Plain Jayne (28 page)

I could think of a few things
he
deserves. Like a
slow, painful, lonely death.

I wanted to call Luke and tell him all about it, too, but I
didn’t see the point in exposing myself as unimportant and ineffectual when I
figured he’d find out soon enough from the man himself that I’d been in touch
and that I’d been “handled.”

Anyway, I didn’t want Luke to get the wrong idea and think
that I was telling him in the hopes that he’d do something about it. That’s
definitely not what I had in mind. What
did
I have in mind? Well, I
wanted a sympathetic ear, I guess. But then I realized I’d be telling him, in
effect, that he was right about my not being able to fight Thornfield, and that
killed the urge to call him, once and for all.

Today, I’m saying goodbye to the last student to visit me
during office hours (a fast-talking female essayist who reminds me of Gus and
who wants to know how to transition from writing personal essays to novels)
when Dr. Brooks peeks his head around the door frame and asks, “Is it my turn,
finally?” with a comically pathetic look on his face that makes me laugh at its
unexpectedness.

“How long have you been waiting?” I ask when I’ve recovered.

“On and off for about forty-five minutes,” he tells me,
taking the seat next to my desk. “Jayne Greer, you’re a popular lady!”

“An oddity, maybe,” I reply, shutting down my laptop and tucking
it into its bag.

Now it’s his turn to laugh. “I don’t know about that.
Students here are typically more hands on than at some other universities and
colleges. They like intellectual discourse.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“Other than the long hours, are you enjoying the experience
so far?”

I smile at him. “Immensely. This is… nice. It’s very
comfortable and familiar. I’ve always enjoyed academia. And it’s even better
now that I’m not the student with seven papers to write.”

He rubs his chin in a Machiavellian manner, closes one eye,
and states, “Ah, yes. I find it’s much better to give than receive when it
comes to term paper assignments.” Becoming more serious, he says, “The reason I
stopped by, though, was to see if you’d like to
maybeIdunnojoinafewofusfordinnertonight.”

The way he runs the end of the invitation together makes me
laugh.

Encouraged by my reaction, he continues, “It’s a little
Thursday night tradition some of us English nerds have. We talk about
everything and nothing and compare notes about how to most effectively torture
our students.”

I consider the alternative (going home alone to watch TV
alone and eat a frozen dinner alone before going to bed alone and reflecting on
how alone I am) and immediately accept.

He grins. “Great! We meet up at a place called Saul’s,
usually sometime around six. It’s close to campus and easy to find, but you can
ride with me… or one of the others… if you want.”

“I’ll find it, I’m sure,” I say confidently. “I’m going to
stop by home first, though, to—”

“Oh!” he interrupts me. “That reminds me. There are a few
silly ground rules about our Thursday nights at Saul’s.”

“Okay…” I say hesitantly, not sure I like the sound of this.

It’s obvious he’s trying to suppress a smile at my reaction
when he continues, “Yes. Um, rule number one:  first names only. No ‘Doctors’
or anything fussy like that.”

“Got it.”

“Rule number two:  no fancy clothes. You wear what you wore
to work or—even better—what you’d wear if you were going to hang out in front
of the TV at your house. Unless, of course, you’re an exhibitionist. You get
the idea, though.”

“Yes. Ultra casual.”

“Exactly!” He holds up his hand and displays three fingers.
“And, finally, rule number three:  what happens at Saul’s stays at Saul’s. Not
that anything ever happens there. It’s more like a succinct way of saying we
don’t hold grudges about conversations that may get heated after someone’s had
a few glasses of wine with dinner and forgets that politics and religion aren’t
very pleasant topics. We do a decent job of moderating ourselves, but sometimes
we get carried away. Some of us are pretty passionate about certain topics.”

“Intellectuals,” I say with a snort.

“Yep. Oh! I guess there’s a sub-rule associated with rule
number three,” he adds. “When someone in the group says, ‘Subject change!’ you
must immediately and unquestioningly obey the command. That’s how we keep
things civil. The person requesting the subject change does not have to explain
his or her reasons for wanting one, because that could cause further
discomfort. You can call for a subject change on your own behalf or if you
simply feel one is in order, based on the reactions of others around you.”

“I see. A proactive approach to conflict avoidance.”

“Yes! Oh, I can tell you’re going to fit in very well, Jayne
Greer.” He stands. “I’ll see you later, then.”

“Looking forward to it,” I tell him. And I am. It sounds
like exactly the sort of nerdy crowd I can disappear into.

Chapter Twenty-Three

These people make me look cool. And I love it!

Oops. Let me backtrack. Saul’s. Very cool
hole-in-the-wall-looking place on the outside with an old-fashioned speakeasy atmosphere
on the inside. Dim, but not creepy. Very flattering light, actually. I’ve met
or seen most of the people in this group before tonight, but they’ve never
looked better, even in their “ultra casual” attire after a long day at work. It
certainly beats the fluorescent lights in the halls and classrooms of the
English building.

Our group of nearly twenty occupies several tables pushed
together to make one long table along the side wall of the place. I’m smack-dab
in the middle of it all, listening to bits of every conversation but not
participating in any so far. I’m trying to get a feel for who I’m dealing with.

Based on first impressions and stereotypes (sorry, but it’s
the most efficient way to go when meeting so many new people at once and when
determined not to offend anyone with off-handed comments), we have, among
others:  the former beatnik who still thinks Jack Kerouac will never be equaled
(Karl); the Marxist who sneers at pretty much anything anyone says and turns it
into a debate about class (Irene); the sensitive poet who speaks barely above a
whisper and constantly jots things in the small journal she keeps at hand
(Paige); the no-nonsense former journalist who speaks in short sentences,
eschews adjectives, and manages to make everything he says sound like a fact
(Dan); and the prim and proper schoolmarm prototype who has cat hair on her
cardigan sweater, which she wears year-round, and diagrams sentences in her
spare time (Marcy).

Then there’s Dr. Brooks. I mean, Miles (
first rule of
Thursday nights at Saul’s, Jayne:  first names only!
). He’s harder to pin
down. Definitely an intellectual (you can spot that from a mile away, with his
perpetually-distracted air, hair that’s somehow always about a week overdue for
a cut, and wrinkled khakis and plain dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to
mid-forearm), but he doesn’t seem out to prove anything. Tries to portray a
balance of intelligent and down-to-earth and is in touch with what the rest of
society values, even if it sometimes perplexes him. Likes to laugh. Likes to
make others laugh. He’s the peacekeeper. And the cruise director. And the
moderator.

“Jayne!” he calls down the table to me now. “You’re so quiet
and mysterious. You must have something to add to this potentially-volatile
conversation about pop culture’s contribution to the decline of the educational
system.”

I shrug and smile. “Not necessarily. I agree that there’s no
motivation to get an education when we’ve been conditioned to believe that
anyone can be the next big reality TV star.”

“Can we somehow blame Facebook and other social media for
part of this?” he queries with a raised eyebrow.

“Absolutely,” I reply. “Facebook, Twitter, blogging… it’s
all deluding us into thinking our every thought and action is interesting to
the rest of the world. ‘Why shouldn’t I have my own TV show? People love my
Tweets.’”

“They are mighty fine,” Karl leans closer to me to say sotto
voce.

After the laughter dies down, Miles winks at me. “Excellent.
As long as we can blame social media, I feel okay.” He looks around the table.
“Okay. Honest answers, now. How many of us are on Facebook?”

Several hands, including mine, go up. Most of us don’t feel
the need to apologize, but Marcy splutters, “I have a large family, and we’re
spread out all over the globe. It’s the easiest way to keep in touch.”

Miles ignores her justification. “Twitter?”

Fewer hands go in the air, but they mostly belong to the
Facebookers.

“And who writes a blog? I’m including blogs you may write
for professional purposes, too. Doesn’t matter. They’re all the same.” He
chuckles when he and I are the only two who don’t raise our hands. “My, my, my.
How interesting!” Again, he turns his attention to me, “Jayne… why don’t you
blog? Don’t you think you have invaluable information with which to bore—I mean,
educate
—the World Wide Web surfers?”

“Nope,” I answer honestly. “But I’m impressed when other
people can find topics to feed their blogs. I’m the most boring person on the
planet.” I turn it around on him. “What’s your excuse?”

He considers it for a second. “Too busy. Too lazy. Too dull.
Dan, what’s your blog about?” he asks, turning to the Mark Twain lookalike next
to him.

“Wooden boat building. What’s it to ya?” he answers
semi-jokingly.

Miles widens his eyes. “Nothing. I’m extremely interested to
find this out about all of you. Let’s go around the table and say what your
blogs are about. No laughing or judgment, I promise. This is fascinating!”

“Knitting.”

“Writing, of course.”

“Politics.”

“Feminist theory.”

“Paleo lifestyle.”

“Marathon running and training.”

“Grief management.”

“Yoga.”

“British period dramas.”

Miles raises his eyebrows at that one but maintains his
composure and keeps his “no laughing” promise.

“Antiques.”

They skip over me, the non-blogger.

“Cockatiels.”

“Hand bells.”

“Children’s literature.”

The easy flow dries up when it’s Paige’s turn to report. She
fidgets, looks beseechingly at Miles, and with an uneasy smile says, “Subject
change?”

Wryly, Miles remarks, “It’s always the quiet ones,” before
realizing he’s close to breaking one of the gathering’s rules. “Okay, Paige.
What’ll it be, then?”

She looks down at her plate. “I dunno. Anything else, I
guess.”

I feel so terrible for her—and the ensuing pause is so
awkward and uncomfortable—that I blurt, “My upcoming novel is
semi-autobiographical.”

All heads turn in my direction.

I blush. “Something… different… to talk about. Maybe.”

“Indeed it is!” Miles agrees in his typical easygoing
fashion. “You all know that Jayne, here, is in the process of publishing her
first novel, which has already been optioned by a film studio.” Nods all around
and several “Kudos” and “Congratulations.” “What parts are real and what parts
are fiction?” he asks, resting his chin in his hand.

Wiping the corners of my mouth serves as a way to stall
while I cringe at putting myself on the spot and then debate how much to tell
before deciding it’s pointless to be coy, since I’m the one who brought it up,
and it’s all about to be public knowledge, anyway. Might as well get used to
talking about it.

“Well… the whole story is basically true—my parents and
sisters were killed in a house fire when I was out of the house at a
post-high-school-graduation party—with some poetic license taken with
individual events and conversations, etcetera.”

Nobody says a word. Nobody moves. For a second, I wonder if
I’ve harnessed the power to freeze time around me.

Embarrassed at what seems to be an unknown (to me) social
faux pas, I laugh nervously. “Sorry. Major conversation killer, I guess. Maybe
I need to practice my delivery. Book signings are going to be a real drag
otherwise…”

That tickles Irene, who cackles across the table from me.
Her laughter breaks the spell over the rest of the diners, who re-animate and
seem to remember how to talk.

Dan quips, “We’ve been conditioned to think that all
tell-all books are about sex or drugs. Death threw us for a loop.”

Since Miles has done most of the talking tonight, I
reflexively look to him for a reaction, but he merely nods thoughtfully at me
and looks away, at Irene, who’s saying, “Readers will benefit from having read
your book and will know this information at a signing, though. Like Dan said, I
think none of us was expecting something so… dramatic. Or for you to say it so
matter-of-factly.”

“It happened a long time ago,” I state, trying not to sound
too defensive.

“Couldn’t have been
that
long ago,” Karl counters.
“You’re still a young thing.”

“Fairly,” I allow. Uncomfortable with the intense attention,
I say, “Anyway, I’ve spent a lot of time with the topic while writing this
book, so I guess I’m somewhat… desensitized… to my feelings about it. I’ve had
to figure out a way to be more objective about it, or else I would have spent
the past five years in the fetal position. Plus, once you hand a book over to a
publisher, you have to emotionally detach. At least, I found that was the case
for me.”

“Editors can be ruthless,” Marcy concurs. “I’ve been through
several. I’m like the Liz Taylor of the publishing world. Couldn’t seem to find
one who understood me… until I was finally assigned to a female editor. It’s
been smooth sailing ever since.”

“What kind of books do you write?” I ask politely, glad to
move onto someone else.

“Erotica,” she answers simply. “I guess they figured that a
male editor would give me the opposite perspective, but it never seemed to work
out that way. We always ended up butting heads. My new editor and I are very like-minded.
It’s quite refreshing.”