He smelled like cinnamon.
“Good. You?”
“I'm good.”
My tone was formal, but my smile was warm. At least, I hoped it was.
“So, do you go to school here?” he asked. “Or you just work here?”
“Both.”
“Me, too. What year are you?”
“I hope this is my last year. How 'bout you?”
He was still beaming, but the smile was not so broad anymore.
“This is my first year here,” he said. “I transferred from a junior college in the valley, so technically I'm a sophomore.”
“Oh. What's your major?”
“Psychology.”
Now I was curious.
“Really? What do you plan to do with your degree?”
“Run group homes.”
“Oh.”
“Not just any group homes. Ones that help prepare young men for life and for success. I don't want to do it for the money only. A lot of people open group homes with a vision, and then they end up losing the vision and focusing on profit, instead.” When he spoke, his hands carved the air, accenting his words, and his eyes lit up.
“What's your major?” he asked.
“Same as yours,” I said. “Psychology.”
“Interesting,” he said. “I guess I'll be seeing you in some classes, then.”
“Probably not. I've already taken most of my required courses.”
“I'm gonna turn your question around on you. What do you plan to do with
your
degree?” he asked.
He seemed genuinely interested, but I was at work and didn't want the conversation to get too personal. Just then, Professor Alexander walked by.
“Well,” I said to the mail clerk in a more hushed tone, “I had thought about employment therapy and counseling. But I'm not so sure anymore. It seems like the closer I get to finishing, the less sure I become about what I wanna do.” I was surprised at how honest and open I was being with him.
“Okay, wow,” he said. “That's good.” He gave me another one of his patented smiles. “Is it cool working in this office?” he asked. “I actually applied for a position here recently, but I heard somebody beat me to it.”
I frowned. “Yeah,” I said, “we just recently got somebody to work in the afternoons. It's okay working here. Not a lot of stress, and the professors are nice.”
There were a few seconds of silence. Then he smiled, tapped the top of my desk, and turned to leave. “I'll let you get back to work,” he said. “I guess I'll see you around.”
“Maybe.” I smiled again.
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure.”
“What's your name?”
“Aaah, finally. That's the first question you should have asked,” I said with a grin.
He smiled.
“Anaya Goode,” I said, reaching out to shake his hand.
“Well, it was nice meeting you, Anaya Goode. You have a nice day.”
“Are you gonna tell me your name?”
He had gotten cuter and cuter as the conversation had progressed.
“Carl.”
“Just, Carl, huh? Well, it was nice meeting you, too, Carl with-no-last-name.”
“See ya,” he said, and left.
No lunch invitation, no last name. It had been a while since I had been on a date, and even though I wasn't looking for a boyfriend, it would have been nice to at least be
invited
on a date. I turned to look in the mirror to see if something in my teeth had precluded a potential invitation. Nothing.
“Hey!”
I looked up, and Carl was back, smiling. I didn't respond because I had a fingernail stuck between my teeth.
How embarrassing!
I quickly dropped my finger.
“Would you like to have lunch with me sometime this week, Ms. Goode?”
“That might be nice.”
He walked over and handed me a piece of paper with his phone number and e-mail address written on it. He had a nice little swag in his walk.
“Holla at me, Ms. Goode,” he invited.
I smiled. There's no shame in admitting that I needed a little dating action. I'm also not ashamed to say that Carl with-no-last-name might have been just what I needed to get my groove back.
This time I'm gonna be cool
, I promised myself.
Just enjoy
dating and have a little fun.
I think Mom was right when she extended my therapy with Judy. I have always been an intense thinker. People often respond to something I say with “I never thought about it like that.” Or, “I hadn't thought about that at all.” I certainly picked the right major. I love delving into other people's minds and thoughts and trying to figure out why they react or don't react the way they do. So I'm easily drawn into the daily problems of my friends and family. But at the same time, I am unsure of where my own life should be headed.
Because I was in my last year as a psychology major, all of my classes were related to psychologyâparticularly female-related issues. My favorite class had been “Women in the Workforce.” Recently, we discussed the typical woman who worked a day job and then had to go to her “home job.” I was sure that I didn't want to get stuck in that trap.
Through the psychology department, there were lots of opportunities to train under licensed therapists. Even though getting such an internship position was highly competitive, I was sure I could get one. But I didn't apply, because those therapists were mainly helping rich married women who were bored with their housework. I didn't want to do that kind of therapy.
I wanted to do worthwhile therapy. I wanted to reach out to children who didn't understand why their moms were unable to care for them because of some addiction. I wanted to listen to young girls who had been abused or neglected and couldn't understand why they were unable to find happiness anywhere. I believe we were all put here for a purpose, and my purpose was to hear the hearts and minds of those kids no one else has time to listen to. Talking is not therapy. Being
heard
is therapy.
I went to the student lounge for lunch. Normally, I brought food to the office, but every once in a while I liked to sit in the lounge and watch the other students. Sitting down at one of the tables that faced a TV set, I watched music videos as I ate my salad.
Wanting to get a little more comfortable, I decided to go into the faculty lounge, which was right next door. It wasn't officially open to students, but some of us who worked in the faculty offices had a key. I was one of the lucky few.
“Hi, Anaya!” a familiar voice greeted me.
“Hey, Professor Alexander,” I replied. “I never see you in here.”
“Well, I'm normally too busy for lunch, but today I needed a little something to keep me going, and I had to get out of that office. I come here every once in a while, myself. How's microeconomics going?”
“It's going,” I groaned. I didn't like talking about subjects that were hard for me. “It will be behind me soon, though. The semester's almost over. I could use a break.”
“Yeah, I hear you,” he said, sitting down across from me. “I definitely need a break, too. A long one, actually.”
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Of course,” he said with a warm smile.
“How do you find time to teach
and
practice law?”
“Teaching is my passion,” he said. “I started out as an adjunct and really enjoyed it. It took a lot of prep time, and a
lot
of time reading homework and exams. But I loved it. At about the same time, there were some issues with the law firm I worked for. Things didn't work out, so I left and started my own firm. The university offered me two more classes to teach, and I accepted.”
By now, I was half-finished with my salad, and he hadn't even touched his soup yet. Because I was trying to figure out what I wanted to do in life, I wanted to ask him why he had decided to become a lawyer. But for some reason I couldn't ask him because I felt shy. I let him go on about grading papers and the stress of finals. He didn't say much about his work at his firm, and I wondered if he enjoyed teaching law more than practicing it.
“I'm boring you, aren't I?” he suddenly said, looking embarrassed.
“No, you're not,” I said. “I like listening to people talk.”
He gave me a strange look. Then he said with a laugh, “I guess that's your nice way of saying I'm talking too much.”
“No, I just meant I'm interested in you . . . I mean, I'm interested in what you are saying.”
You are a bumbling idiot, Anaya.
He looked at something behind me, and I followed his glance. Carl had just walked into the lounge.
“Hey, you,” he called to me.
“Hey, yourself,” I responded with a smile.
“How's it going, Professor Alexander?” he asked.
“I'm hanging in there, Carl. How about yourself?”
“I'm good,” he said, still looking at me.
“What are you doing in here, Carl?” I asked.
“Oh, I come in here sometimes. I have keys to all the rooms in this building, so I come here to chill or even study. Staff is okay with it . . . right, Professor?”
Carl hadn't taken his eyes off me since he came in the room.
“That's right, Carl. Well, I can see it's time for me to go. I'll see you back at the office, Anaya.”
“Later, Professor,” Carl said.
“Bye,” I said.
When Professor Alexander left, Carl continued staring at me.
“What?” I asked.
“Why don't you have a boyfriend?”
“What?”
“You heard me. Why don't you have a boyfriend?”
“How do you know I don't?”
“
Do
you have a boyfriend?”
Slick.
“No, I don't.”
“Can I be your boyfriend?”
Wow.
“How about we start with that lunch?” I said.
“I'd rather start with being your boyfriend, but I'll settle for lunch. What do you do for fun, Ms. Goode?”
“Fun? What's that?” I laughed.
We ended up talking for half an hour. His smile had grown on me, and I was enjoying his company.
“Well,” I said, “I do have to get back to work, you know.”
“Yeah, I gotta get outta here, too,” he said.
We stood up at the same time and found ourselves facing each other up close.
“It was nice talking to you, Anaya Goode,” he said with that famous smile.
“It was nice talking to you, too, Carl with-no-last-name.”
For a few seconds, we just stood there. It was awkward, but neither of us moved. Finally, I picked up my bag, hoisted it to my shoulder, and walked away.
“I'm gonna call you so we can have that lunch,” he said.
“You don't have my number.”
“Well, can you call me, then? You have mine.”
“I'll think about it,” I said over my shoulder.
“I
don't know why Merle can never make it anywhere on time,” Mom fussed. I was peeling sweet potatoes, and she was making cornbread dressing. Aunt Marie had changed her name years ago, but Mom always called her “Merle” anyway.
“I should have just asked her to bring plates and napkins again,” Mom continued.
For as long as I can remember, Aunt Marie's contributions to the family dinners had been chips, soft drinks, or utensils. This was going to be the first time she actually prepared a dish.
“Ny,” Mom fussed, “get your Aunt Merle on the phone. By the time she gets here, cabbage will be out of season.”
“I didn't know cabbage had a season,” I said, smiling at her.
“Well, that shows how much you know. Call her cell phone.” Mom was clearly irritated now. “Tell her to get here, so we can eat. Riley will be here soon.” Mom meant their younger brother, who was coming with a date.
Before I could call Aunt Marie, she walked into the kitchen.
“Well, there you are!” Mom exclaimed.
“Oh hush, Anita,” Aunt Marie said. “Hi, Anaya, sweetheart,” she said in her usual formal tone.
“Hi, Auntie Marie,” I said, looking at the covered dish. “Smells good.”
“Well, thank you, dear,” she responded, as her two teens, Amber and Adam, followed behind her.
“Hey, Amber!” I said. She gave me a quick hug before heading into the living room, where Roscoe was at his post in front of the TV set.
“What's up, Adam?” I said to Adam.
“I'm just hangin', Anaya. What's up with you?”
He gave me a fist bump and a huge grin. In his baggy jeans, oversized red t-shirt, and red sweatband, he looked much older than his fourteen years.
“What's hangin', Adam,” said Aunt Marie in a dour tone, “are those huge pants. Will you pull them up, please? And go get the chocolate cake out of the car.”
“What took you so long, Merle?” Mom barked. “That's why I don't ask you to bring anything, because you are always late. You're gonna be late to your own funeral.”
“I'm doing fine, Anita. And yourself?”
Aunt Marie gave Mom a peck on the cheek before Mom had time to move away. When Aunt Marie saw Aunt Deb was already at the party, she shrieked and gave her a big hug.
“Auntie Deb! It's so good to see you! How was Palm Springs?”
“There are some great opportunities for financial growth out there, sweetheart,” Aunt Deb said, giving Aunt Marie a big hug.
“Really?”
“Oh, yes. I'm gonna start investing in commercial real estate.”
“Commercial real estate?”
“Definitely. Especially because financial independence is in my chart this year. I'm gonna invest wisely, and the Creator will provide.”
“You sure believe in them stars, Aunt Deb, don't you?” Mom said over the mixer, while preparing her sweet potato pies.
“I sure do. The stars have never failed me, Anita.”
Aunt Deb, the family matriarch, was Mom's favorite. She didn't have any children of her own, and she had always lived out of a suitcase with an astrology book in one hand and a candle or incense in the other. When we were kids, I used to joke to Ava that Aunt Deb was a witch. She always wore flowing dark dresses, and her wiry hair scared us. But she was a sweet lady, and although she and Mom were so different, they got along beautifullyâwhich was rare, because my mom hardly got along well with anyone.