Free Higher Education by Lisa Pliscou Page A

really sorry.”
    â€œIt’s okay, jerk.”
    â€œIt won’t happen again.”
    â€œHa.”
    â€œAt least not this week.”
    â€œThat’s more like it. Hey, cut that out.” I hear Sutter giggling in the background.
    I let go of my forehead. “Tell Sutter I’ll scratch his eyes out if he so much as lays a hand on you.”
    â€œMiranda says hello,” she says loudly.
    â€œI hate it when you translate.”
    â€œLook, I’ve got to run. The commercials are over.”
    â€œI understand.”
    â€œHey, are you still going out with the boy wonder tonight?”
    â€œI guess so.” I steal a glance at Michael, who’s now carving his initials into the desktop with his Swiss army knife.
    â€œWell, have fun. If you can call it that.”
    â€œWhat’s that supposed to mean?”
    â€œYou know I think he’s boring.”
    â€œI don’t see what—”
    â€œDifferent strokes, though, I always say.”
    â€œDon’t be disgusting.”
    â€œAnd speaking of scratching eyes out, hope you don’t run into Jennifer on the way over.”
    â€œThanks for the good wishes.”
    â€œYou know it, dope.” She hangs up.
    Michael’s back to the date stamp, imprinting the back of my notebook with June 24, working his way downward in neat vertical rows. “Hey, are you trying to tell me something?” I lean forward to breathe at his nape again. “How many more shopping days is it, anyway?”
    â€œAnythin’ wrong?” He doesn’t look up from my notebook.
    â€œNo, why?”
    â€œAre you okay?”
    â€œI’m fine.”
    â€œYeah?” Now he turns his head to look at me. His face is very close to mine, and I find myself studying the mossy green-brown of his eyes and the fine silky arch of his brows.
    â€œOf course I am.” I stand up. “Can’t complain. What time is it?”
    â€œTen-fifteen.”
    â€œDarling, will you stop staring at me? I’ve got to run. I’m not paid for overtime, you know.”
    â€œI was gonna ask you if you wanted to mosey over to Piroshka’s with me for a cappuccino.”
    â€œI can’t tonight, Michael.” I’m twitching into my jacket. “But I’ll take a raincheck, okay?”
    â€œSure, okay.” He stands up too.
    I’m tossing my notebook, pens, and thesaurus into my bag. “Let’s get out of here.” I wait at the door while he places the stamps and ink pad in a corner of the blotter and then pushes in the desk chair. He comes toward me and I hold the door open for him to pass. Instead, he pauses in front of me.
    â€œAre you really okay?”
    â€œI’m really okay, Michael. But I’m sort of late for something. And I just totally blew off a whole evening’s worth of Soc Sci 33 reading.”
    â€œ You’re worryin’ ’bout Soc Sci 33?”
    â€œ You don’t have a two-hundred-pound section leader breathing down your neck, do you?”
    We walk into the hallway and I lock the door behind us. We’re silent as we leave Emerson and descend the steps into Mem Yard.
    â€œMichael.”
    â€œWhat.”
    â€œKnock knock.”
    â€œWho’s there?”
    â€œKant.”
    â€œKant who?”
    â€œCanteloupe’s always better than watermelon.” I look up into his face, trying to see if he’s smiling. “Get it? Kant-elope?”
    â€œYeah, I get it.”
    â€œFunny, huh?”
    â€œYep.”
    â€œIt’s okay. You don’t have to laugh if you don’t want to.” There’s a full moon tonight. Fat and pearlescent, it casts a spectral white light that shimmers off Widener’s immense proscenium and smooth high creamy-colored columns. “Hey, I’ve been telling all the jokes tonight.” I touch his sleeve. “It’s your turn now.”
    â€œSorry.” He moves his shoulders restlessly.