Shaken And Stirred. Kathleen O'Reilly
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a monstrous collection of vinyl records sat in open boxes in the corner. Her first thought was to snoop, but that was a violation of all the roommate privacy regulations that she kept dear.
No, she was going to study, so Tessa covered her face with her accounting book, blocking out all temptation. Eventually the sinking fund method of depreciation brought her back to a mind-numbing cold reality. And then, as if to really drag her back to reality, her mother called.
“Hi, Mom,” she said, abandoning all pretense of studying and wandering over to look at the O’Sullivan family pictures.
“How did you know it was me? Were you thinking of your favorite mother?”
“Caller ID, Mom.” Her mom was a Luddite where technology was concerned, but Tessa forgave her for it.
“Your phone’s been disconnected.”
With a heavy and completely audible sigh, Tessa put back the photo of three dark-headed boys in Little League uniforms.
“I moved, Mom,” she said, before mouthing the word Again?
“Again?”
Argh.
“Mom, you don’t understand the Manhattan apartment market. Rents are always changing, fees are going up, rentals turn into co-ops overnight. You have to stay on your toes, ready to handle whatever comes your way.”
“That assumes that someone can handle whatever comes their way.”
“How long have I lived on my own?”
“You’ve been in New York for four years, but you never have lived on your own. You should come back to Florida, Tessa. Your family is here and we can help you.”
Tessa returned to the comfort of her futon and leaned her head against the wooden back. This was a horse that’d been beaten, eviscerated and then hung on the wall as modern art. “Thank you, Mom, but no. I love you, and Florida’s grand, but I’m doing fine here. Honestly.”
“I just worry. If something happens, who’s going to take care of you? Are you eating okay?”
“Pastrami and rye for lunch.”
“Getting enough sleep?”
“Oh, yeah,” Tessa answered, stifling a yawn.
“How are the classes going?” Her mom had never approved of her going back for a degree, which meant only one thing: there was an ulterior motive to this conversation, and Tessa probably wasn’t going to like it.
Time to transition from negative energy to something positive—like hanging up.
“Good. Listen, Mom, I have an accounting quiz this week and I need to study. Talk to you soon,’ bye.”
Because she didn’t like the idea of lying to her mom, she opened her accounting book and went after it again. However, her concentration was elsewhere, poking through the record collection, browsing the photos. In short, being everything she hated in a nosy person. So Tessa loaded up her book bag, stuck her feet into a pair of flip-flops and headed for the door.
Sacked out on the living room couch, sleeping peacefully, without a worry in the world, was the source of her wandering concentration. It must be marvelous to take a nap in the afternoon. Her lips curved into a smile as she watched him sleep. He’d been the one constant in her life since she’d moved to New York, but she’d never seen him sleep. His chest rose and fell as he breathed, one arm flung over the edge. He even snored a little, a comfortable rumble that was low and even. She’d have to tease him about that. A plaid throw dangled from one armrest, and she took it, tucking it around him.
Instantly the hazy blue eyes opened. “Problem?”
Tessa jumped back, caught red-headed in the act of intruding on his space. “Heading off to Starbucks.”
Gabe didn’t seem to notice her violation, instead rubbing at his forehead with two fingers. “Sounds great. Can you bring me back a cup?”
“I’m going to study and then I’m heading for class.”
He sat up, tossing the throw aside, and Tessa took another step back. Wow, twelve hundred square feet could really be tiny at times.
“You can study here. Set up at the table or the desk in the back room. I can toss my stuff on the floor.”
“I have trouble concentrating. It’s a self-discipline tactic. When I go to the coffee shop, I know I’m there to study.”
“Ha. Some people go for coffee. Unenlightened plebes.”
She was about to launch into a lecture, but he held up a hand. “I know, I know. I won’t interfere. Personal space. Sorry. This is new to me. What about dinner? I’m thinking either pasta or Thai.”
“Don’t worry about me. I’ll grab a sandwich after class. And FYI, I’ll be back around seven in case you want to get out, or, uh, have company or something.”
His mouth twitched. “Sure.”
TESSA’S ACCOUNTING CLASS was at the Knightsbridge Community College in Queens, which overlooked Flushing Bay. Forty people comprised her class. Young students, old students, an ethnic smorgasbord from all walks of life. Tessa had never doubted her abilities to breeze through this class with eyes closed, but…
Last week’s test was the first item on the menu, and Professor Lewis walked up and down the aisles, handing out papers with a smile or a frown. When he reached Tessa, he frowned.
She frowned in return.
Her frown grew even darker when she saw the fat red D scrawled on the top of the test. This had to be a mistake, because a failing grade was not part of her life plan.
She waited patiently through the lecture, sneaking a peek at the paper every few minutes, checking to make sure she had read it correctly—maybe it was a half-assed B—but, no, with all the red circles, there was no mistake.
After the clock ticked the hour and her classmates started to file out, Tessa walked up to the prof’s desk on slightly wobbly legs, reminding herself that she faced angry drunks at three in the morning. This shouldn’t be a problem. Professor Lewis was long past middle age, with a thin, ruddy face that indicated a long love affair with, most likely, scotch.
“I wanted to talk to you about the test,” said Tessa, giving him the opening to immediately correct her grade.
He gave a long look at the clock, as though he was ready to take off, and then started drumming his pencil eraser on the desk. Too bad, buddy.
“There’s not much to say, Miss Hart. You stumbled over key concepts. Allowance for Doubtful Accounts and Inventory Flow, and you made a mess of the Statement of Changes in Financial Position. I was horribly disappointed in your work. Substandard. Are you sure you studied?”
“Didn’t everyone do equally bad?” she asked, because she had spent three days going over formulas and she could feel her blood pressure elevating, possibly in anger but probably in pure ice-bitten anxiety.
“Actually, the average was quite high. Eighty-three.”
Which meant no curve, which meant she still had a D. Damn. Her blood pressure notched up higher.
“Look, I don’t think you understand,” she said, trying to keep the quiver out of her voice. “I can’t make a C in this class, much less a D. It’s A or B all the way, because if I come out of community college with anything less than a three-point-oh, I’ll be screwed at getting into anyplace else. And at this juncture in my life’s journey I really need to be thinking beyond a two-year degree. I need a future. I need a career.”
“I feel your pain.”
Oh, I bet you do. Typical scotch drinker, always thinking of yourself.
“Can I make this up with extra credit? An assignment, a paper, something,