Jake peered over her shoulder, reading the questions aloud as if seeing them for the first time. “?‘Is society responsible for fair wages?’ ‘Can people be expected to rise above their parents’ societal place?’ You bet I’m rising above my parents’ place. Not that it’s a long leap.” He gave a lopsided grin. “But I plan to pole-vault to the top. For both of us.”
Phoebe reached back and patted his shoulder, his dense muscle almost distracting her determination to make this paper perfect. “I question plenty in this world, but your success never makes that list.”
“You’re the best thing that ever happened to me.” He lay back and laced his fingers behind his head. “Plus, you’re so damned smart. You can go all the way. As much as you love books, you can get your doctorate. Teach college. Together we can do anything. I’ll make sure of it.”
He rolled over and traced the outline of her knee. “Our kids will be terrific, you know. We’ll give them everything we never had.”
She hardened herself against his dreams. “Rising in status and the size of a paycheck isn’t the only proof of worth,” she said. “What about people who want to help other people? Or those who devote themselves to the arts? Or teaching?”
“Like you?” Jake draped an arm around her shoulder. “People like you need people like me to support your do-gooding. So come to the party.”
“You’re relentless. And I don’t mean that as a compliment.”
“Class is more important to you than me?”
“No. Class is more important to me than your frat party.”
“Everything at City College outweighs anything at Brooklyn College?”
“To repeat. Going to class trumps your Christmas party. Why are they celebrating in November, anyway?”
“Everyone’s gotta be with their family during the holidays. Anyway, we’re not having a Christmas party. We’re celebrating Hanukkah.”
“You’re a rabbi now?”
“And being in Manhattan has turned you into the Queen of England? Too good to go to my party?”
She hated when he twisted her words, as though going or not going proved her loyalty to him. “How about if I take the train straight to the frat house after class? So I’ll only miss—what? An hour or two?”
“Fine. Whatever you want. Have it your way.”
With a bare brush of his lips as a good-bye kiss, a bit of punishment masquerading as affection, he left. Jake was a two-headed coin. On one side lived the rough-sexy guy who knew how to both protect her and accept that he needed her—the guy who took her on magic carpet rides. On the other side was the man who bared his teeth when he didn’t get his way. She adored the first; the second wearied her.
She inched the front door closed, fighting her craving to slam the wood to splinters, knowing her mother would race in and ask, “What’s wrong? Are you mad at Jake?,” her voice betraying the truth that she hoped to hear about a problem in the relationship.
If her mother were Catholic, she’d be lighting daily candles at Holy Innocents, bribing God with her piety, praying for His intervention, that He would force Phoebe to dump Jake.
Which, at the moment, tempted Phoebe more than she wanted to admit.
From the day she received her acceptance letter, Jake had acted as though Phoebe attending City College of New York instead of Brooklyn College portended treachery against him, her parents, and the entire borough of Brooklyn. For Phoebe, being at the relatively more sophisticated CCNY made her impatient with Jake in ways she’d never been—reacting against the same traits in him that had impressed her a mere few months ago. Whereas before he seemed like the go-getter that her father had admired, now, especially compared with her brilliant sociology professor, his ambition seemed uncouth. When they were out with others, Jake squeezed her hand every other second, seeking squeezes back as admiration for something clever that he had said. Conversely, listening to her professor lecture about class differences in America made Jake’s glib talk seem thin as waxed paper.
Monday through Friday, breaking up seemed the best course; come the weekend, feeling Jake’s shelter, knowing she’d caught the love of the guy that every girl wanted and every guy admired, she shoved those thoughts away. Walking through the world with Jake meant half the work was already done. He cleared the way for her.
The downside of those weekends was their going-all-the-way arguments. She didn’t want to sleep with him. Not yet. The more he pushed, the tighter she locked her legs against both of their cravings.
“Are you afraid that I won’t respect you?” he’d ask. “I damned well worship the ground you walk on! I love you. You know I’m marrying you, right?”
Soothing her with talk of a wedding didn’t help. Despite his sway over her—even after three years of dating, his touch thrilled her—getting married seemed like a final chapter in a life that she hadn’t yet led. Why the rush to marry him? To marry anyone? Sex sealed a deal she didn’t want at the moment.
Yet saying no was hard. Whatever “physical chemistry” meant, they certainly owned the formula. Wanting him had never presented a problem, but she’d fallen in love with college, too. Recently, the City College of New York brought the roses to Phoebe’s cheeks. She skipped off to her Introduction to Sociology class as though running to meet her lover. Poli-sci class met her with a hug of newness. In high school, she had done okay—she was especially good at taking tests—but the distractions of Jake’s attentions, along with staying on top of her clique, had distracted her from studying. Now education drew her as though it wore the sexiest cologne on earth.
Being smart and writing reports, getting good marks—that didn’t satisfy her anymore. Phoebe wanted to be learned. School left her just about breathless.
? ? ?
The next day, on the subway ride from Church Avenue in Brooklyn to 135th Street in Harlem—a long, soporific ride—Phoebe faced up to another reason for the roses in her cheeks and her motivation for never missing an Intro to Sociology class.
Professor Robert Gardiner.
Phoebe rolled the name around as she walked onto campus, entered his classroom, and chose a seat two rows from his desk. When he smiled, she beamed back. She slipped her pen and pencil from her bag and pulled out her notebook. She was cool and ready.
Professor Gardiner had most definitely not come from Brooklyn. For the first few weeks of class, Phoebe hadn’t wanted to speak for fear of sounding like a parody of a Brooklyn girl, all dese and dose. At night, she whispered to the mirror: cahn’t, instead of caint, and cahfee in place of cawfee, until she went too far and sounded like Katharine Hepburn. Jake spotted the changes right away. “Stop putting on airs,” he’d ordered.
Life became complicated. Phoebe spoke in a manner she thought sounded educated when outside Brooklyn, and then reclaimed her accent as she exited her neighborhood subway stop.