Tart (13 page)

Gary takes a deep breath and returns to his creepy swami voice, addressing the ceiling. “We've raised Emily as a fully conscious being with a vast array of choices before her. She makes those choices on her own. If she expresses anger—”

“She's out of control,” my father protests.

Gary sighs dramatically and widens his eyes at Dad. “Please, let me finish. She's expressing her anger at Didi's hostile attitude toward the man she loves. Is that so wrong? Isn't that exactly what
you're
doing?” he says, pointing a finger at Dad. “Expressing anger because the woman you love has been insulted?”

My father swallows, clearly at a loss.

“I just think Didi's a fucking bitch,” Emily offers helpfully.

“Emily,” Mira says, but there's very little venom in her bite.

“I can't help it. I'm totally hormonal today, all right?”

Marco leans over and whispers to Rosemarie, “What is it? ‘Hormoonal'?” This sets Rose off giggling, which sets me off, and pretty soon we're helpless with laughter, clutching each other's hands under the table, while Marco looks hurt, and everyone else stares at us like
we're
the crazy ones.

“Fine,” Emily huffs. “Laugh if you want to. No one's going to be laughing when they find out I'm pregnant.”

Well, actually, she's wrong. This just sets us off even worse. Tears are streaming down our faces and my stomach is starting to cramp, but neither of us can stop.

“Pregnant,” Mira says.

“You're
pregnant?
” Gary echoes, for once not sounding like a constipated guru.

“Yeah, and I have been, for like three months,” she says, her bottom lip trembling. “If anyone in this house ever bothered to
look
at me, you might've noticed.”

“My God,” Mira says. “Why didn't you say some…?”

“Because I knew you'd both tell me to just kill it, you—
liberals!
” And with this she runs from the table, sobbing.

Rose and I finally manage to squelch our hysterics. There's a long silence at the table that
awkward
doesn't begin to describe.

Finally, Marco breaks it with the phrase he practiced all the way here in the car, repeating after Rose until I thought I'd go mad. “Thank you for a lovely Thanksgiving dinner.” Everyone turns to gape at him, and he beams at us, his enormous, chiseled face looking pink and eager.

“Christ,” my mother says. “I need a bong hit,” and she gets up from the table.

Rose and I glance at each other, then get up to follow her, ready to collect on our hard-won dessert.

 

On the drive home, Marco's crashed out in the back seat, while Rose and I, stoned and stuffed, laugh about the whole fiasco to keep from crying.

“That Emily's a piece of work,” Rose says.

“Yeah, well, you've got to feel sorry for her,” I say.

“Why? She's rich, she's young, she's sexy, they let her do whatever she wants (including supplying her with top-notch chronic) and now she's set for life with a rock star's baby. If he doesn't want her, she could do the talk-show circuit and make millions.” Rose is braiding her hair into cornrows; when she's not braiding Rex, she's doing me or Marco or herself. She's got this thing about braids that's positively compulsive. She says it relaxes her.

“She's had it rough, though,” I say, surprised to find myself defending the little wench. “When she was six, her real mom died of cancer.”

“That's tough. There are worse things than losing a parent, though.” And for a long minute, I know we're both thinking about Jade, but we don't say anything.

“Not to bag on the dead,” I say, trying to lighten the mood, “but Emily's real mom must've been as out there as Gary. You know what they named her?”

Rose looks at me, mystified. “Emily's not her real name?”

“It's her
middle
name. Her full legal name is Aphrodite Emily Snyder.”

Rose explodes with laughter. “No shit.”

“Seriously.”

“Man, that's wild.” Once she's stopped laughing, she gazes out the window with a pensive air.

“Do you, um, miss Jade a lot? Like during the holidays?” I ask, wondering if there's a less awkward way to bring it up.

“What made you think of that?” she asks, and suddenly her face looks ten years older.

“I don't know. I was just wondering….”

“Of course I miss her. All the time.” She takes a tiny rub
ber band from her pocket and ties off the braid she's just finished. Then she glances in the back seat to make sure Marco's asleep, and I wonder if she's finally going to talk to me about Jade's death, and what it did to her, and how she can handle waking up in the morning. But instead, she changes the subject, like she always does. “Hey, maybe if Total Eclipse doesn't work out, I could groom little Aphrodite. She could be the next one-name wonder.”

“Maybe.”

Rose looks out the window again and doesn't say a word the rest of the ride home. Every time I think she's fallen asleep, though, I see her fingers braiding with rapid precision, like someone performing an intricate ritual, praying wordlessly to vague gods in the dark.

N
ow that we've almost reached the end of the semester, I'm more determined than ever to get Clay off my mind. Monica's been tracking my every move with her glittery little hawk eyes, and she's clearly chummy with Ruth Westby, the department chair. It's been emphasized from the beginning that I'd have to be really stellar and indispensable if this position is to become permanent. It's a long shot no matter how you look at it, but I'm definitely out of the running if I build up more faculty hatred by sleeping with Clay.

Not that he's exactly beating down my door. It's been seven weeks to the day since I stormed out of the pub and told him to stop mind-fucking me. He's complied with maddening thoroughness—haven't seen or heard from him at all. And I refuse, though I've been sorely tempted on more than one occasion, to just happen into Viva Vinyl like a love-struck adolescent. No, siree. I haven't come this far only to give into pubescent urges. I am a mature professional now. I have my own travel mug, which I fill with coffee in the faculty lounge, thanks very much. I own a scarf, and
though I haven't had the occasion to wear it just yet, it looks very chic on me.

I am not dying for a decent fuck.

Yes you are.

Am not.

“Professor Bloom?” God, I love the sound of that.

“Yes?” I swivel in my desk chair to see Ben Crow in the doorway. Mmm. Talk about fantasy material. Dark brown hair to his shoulders, high cheekbones, deeply tanned skin. He's got just enough rock star in him to justify long hair—on most boys it looks girlish or sixties goofy, but on him it looks über-masculine. He's wearing a threadbare white T-shirt that shows all his muscles and a loose-fitting pair of chinos. I could eat him with a spoon.

“I wanted to talk to you,” he says, and the concern on his face makes him even more edible. “Do you have a minute?”

“Yeah. Sure.”

He comes in and closes the door behind him. It's categorically discouraged to meet with students behind closed doors, since it supposedly increases your vulnerability to sexual harassment charges. Still, I can't bring myself to get up and open it.

He sits very close to the edge of my desk and speaks softly. He's got a wonderful, resonant, reach-the-back-row sort of voice, so he's practically got to whisper to avoid being heard all the way down the hall; his timbre makes my chest vibrate slightly. “It's about Ralene,” he says, and sighs. “I really tried to be patient with her, but it's gotten out of hand.” He leans back in the chair and rubs his hands together, a nervous gesture that makes me fixate on his fingers, which are dark and strong and—

Get it together, Bloom. Student. Off-limits.

I can see his abs through that T-shirt—washboard city—and he smells of sandalwood, which normally turns me off but on him is the height of earthiness, conjuring images of long, delicious massages, glistening oiled limbs…

“She kept coming on to me,” he says. “And then she acted like
I
was into
her.
” He gives me a look that conveys just how absurd this notion is. “It was embarrassing.”

“But your project's done next week—you won't have to work with her after that.”
And could you please take off your shirt so I could just look for a while?

“I know, I know. But here's the deal. I guess she told Professor Parker that I was—whatever—‘harassing' her, and that you refused to do anything about it. So then Parker told Westby.” He runs a hand through his hair and looks miserable. Now I'm the one who's nervous. “Westby called me in yesterday, started asking a lot of questions. It's all blown out of proportion. I mean all I did was try to be nice to the woman.”

Oh, God. Goodbye, tenure track. Hello, want ads. Well, look at the bright side. You could molest this kid without any ramifications.

“Professor Bloom?”

“Sorry. What did you tell Westby?”

“I just explained how it happened—Ralene complaining about me, how you asked me for my side and all that. I mean, what were you supposed to do? The woman's a nutcase.”

“And did Westby believe you?”

“I don't know. She's pretty hard to read.” He looks like he wants to say more but decides not to. “Anyway, I just thought you should know.”

“Yes. Thanks for telling me.” I try to look poised and mature, rather than flustered, scared and so in need of a good fuck that I'm about to ravish him.

“You okay?”

“Who, me?” My voice cracks, and he smiles. He's probably used to women sweating in his presence, but that doesn't make it any less humiliating. “Yes. Fine. Oh, by the way, I want you to read this script.” I fumble through my bag until I locate a copy of Miranda's play,
Heirloom.
“We're producing it next quarter, and I want you to read for it. Check out Ray. It's a good role.”

He looks pleased. “Cool. Thanks.”

“Yeah, and thanks for letting me know.”

“No problem. I really like your class, by the way. You're the only teacher here I can relate to, you know? Everyone else seems so—” he looks down at the floor, trying to find the right word “—old,” he finishes, and then, dissatisfied with that, he adds, “or stuck in their ways, or something.” I feel a ridiculous flush of pleasure. Ben Crow likes me. “You're more spontaneous. That's the way theater should be, don't you think? You shouldn't have to plan every little detail like it's some sort of military operation.”

“No,” I agree. “You shouldn't. You know, you should read this book—I think you'd really like it. Have you ever checked out David Mamet?” He shakes his head, no. “Totally incredible playwright.” I dig through my bag once again. “He writes essays about theater that are just—where is that?” I heave my bag onto my desk and dig some more. I pull a binder out and a tiny swath of material flutters onto my desk, landing inches from Ben's elbow. For a confused beat, we both just look at it, perplexed, and then I realize with horror what it is.

My leopard-print thong.

Christ, Bloom, you've really done it this time.

I reach for it, but Ben, who is quicker and closer, has already picked it up. Realizing what it is, he drops it like it's a rattlesnake, blushing scarlet.

“Panty lines. Just hate them,” I blurt out, then cover my eyes.

He makes a small, embarrassed sound in his throat.

“I—I was going to go swimming on campus, so I brought—” I stammer, seizing the offending item and stuffing it back into my bag. “A change of clothes,” I finish meekly. “Anyway…” I can feel his eyes on me, and I fumble in my bag more frantically than ever. “Jeez, where is that stupid book?”

Professor Arrested for Forcing Student to Study Thong.

There's a knock on my door. “Come in,” I say, relieved to be rescued from this moment. The doorknob jiggles, and then I remember that our office doors lock automatically. I get up and open it, expecting to see Miranda, since we're supposed to talk about
Heirloom
this afternoon; instead I find myself face-to-face with Clay Parker.

“Hi.” Having just barely cooled from my stinging embarrassment seconds earlier, I now feel my face burning afresh.

“Good, you're here.” He looks over my shoulder and, seeing Ben, goes serious and curt. “You're with someone—sorry. When are you free?”

“Oh. Um—”

“I was just leaving,” Ben says. “I'll see you next week, Professor Bloom.”

“Okay.” I return to my desk and sit down, trying to get my bearings. “I look forward to your final project,” I say as Ben and Clay scoot past each other in the doorway. I hope I've struck that perfect professorial tone—encouraging but cool, not a trace of tart—because now that Clay's here I suddenly feel incredibly culpable and transparent, as if he can see with a glance that I've been tossing my panties around recklessly.

“See you,” Ben mutters, and disappears.

“Listen,” Clay says, shutting the door. I try to calculate whether sexual harassment risk exists with a fellow faculty member's husband.
Professor Convicted of Home Wrecking.
“I'm sorry to bother you here. I know you don't want anything to do with me, but this is sort of an emergency.” He sits where Ben did, his legs in a wide V, his elbows propped on his knees. I wonder how I ever could have gotten worked up over Ben Crow, even with his cut abs and his sandalwood oil; he's nothing compared to the symphony of crooked and straight that is Clay Parker.

“That sounds a little scary.”

“I'm not trying to be alarmist,” he says, “I just figured you should know. Ruth Westby?” I nod, completely mystified
about where this is going. “She's, um, she's got a bit of a problem with you right now. You can talk her down, but she's not happy.”

“Actually, Ben was just telling me—”

“Was
that
Ben? The guy that just left?” I nod. “Huh. Okay.” He appears to be working this into the equation, making calculations. “Well, Westby's under the impression that you're playing favorites with him. That you deliberately ignored some very serious complaints about him by other students because you're fond of him. Maybe even—too fond.”

“Too fond?” I repeat weakly. Oh, my God. I'm a child molester. They've planted a microchip in my brain and have monitored every lustful spasm that passes through my quivering, sex-deprived cells.

“Monica's encouraged the notion. She's talked to a bunch of your students, and now she's got Westby semiconvinced there's something scandalous going on.”

“Wait,” I say.
Breathe. Go on—inhale, exhale. You can do it, Bloom.
“Are you saying they think I'm like—they don't think Ben and I are…?”

“Let's just say it's crossed their minds, okay?” I look at him in horror, and he just shrugs. “Welcome to academic politics.”

“But how do you…?”

The phone rings. I stare at it blankly, my heart pounding, then pick it up with damp palms and croak, “Professor Bloom.” Usually just saying this cheers me up, but today it sounds absurd, like a little kid with a toy gun lisping, “Bond. Jameth Bond.”

“Claudia. Ruth Westby here.” She sounds very cheerful, not at all like someone about to accuse me of lewd and immoral conduct. “Have you got a minute?”

Have I got a minute? A minute to be sacked? A minute to be prosecuted as a sex offender? “Sure? What's up?”

“I wonder if you could stop by my office. I'd like to have a chat.” A chat. God. Beware the Chat.

“Sure. Like in…” I look at Clay. “Oh, ten minutes? Will that do?” He's rubbing his forehead as if he's got a migraine.

“Sounds perfect. See you then.” Her voice rises on “then” with an almost shrill effervescence, and for a moment I wish to God she was a gruff, patriarchal man-boss, the sort who barked, “My office, Bloom. Now.”

I hang up and stare at Clay, feeling sick and not bothering to hide it. “She's going to fire me, isn't she?”

“It's not that bad—really—she wouldn't do that. All she's got is Monica's allegations, which were all gathered from your students—”

“Students, or student?” I ask, hating Ralene Tippets with such passion I'm convinced I could commit homicide with a smile.

“I don't know for sure. Someone went to Monica and then she started snooping around, but she hasn't got any hard evidence.”

“I'm not sleeping with Ben Crow,” I whisper. “You know that, right?”

He shrugs. “It's none of my business—I just thought you should be armed with information.”

“Oh, my God,” I say. “Of
course
I'm not sleeping with him—I'm not sleeping with
anyone.
” I bite my lip. Oops.

He grins at me, maddeningly cool in the face of my panic. “Is that right?”

“Yes, that's right, Mr. Smiley, and don't look so smug about it, either. If it weren't for you—” I glance toward the door and consciously lower my voice, leaning toward him to hiss, “If it weren't for
you,
I wouldn't be in this mess. So stop gloating.”

“I'm not gloating. I'm trying to help.”

“Yes. Okay. I see that. Sorry.” I start gnawing at a cuticle, terrified. “I told you I'm not cut out for this. I can't believe Monica would turn my students against me.”

“She doesn't want you here. I've never seen her like this. She's gotten ruthless since that—” He hesitates. “That morning.”

A pulse of heat throbs through me at the thought of our limbs braided together, but then the reality of Monica's revenge cools it. “Did she come right out and tell you she's trying to get me fired?”

“I know some people in the department—they tipped me off. When I confronted Monica she didn't deny it, exactly, she just tried to spin it all professional and businesslike.”

I can feel my face contorting with this fresh wave of information. “So other people think I'm—that Ben and I are—does the whole department assume…?”

“Rumors, okay? That's all it is right now—just hearsay. So explain your side to Ruth and stick to your guns.”

The urge to hyperventilate assails me, but I take a deep breath and close my eyes. He's right. I haven't done anything wrong. Monica Parker and Ralene Tippets can go fuck themselves. I'm a good teacher—maybe a little raw, a lot to learn, but I've got an instinct for it, and I'm compassionate, which is more than I can say for Monica Stick-Up-Her-Ass Parker or Esther Too-Tall Small. What did Ben just say? He said I'm spontaneous—and he's right. I've got that on my side. Half the geriatrics around here wouldn't know a fresh idea if it French-kissed them. Now go defend yourself.

“Okay,” I say softly, standing. “I better go. She's waiting.”