The St. Ambrose School for Girls(61)

As I consider the drift of my previous thoughts, I return to what happened between Strots and me down by the river, except I now edit in Nick Hollis kissing me—purely as a hypothetical construct to test my libido. I am instantly on fire, and I nearly swoon, so overcome with a full-body response that I wonder if I’m not coming down with food poisoning. And when the rush of blood pressure and heart rate stabilizes some, I decide that, if a man like Nick Hollis were to do what Strots did to me—or, conversely, if I ever, in some parallel universe of my mind’s creation, did what Strots did to him—I am totally convinced that lack of sexual response on my part would not be a problem.

It’s unclear whether this is good or bad news.

“So, what do you think of American Psycho?” he asks me.

I glance over at him and try to form a cogent thought. “It’s raw. Savage. I love it.”

Nick throws his head back and laughs. “Me, too.”

“I’m almost done.”

Our private reading club is the high point of my days now. The book I borrowed, and the prospect of taking more out of his lending library, light me up inside in a way that’s even better than when I’d catch glimpses of him before. And it’s the same when I get to go to his apartment to have my now three-times-per-week check-ins with Dr. Warten. It’s reliable contact that’s deep and meaningful for me.

“I’ll bring it back to you when I’m finished,” I tack on.

“Take your time. I’m into The Kitchen God’s Wife. During this year off from studying, I’m going to read as much contemporary fiction as I can before I sink back into the old stuff.”

Nick’s demeanor is so easy, so comfortable, that I wonder how I ever assumed he was standoffish. If anything… he seems lonely.

He must miss Sandra.

“Are you going to teach English at the college level when you’re finished with your doctorate?” I ask, feeling like he and I are at a cocktail party while the rest of my peers and these imported boys are playing with finger paints.

“I don’t know. The old man’s footing the bill for my PhD, so I’m not in a hurry. Of course, all he cares about is that I finish what I start, so I will need to get through my dissertation.” Nick’s face grows remote, but then he snaps out of it. “Afterward, I can always go to New York and work in publishing if I decide I don’t want to read student papers for a living.”

“Wow. New York City.”

He glances over and smiles that smile of his before returning to his perusal of the dance. “Just because it’s big, doesn’t mean it’s a big deal.”

“How can you say that? New York is so full of… everything.”

“When were you there last?”

“I haven’t ever been. Only read about it and seen it on TV and in the movies.”

Nick nods as his roaming eyes settle on something and stay there.

“You shouldn’t believe all the hype,” he murmurs. “It’s only shiny from far away, like so many other things.”

Overhead, the song gets slow. “Rush, Rush.” Paula Abdul. As lyrics about summer breezes and kisses that put souls at ease wash through the gym, wash through me, I stare at Nick while he stares at the dance. The dichotomy of our diversions should be a reminder of reality to my heart. But when has the distance between what I see in my mind and what really exists ever changed anything for my brain?

How I envy his wife.

“Well, I’m going to go for a wander.” He puts his hand on my shoulder. Like a residential advisor. Like a friend. “I’ll see you later.”

“Thank you,” I say. “Sorry, I mean, see you later. Too.”

As he walks away, I picture myself returning at the end of next summer as a junior, with him no longer in Tellmer on the second floor, but at Yale with his old books and his PhD track and his beautiful, traveling wife. His looming, inevitable absence dims my future. I’ve enjoyed reading his book in my bed at night, knowing that my hands are where his have been on the hardcover, my eyes on words he has read. What Bret Easton Ellis conceived of is so much less important than the identity of the book’s owner, although as I put the novel under my pillow and close my eyes, I’m uneasy that its title is also a descriptor for me. I wonder if that’s why I chose it out of all of Nick’s collection after I finished my first phone call with Dr. Warten.

I’m willing to guess that my next book will be Amy Tan’s newest release, the novel he’s reading now. I like the idea that I’m following in his footsteps in some small way. Greta can have all the rides back to campus in his car that she wants. I’d rather ambulate myself up that hill from town a thousand times if it means I can hold Nick Hollis’s books in my hands.

It’s strange the connections that emotions create out of thin air.

It’s also isolating to be the only one who sees them, and I think of Ms. Crenshaw.

As the dance continues, I note a change in the gym. It’s as if Greta paved the way for the others. Integrated groups are now forming everywhere, the girls’ expressions not so haughty, the boys’ eyes more direct. There’s less dancing, too, as if the former were working off their anxiety that way, and there’s more strolling, as if the latter are becoming less frozen from fear.

Prospects do not improve for Nick, however.