Ch. 9: Lines
by Emmet
At my house. Caught. Fifteen minutes early. People shouldn’t be 15 minutes early. I was shaving, T-shirt, bathrobe, when I heard the doorbell. Still half lathered, I ran to the door, feeling like a housewife caught in curlers and a mud mask. We could have met in any classroom, the cafeteria, the auditorium. My house, my space. Why did I listen to her? Because she asked.
Grace arrived with Jessie, who looked reluctant to be there. I was annoyed with Grace for catching me off guard. I had wanted to be more settled before people came. I led the stepsisters to the living room then ran back upstairs to finish shaving, my sense of control thrown off.
I looked in the mirror. I felt… embarrassed to be seen off-guard, unprofessional, by Grace. Blurring that boundary again. I winced – a nick, old blades, trying to shave too quickly. I blotted the blood with a bit of tissue. Grace in my kitchen made me think of me in her kitchen, waiting for her, all those months ago. Sipping wine, feeling giddy from her performance. She was not Rosalind, I was not Orlando. She was Grace, I was Mr. Dimitri. The bleeding had stopped; I rinsed my face. I changed, went downstairs. To find Grace looking at Accidentally on Purpose. “You’re a real poet!” She exclaimed admiringly. “When did you publish these?”
I reached for the book, pulled; she didn’t want to let go. “Several lifetimes ago,” I replied. Having successfully wrested the book away from Grace, I returned it to its place on the shelf.
“Well, can I look at them?” she asked.
Of course I wanted her to read my book, my books, to know about that part of my life. I had been reading her writing for all these months, advising her on how to end a story, develop characters, improve dialogue. I wanted her to know I was somehow real, had been part of the published written world, had received that official recognition.
But I wasn’t a writer any more, was I? “They’re not really worth looking at,” I said dismissively.
And then the meeting was underway, with Grace asserting the importance of a dance, of a place where people could be themselves. Laughing at my jokes, with me. Volunteering to hammer out a proposal for a dance. With me. I admired her perseverance; her enthusiasm would be helpful to the kids who really needed it. June would be proud.
There had been a good turnout; perhaps Grace was right about having it at my house. I wasn’t involved with the previous attempt at an alliance, but apparently it had been kept quiet enough that the school could take credit for trying without actually having to do anything.
Kids began to leave, and I looked for the memo the school board had issued regarding a dance, and found Grace, the last one there, in the kitchen doing dishes. She was… getting too close to where I lived, and I felt I was losing control over the distance I needed to maintain, over the lines I was trying to keep clear. I went to take the glass she was washing, and she brought up my poems again.
“So,” she began. “I didn’t know you wrote poetry.” I looked at her quickly and looked away. She added, unencouraged but undaunted. “I mean, there’s obviously a lot I don’t know about you.”
She liked me. I realized it then, for certain. Not just me projecting my feelings. I knew the signs. I’d seen them with Alexa back in October, and with Alexa I had done what I knew needed to be done. Kept my distance. I didn’t want to keep a distance with Grace. I couldn’t stop advising her on her writing, not now. But I had to do something. I couldn’t be participating in a let’s-get-to-know-each-other-better conversation. Grace continued, “Like with the Gay-Straight Alliance…” the phone rang. I put down the dish towel and went to answer it. “I didn’t know you cared about that,” I heard her say behind me.
Saved by the bell. Because what could I say? I know what I should have said. Stepped back then, You need to leave Grace, can’t get to know you, you can’t get to know me, something, anything. Been cold, distant, removed. And specific. I’m your teacher, can’t get personal. Instead I took refuge in the phone call, which turned out to be from Chris.
“Oh hi, Chris!” I said with forced joviality. Grace would hear me chatting up a friend, hear the name, would leave, see I am part of my grown up world that has nothing to do with her.
“Hey Gus! Guess who’s on the Chicago Gallery tour!”
“Shut up!” I said – glad she’d finally heard. Wanting to immerse myself in this conversation, aware of Grace drying that last glass.
“So… whatcha doing?” Chris asked, and I knew she had something on her mind.
“Nothin’… nothin’…What are you up to?” I said, waiting to hear the real purpose of her call. Noticing Grace folding the dish towel.
“You busy right now?” she asked.
“No, no, no… Just doing some dishes.” Grace quietly put the towel on my briefcase and indicated she was going to get her bag. I continued to be immersed in this conversation, aware of the smell of her shampoo as she walked past me, of the way the dim kitchen lights caught the red highlights of her hair, of the necessity, for me, of being rude, of establishing my own separate life.
“How about tomorrow night?” Chris continued. “You want to go on a double date with Barry and me? His sister’s in town.”
“You’re kidding.” Not what I expected. I hadn’t even met Barry yet, I mean, as Chris’s official fiancé.
“I’m not kidding. Her name is Jazmynne. Seriously. With a Z and a YNNE. That’s not how you usually spell it --”
“I know.” Could I double date with Chris?
“Of course you do. But she still seems really nice, and it could be fun. She’s older than Barry, too – 36, I think. An easier way for you to meet Barry than just the three of us. I thought that might be weird.”
“That’s what I thought,” I said, though I was prepared to do it, get it over with. Though meeting him with his sister, double dating, was not really any less weird. It was just awkward because of that last time we saw each other. But it didn’t have to be. We went too far back to let it be.