Free Compliments by Mari K. Cicero Page A

he says. “Mathematicians like us understand the genius that is the metric system.”
    We go on chatting for a while, trading stories and backgrounds. He’s from a large family with three brothers and two sisters. As an only child, I can’t even imagine the coordination that would take, but he assures me that despite the depictions on television suggesting otherwise, growing up in a big family was ideal. He adds shyly that someday, he wants to have a big family, too. I don’t dare tell him I feel the same way. It just seems like too much, too quick.
    Hawk turns the conversation back on me, and I tell him about my parents. My mom is a florist, my dad, a fifth-generation Detroiter and autoworker who knew the city was imploding economically.
    He shifts in his seat. “I want to ask you something, but I’m nervous I’ll offend you.”
    “You want to ask what race I am,” I say.
    His eyes go momentarily wide before he begins to fidget with his napkin. “It’s just curiosity. I don’t judge based on anything to do with race. Besides, my uncle used to say, ‘Don’t hate someone because of the color of their skin. Get to know them first, and you’ll find lots of other stuff to hate them for.’”
    His laughter dies on the air when I don’t reflect the gesture. Hawk’s mouth becomes a flat line as he coughs his apologies.
    “No, I don’t mind talking about it,” I say. “You put out a disclaimer, so I know it’s just what you say: curiosity. My dad is black, and my mother is white, except that she’s also one-fourth Japanese.”
    “So you’re grandfather—”
    “Great Grandmother,” I amend. “My grandfather was stationed on Okinawa after World War two. He eloped with her and brought her back to the States. I’ve never been there myself. My understanding is that her family had all died in the war, so it’s not like there’d be close relatives to visit.”
    “And your parents being different races, did that cause any conflicts growing up?”
    I search my memories. “Not really. I don’t know, maybe we’re just lucky, or maybe it’s not that weird, you know? Where I grew up, kids like me and families like mine weren’t all that unique. I mean, of course I’ve had moments in my life where I’ve had some things said or suspected someone was treating me a little different, but I think we all have moments of rejection. And usually for silly things. Race, religion, hobbies—”
    “Occupation,” Hawk interjects.
    Even though his smile shows me he’s only joking, I still feel culpability flex its fingers through the shreds of my character. “I shouldn’t have said no just because you were a janitor.”
    “Ah, so you admit it!” He snaps is fingers and points at me in playful accusation. “You did put me off for that.”
    “It was wrong, and I apologize,” I say again. “Though I didn’t understand you were also a PhD candidate and an instructor as well.” I balance a bit of chicken piccata on the end of my fork. “How did that happen, by the way?”
    Muffled, his answer comes out through a mouth half-filled, “I rocked the GREs, applied, and was accepted.”
    “Hawk!”
    He finishes chewing and takes a pull from his mug before continuing. “Joanna Ferris fell in love with me. Not, like, literally, but professionally. When a position opened up this term, I was the only one she said who could fill it. She was really impressed with my success in the Outreach Program. Teaching at the Community Center pays better, but I do miss working with the kids sometimes.”
    “And the janitor thing?” I ask. “How did that come about?”
    He shrugs his shoulders. “Just worked out like that. Got to make ends meet somehow. Hey, that reminds me, any prospects on an advisor? Ferris got her eyes on you yet?”
    I remember the invitation I received earlier in the day, and find myself grinning like a polecat. “Have you ever heard about the dinner the chair hosts for promising new students?”
    “Heard