Teddy Wayne - Loner

I didn’t get off the wait list for Gender and the Consumerist Impulse. The good news was that you showed up to the next lecture for Ahab to Prufrock, though we weren’t slotted into the same discussion section. Our time in a shared space would be confined to Tuesday afternoons from 1:05 to 2:30 in Harvard Hall, which was just as impersonal as Annenberg. I would have to find another point of “intersectionality.”

I skimmed the campus events listings, found a viable candidate, and copied the link in a jaunty e-mail to Sara:

Subject: salsa? (not the condiment)

Hey, future concentrator in Latin American history, want to go to this thing tomorrow night? I warn you: I’m really good at salsa dancing. (Not really.) If you’re game, I can meet you in your room and we can head over together.

A few hours later she wrote back, “I’m even better! I’ll be coming from the library, so I’ll meet you at the place.”

Sara wasn’t there when I arrived at the salsa event, hosted by a Latino students’ organization in a building on Mt. Auburn Street. I dawdled by the door as the undergrads filed in and warmly greeted one another. They began to pair up and I went to the bathroom to kill time. I returned to find Sara watching from the sidelines.

“Sorry I’m late,” I said. “A friend from high school called on the way here. She wouldn’t stop talking.”

She nodded absently, a look of trepidation on her face. “I can tell I’m going to be really bad at this,” she said, eyes on the dance floor, where the couples synchronized back-and-forth steps, the more expert dancers adding spins and flourishes the execution of which were as beyond my purview as dunking a basketball.

“I didn’t realize what we were getting into,” I admitted. “I’m pretty sure no one would care if we sat out. Or even notice if we left.”

“Maybe it’s a good thing for us to experience being unseen at a Latino event,” she whispered. “You know — when Latinos have to deal with being unseen more systematically every day in the U.S.”

I gave her a sidelong glance to see if she was joking, but she wasn’t.

To my horror, we weren’t unseen. “Join us!” called out a girl who seemed to be the leader. Sara and I looked at each other self-consciously, the sixth graders jammed together by a well-meaning teacher at the school dance. With a resigned shrug she dropped her backpack to the floor and we tentatively shuffled to the outer ring of the action. I aped the stance of the men, holding my left hand up to the side. Sara took it in hers. My right hand hovered by her back without making contact, respecting an inch-wide force field. Her loose-fitting clothes — amorphous jeans, a long-sleeved shirt — stymied lecherous inspection of her figure, but from what I could tell, it carried little excess fat without being toned. A peeled potato, solid and compact. No one would ever become irritated with her in a crowd; she took up modest space.

We watched the eight-beat footsteps of the dancers subsisting on the fundamental moves. Mimicry proved challenging. Sara and I both lacked the coordination to follow the kinetic algorithm independently and were even more hopeless collaborators.

Ashamed of our ungainliness and cultural trespassing, the bovine American tourists immobilized by bulging fanny packs, I looked down at the floor, focusing on my feet. As we stepped forward at the same time, Sara’s forehead struck my nose.

“Shit,” I said, rubbing the spot to assess the damage.

She clapped a hand over her mouth. “I’m sorry! Are you all right?”

“Does it look broken?” I asked. “It feels broken.”

“It looks okay to me.” She grimaced with remorse. “I’m so sorry.”

“I guess I’ll just put some ice on it,” I said. “You mind if we go home, though?”

After wrapping a few ice cubes inside a napkin at the refreshments table and holding it to my nose, we walked back to Matthews, chatting about our class schedules.

“We’re doing it again,” she said.

“What?”

“Small talk.” She shook her head with faux sadness. “Which neither of us excels at.”

“ At which neither of us excels,” I tsk-tsked. “So, have you bonded with your roommate yet?”

“Nope,” she said. “You and Steven having some deep discussions?”

“Nothing beyond what you’ve seen in the dining hall,” I said. “To be honest, you’re the only one here I’ve really talked to in any depth.”

Sara tilted her jaw down to her sternum, fighting a smile. “You, too.” She looked back up. “That’s what college is supposed to be for, right? Those life-changing conversations you won’t have again afterward?”

“Right,” I said. “So if I don’t have any here, it means my life will never change. I’ll always be the same person.”

“Well, let’s change that up,” she said.

“You mean ‘Let’s up that change,’ ” I corrected her.

As we approached Matthews, a small branch fell on the path not far in front of us.

“If I hadn’t stopped to get the ice cubes, we might’ve been under it when it fell,” I said, looking up at the tree from which it had fallen. “They really should cut that down. It’s a negligence lawsuit waiting to happen.”

“Are your parents pressuring you to become a lawyer?”

“No,” I answered. “But it’s the obvious option.”

“That shouldn’t be why you choose something so important,” she said.

“Yeah,” I said. “This is America, after all — I can be whatever I want. I can be a world-famous salsa dancer.”

She smiled at my weak joke but didn’t laugh. When we reached the fourth floor, she asked what my room number was. “There’s something I want to bring you,” she said.

“Is it in your room?” I asked. “I’ll come get it.”

We arrived at her door. You could be inside.

“Wait here — my room’s a mess,” Sara said, and slipped in, shutting the door before I could sneak a glimpse. She stepped out a moment later and handed me a book: 101 Idealistic Jobs That Actually Exist .

“Hold on to it as long as you want,” she told me.

I thanked her, peeked down the hall in case you were returning, and said I should get going.

“By the way,” she said, “I realize that comment about Latinos’ being unseen sounded pretty sanctimonious. I didn’t mean to imply that you’re someone who doesn’t recognize his privilege.”

“Not at all,” I reassured her.

Sara nodded, but her face remained anxious, and she showed no indication of signing off for the night. She was waiting for something. I’d worried this might happen; I had, after all, asked a girl to go dancing, an invitation that could be interpreted as romantic. I’d hoped she wouldn’t regard it as anything more than an overture of friendship, the kind that evolved into hanging out in her room and, inevitably, meeting her roommate.

I had already run a cost-benefit analysis of a sexual relationship with Sara. Not only would it take me off the market, but my association with her could diminish my standing in your eyes. Yet it also meant I’d be around you much more than I would if we were Platonic; as I was now learning, she wasn’t even letting me see her room. And it was college. These things didn’t last forever.

Despite my certainty that a kiss would be reciprocated, the prospect of instigating it remained unduly terrifying; like a trust-your-new-summer-camp-buddies fall backward, it went against every instinct of self-preservation. No one was around, but it felt to me as if the whole campus, my high school, even my parents and sisters, were watching. If I didn’t do it, I’d be unmanned in front of them, the boy who, after eighteen years, had finally found a girl willing to kiss him — and he couldn’t even go through with it.