*
By Thursday of the second week of classes, I had enough homework to justify going to Ethan’s Happy Hours without it seeming weird of me; I didn’t want him thinking I was going just to hang out with him. Though maybe I was: I’d missed his joking around, and since he didn’t know my new work schedule, I hadn’t seen him even once at the library. That night, after checking on my specimens in the lab and wishing them good night the way Professor Kaufmann had to her own cell cultures, I went to Donald Hall. I got as far as the ground floor’s glass-walled study lounge before spotting the back of Ethan’s head. He was all alone in the big room, sitting at a huge conference table—a modern version of the one from my hearing.
—Is this not happening? I said.
He jolted at my voice and I laughed, but he didn’t. He looked at his watch.
—Great. I was hoping you wouldn’t come tonight.
I stopped just outside the room, remembering Thanksgiving and Leidy’s What the fuck are you doing here, her inflection revealing something the way his just had.
—Nice to see you too, I said.
—No, I mean, this started ten minutes ago. I don’t think anyone’s coming.
I took off my coat and hauled my books from my bag to the table. I slapped down bio, slapped down Spanish. Don’t worry, I said, I brought enough work.
—I wasn’t trying – I didn’t know it would be just us, he said.
—So this is like the Terror Squad of study groups? His face looked as if I’d hit the pause button on his brain, so I added, Terror Squad’s just two guys, two rappers.
He nodded vigorously. Oh, right on. Like how the Silver Jews aren’t actually Jewish.
I didn’t know them or their music, but I played it off and said, They’re not?
—Maybe one of the guys is Jewish.
He grabbed his pen and scrawled something on the back of his hand, digging deep into his skin, which flared up red around the marks. He said, Facts to look up later, and he clicked his pen shut, showing me his hand. It read, Silver Jews = Jews?
—We’re learning already! I said.
—I invited other people, he said. His back curled over the table as he bent across it to stare at me on its opposite side. He said, During study week last term there were fifteen of us. Really.
I tried to sound skeptical with my Sure, but I believed him—felt a little left out, actually, at having not been invited back then, after ice skating, like I’d failed some test that day. I thought of Jillian’s mittens, the way he’d skated away after seeing them.
—No really, he said. Maybe since we’re only two weeks into the spring …
He tapped his pen against his book so fast I almost asked him if he was a drummer.
—Stop freaking out, I said. Maybe everyone decided you’re a shitty study partner.
—Ouch, he said. And for that?
In comic slow motion, he turned his face to his book, kept his eyes trapped to it. I thought he’d been kidding about the aggressive silence he’d described at Carter House, but he didn’t speak at all over the next half hour, not even once—not when I said his name, or when I asked him what language his book was in (he told me later: Japanese), not when I said, If your balls itch right now, stay quiet. (He covered his mouth at that but didn’t make a sound.) Thirty minutes later, I’d only read half a page, distracted by the effort of thinking up ways to make him crack. Then his watched beeped, and he clapped his book shut and yelled, Coffee break, before leaving the lounge.
He came back with two cups of the worst coffee I’d ever tasted. When I took mine from him, he said, Who’s a shitty study partner now?
He took a thick gulp. I held the mug he’d given me—chipped and clearly swiped from the dining hall—in my hands, blew over the coffee’s surface to cool it down.
—So listen, he said. I know we joke around a lot, and that’s great – like actually great, not sarcastic great – but I want to say outright that I really wasn’t trying to get you here alone when I invited you.
—What? I said. I didn’t think that. Should I have been thinking that?
I gripped the mug like it was keeping me from running away. I sipped some coffee, winced at the bitterness.
—I wouldn’t do anything that creepy, and I just want that clear between us. I don’t want you to have the wrong idea about me.
My fingertips and palms started to burn where they met the mug. Dark oil swirled over the surface of the coffee.
—No offense, I said, but this coffee is bad.
He sat back down and blew air from his mouth, the sound like a wave crashing.