Tart. Jody Gehrman
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of stuffy confinement in idea-filled rooms. God, I miss being a student. Today it takes me well over an hour to get dressed, despite the fact that my wardrobe contains exactly six frantically purchased items to choose from. By the time I walk out the door, I’ve spent so much time with an old, melted eyeliner trying to add sophistication to my ill-fitting secondhand skirt-and-blouse ensemble that I look like a cross between Mary Poppins and Courtney Love.
Approaching my office, keys in hand, the crisis in confidence brought on by my sucky outfit gives way to a moment of speechless awe. There, printed in block letters across the glass panel on my office door is something I hadn’t anticipated: C. BLOOM. Right there, in plain sight. I’ve officially become official. I no longer skulk about in the hallways or set up camp in library nooks like all the nomadic students wandering here and there, looking lost and abandoned. No. My ship has a port, my port a name, and that name is C. BLOOM, Theater Arts Professor.
I stand there for a long moment, gazing at the letters. Then I reach out and trace the C with one finger, half afraid that it will smudge away under my touch.
“It’s a trip, huh?”
I turn to see a woman with dark hair and medieval eyes watching me. She looks about forty; she’s wearing a red wraparound skirt and a black T-shirt that says Runs with Scissors on it. “You must be Claudia,” she says, reaching out to shake hands.
“Yes.”
“I’m Mare Marquez. I teach dance. First time I saw my name on a door I couldn’t decide whether to cry with happiness or run the other way.”
I smile. I like this chick. She’s got turquoise rings on every finger and she looks like she’s never worn lipstick in her life. Her cheekbones are high, and her skin is the color of summer spent on beaches eating fresh fruit with brown fingers. “So which did you do?” I ask.
She laughs. “Neither. I just got out my keys and acted like I was born with my name on doors.”
“Good advice,” I say, and try my key. Miraculously, I choose the right one and it slides right in. “Hey. So far so good.”
“My office is down the hall, if you need anything,” she says. “Welcome.”
“Thanks.”
I slip inside and look around at the bare bookcases, the beige phone, the corkboard sprouting an assortment of brightly colored pushpins. I pull up the blinds and sunlight floods my wood-veneer desk and the sleek black computer. “So far so good,” I repeat in a whisper.
I pull out my roster and look at the names for my first class: Beginning Acting. Looks like an okay group. Couple of Brittanys, a Miranda, one Misty Waters (yikes), a handful of Waspy-sounding boys. Let’s see…class doesn’t start until ten-thirty. I’ve still got twenty minutes—plenty of time to figure out a lesson plan. I’ll just quickly check my e-mail, then get right to it.
TO: Claudia Bloom
FROM: Ziv Ackerman
SUBJECT: ccccclllllaaaaauuuuuddddddiiiiiaaaaa.
Oh, my God, dollface, I’m lost without you. Can’t believe stupid X (refuse to record despicable name here) forced you back to California—I blame everything on that prick. Now my apartment is barren, my outlook manic on good days, Kafkaesque otherwise. The refrigerator is so horrifyingly bachelory; none of your precious little curries or Trader Joe treats in there.
To top it off, new roomie moves in tomorrow, and he’s one hundred percent testosterone. I swear he eats boys like me for breakfast, washes us down with a swill of battery acid. He’s Transylvanian; his accent sends chills down my spine. Okay, okay, you know me too well—yes, he does look a little like Jude Law (okay, he’s a dead ringer—yum), but that doesn’t mean I’m going to put up with little hairs on the bathroom sink. It’ll either be a total nightmare or a dream come true. Any predictions, my Bloomie?
How I miss you. Tell me California’s crumbling into the sea, and you’re on your way back home to our little Texas nest. Mr. Transylvanian Jude Law is so out of here, I swear.
Ciao, my Chica,
Ziv
Ah, Ziv. A soft, weepy sigh escapes me before I can stop it. Remember how I told you about the law student I moved in with and subsequently fell for when I got to Texas? That’s Ziv. He’s very sexy in a Johnny Depp, pierced-nipple, can talk about Nabokov until three in the morning sort of way. Lucky for me, he hasn’t slept with a girl since prom night back in Chattanooga, and so we became best friends. After Jonathan moved to New York with Rain, I limped back to my old room at Ziv’s—a drafty little hovel I hadn’t lived in for years. I only stayed there about four months, but it was precisely the right place to nurse my torn heart and battered ego. Ziv can dish on enemies with an almost pathological fervor; he also doesn’t tolerate moping beyond a set statute of limitations (about four minutes). At that point he scoops you up, pours his rich, velvety espresso down your throat and then he drags you off to glamorous bars where he magically convinces the hunkiest men on the premises to flirt with you until you feel you can go on.
Staring at the screen, I feel a distinct pang of homesickness, thinking of the quirky little apartment we shared on and off during my decade in Austin. I remember the sound of the train from my window, the glass-and-marble shower, the wicked, bitter tricks he and I planned to play on Jonathan—pranks we’d never really try, but oh how we savored our plots. Once we spent two hours detailing how we’d humiliate him at the premiere of his new play: we dreamed up everything from Ex-Lax in his cocktails to announcements over the loudspeaker of his most intimate measurements. Everything about life with Ziv suddenly seems golden: the sound of his espresso machine whirring to life in the morning, his appearance on the edge of my bed, serving me delicate little eggshell-size cups full of deep, dark magic, his eyes already gleaming with the buzz from his first double of the day.
I hit Reply and let my fingers fly across the keyboard.
TO: Ziv Ackerman
FROM: Claudia Bloom
SUBJECT: Man, you don’t even know…
…how much I miss you. So far I’ve managed to incinerate X’s bus, become hopelessly entangled with a yurt-dwelling sex machine (married—help—murderous wife still attached at the hip) and am on the verge of losing my job as we speak due to hopelessly frumpy fashion funk. Ziiiiiv. Where is my life? Now am desperately trying to pull off teacher thing and have zero idea how to proceed. Please advise.
My eyes wander down the screen dreamily; when I notice the numbers there, they set off a screeching siren of alarm in my brain. Oh, my God. Ten forty-three? How? How did that—?
Happen. Jesus. Okay, breathe. Where is class? Grab roster, paper, pen (teachers always have paper and pen, right?). No—wait. Grab snazzy fake-leather binder with notepad given to self at new-faculty orientation. There. Much better. Now: bag, pencil, coffee cup, um…should have syllabus, but no one really has those on the first day, do they? Think, Claudia, think: will create effortless and convincing excuse about missing syllabus, or better yet, not mention at all and let them think this is How We Do Things in College. Lipstick? No time. Will get all over teeth. Hair poofing out in back? Hell, it is. Oh, well, just don’t turn around. Never want students looking at ass, anyway.
I sprint down the hall and turn a corner at breakneck speed. Looking for room 812…let’s see…690…692…turn another corner, still running, and whack. Sudden impact: coffee explodes, snazzy fake-leather binder propels across hall, scattering rosters in all directions. Looking up, I see a small, dark-haired woman recovering her balance, and I realize I’ve fallen flat on my ass. Get up, Claudia. Christ. I scramble to my feet and a burst of ridiculous, self-conscious laughter erupts from my throat; when I see the look on the woman’s face I ineptly disguise my nervous giggles as a coughing fit. She’s got a handkerchief out now and she’s violently jabbing at the fist-size splotch of coffee spread amoebalike across the breast of her snow-white blouse.
“I am so sorry—I didn’t even see you,” I stammer, hovering awkwardly as she continues to