Chapter Three

 

 

 

A failure is not always a mistake, it may simply be the best one can do under the circumstances. The real mistake is to stop trying.

–B.F. Skinner

 

 

 

 

 

By early afternoon the next day, I still haven’t heard back from Brad. I tried calling him a few more times the night before and then sent him texts all morning at various intervals when I knew he would be out of class, but there has been no response. I start to worry that something is wrong with him. The one time we went to dinner, his phone was out on the table or in his hand at all times. I can’t imagine what could be preventing him from responding since he appears to be inordinately attached to the piece of technology.

Luckily, I remembered most of his schedule from various conversations. Having a near perfect memory is useful at times.

He normally eats lunch a little later on Wednesdays, due to a lab class from eleven to one thirty, so at two I head to the cafeteria. I find him there, sitting in a booth with three other males that appear vaguely familiar.

“Good afternoon, Brad,” I say, stopping next to their booth.

He’s drinking a soda and chokes when I materialize next to him. “Lucy?”

“I apologize for startling you. I would like to speak with you privately.”

“What are you doing here?” he asks after he stops coughing.

There is such a thing as a stupid question, but I didn’t realize it until I tutored Brad. That’s okay, though. He’s not excessively smart when it comes to logic and math, but he does have a lot of friends and his social experience is superior to mine and that’s all I care about at the moment.

“I would like to speak with you privately,” I say again, a little bit slower this time.

“Listen, Lucy.” Fully recovered from his choking fit, he leans back in the booth and places one arm along the back of the seat behind his friend. “You’re a nice girl and I really appreciate you helping me with calculus, but I’m not your boyfriend.”

“I never said—”

“You called me ten times last night,” he interrupts. He doesn’t look at me while he speaks; instead, he concentrates a majority of his focus on his friends who seem to be enjoying the conversation immensely.

“I only called—”

“And you’ve texted me all morning. This has to stop,” he says firmly.

“It’s only because—”

“We went on one date. And all you wanted to talk about were things I don’t really understand. You gave me statistics on how drinking alcohol affects movement and brain activity or whatever.”

“Gross motor skills and neural synapses.” I finally get a sentence completed.

“Yeah,” he says. “Whatever.” He rolls his eyes and looks over at his friends again who are laughing behind their hands and shoving food in their mouths, pretending like they don’t know what’s happening right in front of them even though it would be impossible to ignore.

Brad runs a hand through his messy light brown hair, but the motion doesn’t disturb the stylish disarray. “Look, it’s just not going to work out. I’m sorry.” He crosses his arms over his chest, a clear use of body language signaling the conversation is over, at least in his mind.

I could defend my actions. I could tell him of my intentions and that I did not believe him to be anything more than an acquaintance, but suddenly I don’t want to waste my breath or my limited time.

Instead I nod. “Okay,” I say. “Thank you for your honesty. I’m sorry I disturbed your lunch,” I tell him and the rest of the table.

He looks a little surprised at my easy acquiescence and that’s the last thing I see before I walk away. Unfortunately, I don’t walk quickly enough to avoid hearing the chuckles and laughs that accompany my departure.

 

 

***

 

 

I head straight home from the cafeteria. I don’t have anything else left to do for the afternoon since the only thing I have to work on is my pathogen study. Or non-study, as it seems to have evolved into.

Fortunately, for now, the grant will cover my rent and food stipend. I also receive a small monthly allotment due to royalties from articles I’ve published in science magazines. I don’t have a car, so I don’t have to worry about gas or insurance. My family usually takes me anywhere I need to go, but I don’t go many places that aren’t walking distance from campus other than my parents’ house. They live about thirty minutes away, a little bit outside town, and one of my brothers usually picks me up and drops me off if necessary.

As I’m nearing home, my neighbor is parking his car—it’s a classic car of some kind, black and shiny—in the one and only narrow parking spot next to our duplex. We end up in front of the building at the same time.

“Hello,” he says, and motions for me to precede him up the stairs.

After yesterday, I find that I wish to know more about my neighbor. This is a new sensation for me. Not the being curious part—I always want to know everything about everything—but I tend to avoid social contact with anyone unless absolutely necessary and therefore make only polite overtures to ensure my mostly solitary existence. But now, I find myself genuinely interested.

“How are you?” I ask while walking up the steps.  The words feel strange in my mouth. I’m not used to engaging in conversation without someone else holding the reins.

I glance back at him. There are slight gray smudges under his eyes and he’s frowning at the ground in front of him. His face is covered in fine dark stubble, blurring the edges of his jaw and chin.

“Great,” he says although he doesn’t sound as if he means it. “Thanks.” He doesn’t sound as if he means that, either. His voice is deeper than I remember, but then, I’ve only spoken with him a couple of times and I was likely in a hurry and not paying attention to something as frivolous as the sound of his voice.

His response is interesting to me. Under normal social conventions he should return the question, but chooses not to. He’s not interested in reciprocal conversation. The notion stings slightly. From what I’ve observed, my neighbor has an abundance of friends and his social skills exceed my own by a wide margin. And yet…Perhaps it’s not me. Perhaps he’s experiencing momentary depression or he’s ill.

I don’t say anything else because there’s nothing more to say, and I’m back in my side of the duplex with the door locked behind me in seconds.

Once it’s just me with my thoughts in the sparsely furnished space, I hang my backpack on the hook by the door and head to the computer. I’ve got to figure out how to get my experiment going and my life on track. I need to study emotions and now that Brad’s out of the equation, I need a new plan.

There’s only one person left whose emotions I can study.

Mine.

First, I need to narrow down my focus and figure out precisely which emotions are the most prevalent and important.

A few hours and one microwavable meal later, I’ve confirmed all my previous suspicions.

I went through all of the patient files at the clinic. I put all of the information into a spreadsheet that tracked the data and isolated the subjects to show the most commonly reported items.

There were a shocking number of eating disorders, and more than a few suicide threats, but all that took up only twenty percent of the data. The rest of the students, regardless of gender, visited the clinic to vent about their relationships.  Every kind of association, from family to friendships to romance and sex. And sex seemed to be the winner. Premarital sex, sex before marriage, significant others cheating—I had experience with that yesterday—significant others being possessive and controlling, breakups, makeups, and nearly everything in between.

So this is it. I know more specifically what I need to learn about. I need to gain experience. I need to find friends and be more social. Experience lust…The thought makes me cringe a little. Was my suggestion to Duncan not too far off? Should I sleep around? The thought is less than appealing. Experience. I need experience with relationships. The words run around and around in my head.

I can find friends. That should be easy enough. Go to a social function, engage in conversation. How hard can it be?

As for sexual relations, maybe I can find someone to teach me about attraction, the chemistry that’s not performed in a lab, along with all of the other factors that accompany serious relationships. I frown. That won’t work either. Being taught would be just as effective as reading about it. I can’t expect someone to explain it to me, I need to live it. But the thought of living it makes me feel queasy.

I’ll just have to talk to people about their experiences. Maybe set up interviews and develop a questionnaire with the information I want. I can’t go farther than that. Not yet.

I turn in my office chair around and around and finally stop it to face my front door.

Jensen. My neighbor.

I find him interesting. With the exception of our interaction today, he’s a social creature. He understands people, better than me, and he’s one of those males who oozes easy confidence and grace. From what I overheard in the clinic, he’s recently experienced a breakup and he’s having troubles with his family. All things I would like to know about. Maybe I can somehow get him to agree to an interview, or an experiment. Maybe both. It would be purely scientific and it would allow me to study him in social situations and perhaps learn through observation.

I shake my head. I don’t know if that will work. I don’t even know if he’s in a relationship already or anything about him. As a matter of fact he might be homosexual, if the guy yelling how much he loved him the other day is any indication. Except, the stranger also murmured something about loving her, in which case…well, I’ll never know unless I ask.

A quick glance at the clock above the stove reveals it’s only eight o’clock. Surely early enough for a social call.

It’s only ten quick steps from my door to his. I give the wood a brisk knock. I don’t see any lights on from where I stand, but his car is still in the driveway. I’m sure he’s home.

I knock again after waiting the customary minute or so, but still, no answer.

I return to my side of the duplex, only a little put out. Until I can run into my neighbor again, I need to do something else. Waiting is not a suitable option and it’s not something I’m comfortable with, especially in this situation. The faster I can gain information, the more comfortable I will be.

One of the first steps to understanding a different culture is observation. I need to find an adequate place to observe humanity at its most basic level, in addition to widening my own socialization and experience.

I make a quick decision. A college party. That’s where I’ll start.