My Dark Vanessa(99)

I bite my bottom lip, remembering all the times I’ve said the same thing to Strane. My eyes dart around the office, fall on the tallest bookshelf where two unopened beers sit among the books. “You’re hiding booze in here.”

He looks to where I’m pointing. “If I’m trying to hide it, I’m doing a pretty bad job.” He stands, turns the bottles so I can see their labels: shakespeare stout.

“Ah,” I say. “Nerd beer.”

He grins. “In my defense, they were a gift.”

“What are you saving them for?”

“I’m not sure I’m saving them for anything.”

It’s obvious what the next thing out of my mouth will be. He seems to hold his breath waiting for me to say the words:

“What about right now?”

I say it so jokingly, it should be easy for him to respond, Vanessa, I don’t think that’s a good idea. Maybe if another student asked him, it would be. But he doesn’t even pretend to deliberate. He just holds up his hands, as though I’ve twisted his arm and he can’t fight anymore.

“Why not?” he says.

Then I’m taking out my keys because I have a bottle opener key chain, and we’re clinking bottles, the fizz from the warm beer going all the way up my nose. Watching him drink is like peering behind a curtain. I see him at a bar, at home, sitting on the couch, lying in bed. I wonder if he grades papers late at night, if he keeps mine at the bottom of the pile, purposely saved for last.

No—he isn’t like that. He’s good, outright boyish, flashing me a sheepish grin before tipping back the bottle. I’m the one with ulterior motives. I’m the corruptor, luring him into a trap. I almost tell him to smarten up, stop being so trusting. Henry, you can’t drink beers in your office with a student. Do you understand how stupid this is, how easily it could get you into trouble?

He asks if I’m taking his gothic seminar next semester and I say I’m not sure, that I haven’t signed up for anything yet.

“You should get on that,” he says. “You’re running out of time.”

“I always leave it until the last minute. I’m a fuckup.” I throw back the bottle and take a long swallow. Fuckup. I like how it feels to describe myself as that to Henry, who has spent so much time praising my brain.

“Sorry for being crass,” I add.

“It’s fine,” he says, and I see a slight change in his expression, a shade of concern.

He asks questions about my other classes, my future plans. Have I thought any more about graduate school? It’s too late to apply for the fall, but I can get a head start on applications for next year.

“I don’t know,” I say. “My parents didn’t even go to college.” I’m not sure what that has to do with anything, but Henry nods like he understands.

“Neither did mine,” he says.

If I decide to apply, he says, he’ll help me navigate the process, and my brain catches on his choice of verb—navigate. I see a map spread out across a desk, our heads huddled together. We’ll figure this out, Vanessa. You and me.

“I remember how daunting it was when I first thought about applying,” Henry says. “It felt like embarking on totally unfamiliar territory. You know, before coming here I was at a prep school for a year, and it was strange, teaching those kids. Sometimes it seemed as though entitlement was instilled in them at birth.”

“I went to a school like that,” I say. “For a couple years, anyway.”

He asks which school, and when I say Browick, he seems rattled. He sets his beer bottle on the desk, clasps his hands together. “The Browick School?” he asks. “In Norumbega?”

“You’ve heard of it?”

He nods. “Strange coincidence. I, uh . . .”

I wait for him and beer settles in my mouth, for a moment my throat too tight to swallow. “I have a friend who works there,” he says.

Nausea surges up my throat, and my hands tremble so badly, I knock over my bottle as I try to set it down. It’s nearly empty, but a little spills onto the floor.

“Oh god, I’m sorry,” I say, righting the bottle, knocking it over again, then giving up and tossing it into the garbage can.

“Hey, it’s fine.”

“It spilled.”

“It’s fine.” He laughs like I’m being silly, but when I push my hair back from my face, he sees I’m crying, but it’s not normal crying. This is just tears showing up on my cheeks. I’m not even sure they’re coming from my eyes when I cry like this. It feels more like being wrung out, like a sponge.

“This is so embarrassing,” I say, wiping my nose with the back of my hand. “I’m an idiot.”

“Don’t.” He shakes his head, baffled. “Don’t say that. You’re fine.”

“What does your friend do? Is he a teacher?”

“No,” he says. “She’s a—”

“‘She’? It’s a she?”

He nods, looking so concerned, I imagine I could confess anything and he would hear it. I can feel his kindness already, before I say a word.

“Do you know anyone else who works there?” I ask.

“No one,” he says. “Vanessa, what’s wrong?”