“Miss Rachel’s got two eyes on that man, all moon-eyed and smiley-faced!” She and Tiffinnae fell out laughing at Rachel’s wide-eyed, puffed-cheek look, and waved a cheery good night as they pushed one another out the door.
There was only one person left in class, a kid named Jason, maybe nineteen, who preferred dressing in solid black and added eyeliner to his eyes to give him a really gothic look. “Ah, Miss Lear?” he said quietly, raising his hand in spite of there being no one else left in the classroom.
“Hey Jason, what’s up?” she asked as she picked up her giant bunker-buster tote bag.
He shoved his hands into his enormous pockets. “Listen, I’m going to have to drop out,” he said meekly.
“Drop out? Why? Is it Chantal? I can—”
“No, she’s okay,” he said, looking extremely chagrined. He cast his gaze to the floor. “I can’t afford it,” he said. “I borrowed the money from my mom to sign up, and she thought it was sort of stupid.” The kid blanched when he said it, and instantly shook his head. “I don’t mean your class is stupid, but she thought it was stupid for me to take it . . . Well, anyway, I really want to take this class. I didn’t realize we’d have to pay for the yarn and stuff.”
Even though it was clearly stated in the course materials, Rachel smiled. “Jason, don’t worry about that. I’ve got extra yarn.”
“Really?” he asked, sort of lifting his gaze to her waist. “I mean, are you sure?”
“Are you kidding?” She paused at the light switch. “I have tons,” she lied as Jason gave her a skeptical look and preceded her out of the classroom.
She walked with Jason out to the parking lot while he told her how cool he thought medieval art was, and how (interestingly) he had a suit of armor at home, and how he really hoped to get to England one day, and in fact, had a bunch of travel brochures that maybe he’d bring to the next class, if that was all right.
Rachel told him that was all right.
That night, after the remainder of her humongous brownie had been devoured and her tampons safely tucked away, Rachel picked up her romance novel and quickly lost herself in King Edward I’s court.
As she drifted off to sleep, the novel still in hand, Rachel could see the hero atop his white steed, his hair flowing, his scabbard bouncing at his side as he raced across the barren moors.
Funny, she thought sleepily, how much that guy looked like Flynn . . . except for the scabbard. And the horse.
Her dreamy sleep was rudely interrupted by the phone.
At the first ring, Rachel came out of bed with a start; the book went flying across the room, and every muscle in her body seized up in pain.
“Ow! Ow, ow, ow, ow . . .” she hissed as she threw the covers off of her. She glanced at the clock as she fumbled for the cordless. It was ten in the morning—how had she slept so long? She punched the Talk button. “Hello?” she said, and realized she could not straighten her neck.
“You cannot still be asleep!” Dagne exclaimed, surprised. “I thought you were going to the employment office today!”
“Ohmigod, Dagne, I can’t move,” Rachel said, grimacing as she tried to move her leg.
“You better move. Hurry up and go to the employment office and then call me back. I may want to do something later, I don’t know.”
Begging the question of why she was calling at ten, for Chrissakes, but nevertheless, Rachel rubbed her neck and said, “Guess what. I saw him again.”
“Who?”
“Him. The British guy.”
Dagne gasped. “Where? When?”
Rachel told her about the scene at the corner grocery, complete with brownie and tampons. At the end of it, Dagne said nothing. “Hello?” Rachel said into the phone.
“Why didn’t you get his number?” Dagne shouted. “God, what is the matter with you, Rachel?”
“And what would I do with his number? Call him up and say hey, I have about ten bucks in the bank, but let’s grab that coffee? I don’t think so. And besides, it wasn’t anything—he was being nice,” she said, really hoping Dagne would disagree.
Dagne obliged her by demanding, “Then why did he ask you for a drink?”
“I don’t know. You know how polite the British are—he probably thought he had to.”
“You are so stupid,” Dagne said disgustedly. “A good-looking guy—”
“And hot.”
“—hot guy asks you for a drink, and you think he is following some international protocol of manners for foreigners? How can you possibly be a candidate for a Ph.D. if you are that stupid?”
“Please. A Ph.D. doesn’t necessarily mean a person is smart,” Rachel said. “Look, I gotta get moving.”
“You blew it, Rach. If you ever see him again—”
“Which I won’t—”
“You might! And if you do, you better get his number or I’ll . . . I’ll put a hex on you!”
Rachel laughed. “I gotta go. I’ll speak to you later. Cheerio,” she added in the fake British accent she had tried to perfect while in England the last time, and clicked off.