorway, Alex stands tall, one hand by his side, one hand holding two to-go cups of coffee, one stacked on top of the other. He doesn’t even look at Hiltunen.
He looks at me, top to bottom, as though he’s checking me for injuries.Only my pride,I try to tell him with my eyes.
“I met your sister once at a gallery opening we had here,” the professor continues, deftly withdrawing the hand Alex didn’t shake. “I couldn’t believe it, that we were one degree away from the likes of you. I’ve taught your photo-essay on the Arab Spring for a few semesters now. In fact I asked your sister if she’d consider—”
Alex has shifted his eyes back to Hiltunen, his expression quizzical, as though he’s just spotted a foreign object in his salad.
“I’m here for Greer.” His voice is laced with such annoyance that I don’t know how Hiltunen’s glasses don’t melt off his face.
The professor looks back over his shoulder at me, his brow lowered. Maybe he forgot Greta was here for a minute. Unsurprising, since I don’t think I’ve moved a muscle since I heard that knock.
“She’s a friend of mine,” Alex says, and I wonder where he learned to pitch his voice that way. That way that brooks no argument. That way that say it’s about to be punching time. I give him a weak smile that’s meant to be placating, calming, but it doesn’t seem to work. His fingers on that to-go cuplook strangly.
“Hi, Alex,” I say, another attempt to calm the temper that’s pulsing off him.
He moves to stand beside the chair I’m in, handing me a coffee. “Hi,” he says, almost through his teeth. “I—need to borrow your wallet?” God. He’s a terrible Moneypenny. Moneypenny never looked like she wanted to dismantle a desk withher bare hands.
