Chapter Five

 

 

 

Small minds are concerned with the extraordinary, great minds with the ordinary.

–Blaise Pascal

 

 

 

 

 

The phone rings four times before there’s an answer.

“Hello?” Her voice sounds groggy. Did I dial the right number?

“Freya?” I ask.

“Yes? Is this a telemarketer? Because I don’t have any money to buy crap,” she croaks.

“No, this is Lucy. We spoke last night. And we also spoke on Wednesday at approximately 1:35 p.m. in the peer counseling clinic.”

“Yeah, sure I remember. What’s up Luce?”

“I was wondering if I could ask for your advice.”

“Uh, sure, sure.” There’s a rustling of fabric on the line as if she’s sitting up in bed. “Wait, how did you get this number?”

“From your file at the clinic.”

“Oh.” Pause. “You went through my file?”

“It was necessary before your session. I have a very good memory.”

Another pause and then, “Okay, shoot.”

“You mentioned last night that I should form a friendly relationship with Jensen before propositioning him. I’ve thought over your advice and I think it’s reasonable. What is the most expeditious way to accomplish this?”

“Um. Well, you could do something neighborly, like invite him to a party.”

A party. I grimace before answering. “What if that’s not an option? What else?”

“Let’s see,” she says. There’s more rustling and movement on the line and then, “You could ask him for a cup of sugar or something. Don’t neighbors do that?”

“What would I use the sugar for?”

“Why does that matter? I dunno, to make cookies?”

I consider this. “I could make cookies. Then after I make them, I could bring him some. That’s neighborly, correct?”

“Sure.”

“And this also affords two separate opportunities for conversation.”

“Right,” she agrees.

“Thank you for your time,” I say, and hang up the phone.

             

 

***

 

 

I’ve always enjoyed cooking. It’s a bit like science. You mix things together in a certain order in certain quantities to achieve the desired outcome.

I have plenty of sugar on hand, and although I hate being deceitful, it’s one harmless white lie and it’s the means to an end. I never considered myself particularly Machiavellian, but I’m willing to try nearly anything at this point. At about three o’clock, I head over to the neighbor’s door and knock.

No answer. I’m fairly sure he’s home because I can see his car, and I heard him entering his side of the building approximately an hour ago.

I knock again a bit harder and the door swings open.

“Hello,” I say. This is the first time we’ve been face to face and not just coming or going. He looks better than the last time I saw him. The gray circles under his eyes are gone and he’s slightly flushed, like he’s been exerting himself recently. He’s wearing a light brown shirt with dark smudges like he’s been rubbing dirty hands on it. His fingertips are tinged with some kind of black substance. If his car wasn’t sitting pristinely in the driveway, I would think he had been doing something mechanical. 

Looking at the shirt makes me notice other things. Like I didn’t realize his shoulders are so broad. He’s attractive, in a conventional way. Although he has brown hair and brown eyes and that description seems rather dull and plain, his features are nice. He must have shaved recently. The scruff is gone revealing a patrician nose and strong jaw. His face is symmetrical. Humans find symmetrical features attractive because it’s a sign of superior genetic quality and developmental stability.

He’s not smiling. He looks rather brooding, but it’s a good look on him.

“Can I help you?” he asks and I realize I’ve been studying him without speaking for an unknown quantity of time.

“Do you have any sugar?” I ask.

“No,” he says before closing the door. He manages to eke out a quick “Sorry,” before the door shuts gently in my face.

Well. That didn’t quite go as planned.

             

 

***

 

 

I rack my brain for the rest of the evening on how to initiate a discussion with Jensen, but to no avail. Not knowing what to do is a foreign sensation for me, but in this case, I am completely out of my depth. I have no idea how to make friends. I don’t socialize. The only people I have any type of relationship with besides my family is other students I tutor or lab with. And even then, it’s never social, it’s more professional.

For the first time in my life, I start to wonder about myself. What is wrong with me that this is so difficult?

The next morning, I decide to call Freya again. Maybe she will inspire another idea.

“Hello?”

“Freya?”

“Lucy. Why do you always call at the ass crack of dawn?”

I glance at the clock above my stove. “It’s seven thirty. Don’t you have class at eight?”

“Holy shit!”

Click.

“Hello?”

Two hours later I find Freya.

I’m leaning against the wall directly opposite the door when her class ends. She exits, speaking with another student. When she sees me, she says something to excuse herself and then heads in my direction.

She waves as she walks over, adjusting her bag. “If I didn’t already know what a weirdo you are, this would totally creep me out.”

“I need your help,” I say.

She purses her lips and considers me for a moment. “I missed breakfast and I’m starving. I’ll help you if you buy me some food.”

“Okay.”

We travel in silence to the cafeteria, mostly because Freya is walking so fast, I’m panting to keep up. Also, morning is a busy time on campus, and we have to weave in and out of the crowd of students heading to their classes to make it to the cafeteria.

She orders a large stack of pancakes with eggs and sausage and picks up a few single-serving boxes of cereal on the way to the register.

“Are you going to eat all that food now?” I ask as I swipe my card.

“No,” she says around a mouthful of apple. “I’ll save some for later. Starving college student and all that.”

We sit at a booth and while she’s shoveling food into her mouth, I tell her what happened yesterday when I knocked on Jensen’s door.

“Are you sure you want to keep pursuing this? You’re a cute girl and all, but this is Jensen Walker. He’s like a bluefin tuna in a sea of canned albacore. The likelihood of catching him on your line is slim to none. I’m sure we could find you another guy to harass.”

I hesitate for only a second, not sure I completely understand her metaphors before answering. “I’m sure. I’m not going to proposition him like you think I am. I’m going ask him questions. He’s the perfect candidate to help me further my emotional education due to the conflict he’s experiencing in his relationships. Plus, I think I might be attracted to him.” Not to mention the fact that I’m not attracted to anyone, ever. But yesterday, when I was staring at him, and the fact that he’s a bit of a mystery…

“You think you’re attracted to him? You think? Honey.” She wipes a bit of syrup off her mouth with a napkin and tosses it on the table, gazing at me with an intensity that would be frightening if she wasn’t five foot nothing and her voice was less squeaky. “The man is a god. Wooden posts find him attractive. Dogs jump six-foot fences for the opportunity to hump his leg as he passes. You’d have to be dead or blind to not find him attractive.”

I’m not sure I agree with her assessment. Is this what most people think of Jensen? I noted his features were symmetrical and he’s conventionally handsome, but if I had known the female population held him in such high esteem I might have looked elsewhere. I may not understand most social conventions but I know when someone is out of my league, so to speak.

“What do I do now?” I ask her.

She finishes her last bite of pancake and grabs a flosser out of her bag and starts cleaning her teeth.

“Well, let’s see.” She throws the flosser on her plate after a moment. “You could lock yourself out of your house and use his phone to call the locksmith?”

I consider the possible consequences of this scenario.

“I’m not sure,” I say. “I don’t want to give him another opportunity to tell me no. Or what if he doesn’t answer his door?”

She begins shoving the small cereal boxes into her bag along with some extra syrup packets and plastic forks she procured from the condiment counter. “Well, you’re the brain here, what do you think?”

“I think I should just knock on his door and tell him what I want.”

She gasps in horror. “No! Not that again!”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s crazy.” She finishes stuffing her bag and slams it on the bench seat for emphasis. “And he doesn’t know you. He’ll think you’re a weirdo and he’ll definitely say no.”

I consider this. She’s probably correct. I should listen to her since she has friends and likely knows what she’s talking about, at least in comparison to myself.

Another thought strikes me, inspired by her suggestion. “What if he was locked out of his house and had to come to me?”

She raises her eyebrows at me. “How the hell are you going to pull that off?”

“I don’t know. Yet.”

She laughs. “Girl, you’ve got balls the size of Cleveland.”

“Is that good?”

“It’s badass,” she says with feeling.

I’m still not sure if she’s paying me a compliment, but I nod and smile. My mind is already contriving possible scenarios to put my plan into action.