Here’s Looking at You, Kid

an accidental romance in fifteen parts

by Douglas

Chapter 7 - ‘We Have A Complete Dossier On You . . . ’

c u 2nt?

yes wall 7

For me, the next few weeks passed by in a kind of golden, sunset-colored haze, fueled by dorm food, defined by the times Cole and I were able to get together.

We actually got together pretty often. At least three times a week, after his swim team practice –

Yeah. He made his team. In spite of that thing with his right foot. With his kick, I mean.

After his practice, he’d wait for me, in Sproul Plaza; sitting in the twilight – or the dark – under the trees and the lamps, on a little concrete wall outside of one of the campus cafes, the Golden Bear . . .

I’d come on him there, as the evenings got darker; he’d be a shape in the gloom, a shape that moved and jumped down as I walked up, and then that Cole-grin would be in front of me, and some sort of ironic wisecrack, as he got close to me, and just him being there was a shock, an electric rush –

And it wasn’t just his nearness, his physical presence, that made my heart beat so fast, when we met.

Over time, over the dates, I watched Cole change. The way he acted, around me; the way he laughed, the way he LOOKED at me –

Like he was looking at me right at that moment. Just then; in mid-November.

“Hey,” he went. Sliding off his perch on the wall; coming closer. Close. “You’re going to ruin my reputation, making me wait out on the street for you like this.” Smiling his Cole-smile. Moving closer.

WAY inside my personal space, now. Head tilted up; and in that look, his smile –

“It’s a path, not a street,” I said. The light from the cafe in back of him shone on his hair, made his face a little shadowed, a little mysterious. “And you know you could always wait for me inside . . . ”

And I couldn’t help it, I started to tilt my head sideways, just a little, and my lips began edging down towards his . . . slowly; slowly . . .

And we stopped. In time; of course.

Barely.

But the way he was looking at me; the way he acted, toward me . . . it was pure Cole, all cockiness and humor and self-assurance –

And underneath was a growing softness, an openness; maybe even a hint of emotional vulnerability. Sometimes I’d turn my head, when we were walking along together, and I’d see him looking away, quickly, shyly . . . and I knew I’d busted him –

“Where do you want to go? Here, or the Crossroads, or Foothill - ?”

“The Crossroads is fine. I’m hungry,” he went, smugly. And I saw him glance over at me, fast, from the corner of my eye –

Cole was falling in love with me. I was watching him fall in love with me. And seeing it, WITNESSING it – SHARING it – was doing things to me, to my heart – in every sense of the word – and to my pulse rate, and the whole world just seemed to be in a golden haze, even when it was lamplit-dusk, the way it was, that second –

It was something that’d never happened to me, before.

It hadn’t happened with Jesse. I could start to see that, now, and somewhere in the back of my mind, I stored away the thought that maybe it was time for me to start forgiving him.

But in truth – I wasn’t thinking all that much about Jesse, anymore. Not nearly as much.

*

“Is that all you’re having?” from Cole, as we carried our trays to the checkout station.

My tray probably had twice the food on it, as his. A big bowl of Udon noodles, and . . .

“Yeah,” I went. Trying to sound neutral. Not defensive.

“Hmmmm . . . I guess I’ve seen you eat more.” That Cole half-smile, as the worker swiped my meal card through the scanner once, for me, then a second time, for Cole. “Like that Saturday, after our bike ride . . . ”

We’d biked up the hills towards Tilden Park, along wooded, twisty, cottage-lined streets, and we’d wound up making out fairly outrageously in some thick underbrush, away back from the trails . . . for a long time . . .

Well, maybe we’d gone a little further than just making out.

It really HAD given me an appetite.

“So I’m a growing boy,” I said, as we took our trays. Cole glanced down at my crotch, really obviously, and grinned wide, and I flushed . . .

The joke was really on him, though. Those nights that we ate together.

Every time I used my meal plan card to pay for us, Cole was delighted; for some reason – in spite of him growing up here, in Berkeley – he was under the impression that he was eating for free; that everything you could get on the meal plan was pre-paid for. A kind of all-you-can-eat smorgasbord.

When the truth was – the meal plan had points for each meal, each dish, and the points are like dollars. A little discounted; but.

I was paying for Cole’s dinners. I’d already had to pay to bump up my points, to do it; since we were close to the end of the semester. And I was really happy to do it; the chance to eat together, the chance to BE together –

Cole was going to be really mad at me, when he found out.

I was looking forward to it.

*

And of course, as time went by, in our haze of sunsets and emotions – we leaned things about each other. Things we didn’t reveal, on our first dates. Stuff we didn’t even necessarily know about ourselves.

Not always flattering things.

For me, one revelation about Cole came when we were studying together, one night, in the Academic Center in my dorm complex –

Well, not exactly studying. I was reading my International Relations textbook, making notes the old fashioned way, on paper; Cole was using my laptop (and my school account) to do research for his History term paper.

And chortling, as he clicked through whatever links he was clicking through. Yeah; I think ‘chortling’ was the right word for it.

“Oh, man,” he was saying, under his breath; then he’d click again, and he gave a kind of snicker, then, “Oh, man . . . sweet.”

“What?” I looked up from my book.

“I found two perfect papers on my topic, on the web. Absolutely perfect; recent, with really great sources. This is going to be so EASY – ”

I didn’t say anything, for a second. But I didn’t like where this was going.

“Hmmmm,” went Cole, as he clicked another link. And then, another, under-his-breath chortle.

I tried to ignore it; to get back to my reading and note-taking . . . but I could still FEEL his glee. His not-exactly-holy glee.

He was right next to me, after all. Touching, actually; our legs were kind of pressed together, under the table.

“Cole . . . ” I finally had to say something. I couldn’t really NOT say something.

“What?” He didn’t take his eyes off the screen.

“So, you’re . . . like, doing your term paper, right? For History?”

This time he DID take his eyes off the screen; to give me a quick, penetrating, ‘duh’ look. The kind that only a teenage boy could perfect.

Vintage Cole, of course. Even with all that was happening between us – even with that golden emotional haze – we still kept up that little, jab-jab of verbal sparring . . .

Well, he kept it up, really. I reacted to it. But it was fun.

“So . . . ” I went on, after a second. “You’re, like . . . lifting your term paper from the web?”

I tried to say it as neutrally-sounding as I could.

Cole looked over at me, sideways. “Well, yeeahh. Like everybody else in my school. Everybody else in my class.” His eyes flickered to the screen, for a second; then back to me. “Probably everybody else in the world. I mean . . . it’s History.” He looked at me like that explained it all.

“Which means - ?”

“Which means it’s a completely boring and useless subject that I’ll never need ever again, except for the grade.” He squinched up his face, a little. “You don’t waste time writing papers, when you can get them on the net. Everybody knows that.”

I looked away, a second; trying to decide, whether to get into it, here, now. It would be easy to just go back to my note-taking . . .

Sigh.

“Waste of time . . . yeah.” I leaned back in my chair, a little. “Cole – do you really think you can get away with that kind of thing, in college? Like, here, especially? Anyplace in the UC system - ?”

I saw his face as he thought about it; and it was hilarious. On the one hand, he really wanted to show off his tech skills by telling me exactly what kinds of bots, intelligent agents, whatever, that major schools were using to troll the internet, just to bust students like him . . .

But on the other hand, he hated to give me ammunition.

That side won.

“I wouldn’t get caught. Won’t.” He made a self-assured face at me. “I know how their systems work.”

“Uh-huh. How - ?”

“Oh, please, Jeremy. I don’t use any paper without changing it. I change the paragraphs around, and the wording here and there, and I renumber the citations – ”

“Yeah. And when maybe your high school changes the algorithm in their turnitin-dot-com software from a four-word-proximity search to a five-word-proximity search, and you’re busted, what then? And when you’re walking the halls, trying to get college reference letters from your teachers and they remember that you got busted for cheating – what then?”

I saw Cole blink, and I was ridiculously pleased with myself. He didn’t have a very elevated opinion of my technical skills; which was a little unfair. His mom was high up in the University of California’s IT purchasing unit, and Cole’d been absorbing this stuff since he was a kid.

“There’s a better reason,” I went on, as he opened his mouth – probably to tell me how old and outdated my reference was.

I said it quietly; and Cole closed his mouth.

Another quiet pause, for a second.

“Derrick’s smart. You think he’s pretty smart, don’t you?”

“Yeah.” He rolled his eyes, in a ‘duh’ expression, again. We’d all – Derrick, Drew, Cole and me – spent enough time together, by now, to make it a rhetorical question.

“Well, look – you can’t ever repeat this, or talk about this – not to Drew, not even to Trevor. Okay?”

Cole blinked again, and nodded. I had his attention, now. Because I was serious.

“Derrick did this, too; got a lot of his stuff – most of his papers – from the internet, and other places. For the same reasons; grade pressure, time pressure – it really helped him. He thought. Derrick thought anything that raised his GPA was fair.”

“And - ?” I could see skepticism in Cole’s face.

“And so, by the end of high school, he was totally fucked. Just, totally fucked. He really had problems writing; he barely passed his essay tests, he had to make up a lot of it with extra-credit work.” I looked away, a second; it felt – bad – to be saying all this to another person, even if it was for a good reason.

I hoped Derrick would understand, when I told him.

I went on, keeping my voice really low. “I basically had to write Derrick’s Personal Statement – you know, that autobiographical thing you need to attach to your college application – I had to write it for him. If I hadn’t, he wouldn’t have gotten in here at Cal.” I was looking at Cole directly, now; trying to get him to see. “And all our first semester, I basically had to co-write – well, actually, basically write – his papers, with him. For him; or he would have flunked out. No question.” I shrugged. “He got better at writing, as we went along; and by last spring, I was mostly just editing his stuff, a little. And he doesn’t really need me much, this year. But last year . . . it was pretty serious.”

“You really did that for him?” went Cole, after a pause. I could see the respect in his eyes.

“Sure. You’d do it for Trevor.” It seemed too obvious to point out.

“Yeah. Of course,” he said. He paused, and I could see him deciding what to say; then – “But I wouldn’t have to.” He looked back up at me, with a challenge in his eyes. “We’re both already good at school; good at writing. I don’t get everything online, just enough stuff to save time. And help my GPA. Trevor, too.”

I thought, for a second.

“Okay,” I went. Shrugging. Trying to act neutral, again.

Another short silence.

“So . . . you’re telling me you’ve never gotten a paper from the web? Not even when you were really, really short on time - ?” His face was back to showing skepticism.

“Nope. Never did.”

“Because of the ethics? Because it would be cheating? Or because you were afraid of being caught?” His head tilted to one side, just a little, as he looked at me.

“Mostly the ethics,” I said, after a second. “Mostly. I really hate lying. But – there’s also the whole question of quality.”

“The question of quality.” Another skeptical look.

“Yeah. I mean, think about it. Papers you buy online . . . they have to be good; but they can’t be, like, TOO good. Anything that really stands out would be downloaded too much; it’d be too risky to use.” I shrugged. “I just really hate lying, is mostly why I never downloaded; but . . . I also figured, for any given paper, I could probably do better than most of the crap out on the net.”

Cole looked at me, a second, not changing his expression. Then, that Cole half-smile. “And did you? Do better than the stuff you could buy?”

“Yeah.” I shrugged, again. “Yeah. I did.”

Another silence, between us. This one, longer.

“You know,” went Cole, at last – admiringly – “that is really low. Appealing to my ego, like that. Really, really low.”

“Yeah,” I nodded, after a second. And I smiled at him, just a little. “Yeah; I guess it really is.” And I raised my eyebrows. “But it’s also the truth. About why I wrote my own papers, I mean.”

Another pregnant couple of seconds; the slight background sounds of the other people studying, in the cubicles next to ours, the sound of the humming heating system. Then, at last, Cole looked back down at the laptop screen. “You know, I really didn’t budget the time, for this paper – ”

“What’s the topic?” Still trying to keep my voice neutral.

Cole rolled his eyes at me, and looked back at the screen. “’Compare and contrast the causes, major participants, and outcomes, of the English Civil War of 1642 – 1651, and the U.S. Civil War of 1861 – 1865’.” He looked back at me with a smug smile.

“Are you serious?!”

“Read it right here,” he said. And I leaned over, and did read it.

“That’s absolutely crazy,” I said, sitting back. Blinking. “You’re in the eleventh grade! This is, like, the topic for a doctoral dissertation. Actually, no, it’s way too broad for a dissertation; this is more like a proposal for a book. A couple of books, at least.”

“Uh-huh,” he went. “Well – it’s an AP class. We’re supposed to be ‘challenged’ by the coursework.” His face was full of amusement, as he looked at me.

“And you deliberately took an AP class in a subject you have no interest in?”

“Sure. Because there are lots of papers out there. Easy ‘A’.”

I let it go, for the moment. “How long is this paper supposed to be?”

“Ten thousand words. More or less. With a complete bibliography, of course.”

“Of course.” I winced. A really well-done academic paper that size . . . with footnotes, annotations . . . all the research it would take . . .

“So,” went Cole. Half-smiling, still. “Still think you can do better than this paper I was about to download - ?” He motioned his head towards the screen.

I thought about my own coursework, my own finals coming up, and I sighed.

“No.” I shook my head, and then I looked at him. “No, I think WE can do better than that paper. How about this: why don’t you go ahead and buy that bootleg crap you’re about to buy . . . and leave it on my laptop. Without reading it.”

“And?” His head was cocked over in amusement, again.

“And I’ll help you write your paper. Well, no; we can write your paper together. We’ll outline it together, do the research together, and sit together as we’re doing the writing; a real collaboration. And at the end, if you don’t think it’s better than what you bought – well, you can turn in whichever one you like.”

I’d tried to trap the little brat by appealing to his self-respect, his pride; and now it was MY pride on the line.

But – truth be told, down deep . . . I didn’t mind. Not really; because it was an excuse to spend even more time with Cole; to get more involved in his life. Maybe to impress him, a little.

Become more intimate with him.

And just making the suggestion – that we work together on his paper – gave me a semi-hardon. And if THAT isn’t perverse – getting halfway hard, at the prospect of doing a ridiculously difficult term paper with someone – if that isn’t deeply, deeply perverse, I don’t know what is.

“You’d do that?” Cole looked at me. “You’d do that, for me?”

“Yeah,” I said.

And the silence, after I said it, seemed kind of – dangerous. “Yeah,” I went on, after a second. “Besides – it might be fun. Right?”

“Yeah,” he said. Softly. Smiling, a little.

*

So time went on, as the days got shorter, and we both stayed high on the emotions we shared, the feelings that were growing, as we spent more time together, and I swiped my meal plan card for more of Cole’s dinners, and the days when we didn’t see each other seemed emptier –

And my own embarrassing revelation to Cole came one weekend not long after, while we were clothes shopping. Or more accurately, Cole took me shopping for clothes. Clothes for me, I mean.

I’ve never been good at clothes shopping.

It wasn’t going well.

“What IS it with you and clothes, anyway?” asked Cole. A little amused; but also a little exasperated.

We were in a tiny, trendy clothes shop just off of Bancroft – the Berkeley street that borders the long, southern side of the campus – and I’d just sort-of turned down his latest idea for an outfit, for me . . .

Well. Truth to tell – a lot of it was just the shop. Kind of uber-trendy, with music I didn’t like, and mannequins with attitude . . . it was the kind of place that Derrick’d spent years trying get me to like, and which always set my teeth on edge.

“It’s okay, I guess.” I felt the cloth of the shirt, and it was soft; but the way it looked . . .

“No; no, I mean it. What IS it about you and clothes? Is it because you’re a nudist, and you’re just anti-clothes in princip – ”

“Shhhhh!” I hissed at him, a little frantically. The boy at the cash register was about two feet away.

“What?” Cole looked at me, and his eyes widened; then he laughed. “What? You’re out about being gay, which means everybody knows you like to fuck boys – but you’re embarrassed about being a nudist? What’s embarrassing about being a nudist, anyway?”

“Cole - !” I hissed, again; then I saw the mischievous look on his face, and I gave up. The brat was enjoying it too much. “It’s not the same.” I tried to keep my voice low. “And besides, I’m not sure I’d call myself a nudist, anyway, it’s not like there’s a membership card or anything; I just really like, like . . . ”

“Going around naked whenever you can,” finished Cole. “Which is really cool. And by the way, you still haven’t taken me to a nude beach, like you promised – ”

“Shhhhhh!” I glanced over at the cash register boy; an angelic kid who looked almost younger than Cole. He was gaping at us, eyes wide, and I did a kind of internal, ‘oh, fuck,’ to myself. “It hasn’t been exactly the right weather – ”

“You promised! And I don’t care if it’s a little cold, we’ll cuddle up – ”

“SHHHH!!” I could see the angelic boy blushing bright, now. “We’ll go to one soon. Now, let’s get some coffee, okay?”

“Thanks for coming, guys!” the angelic boy called out as we were leaving. With a lot more enthusiasm than he’d showed, when we came it. “Hope we see you again, soon!” He sounded a little wistful.

“We made his day,” Cole went, smugly, as we walked down the sidewalk.

“You did. Brat,” I said, and Cole gave me a dazzling smile back. Then, that speculating gleam was back in his eye.

“But I still want to know, about you and clothes. I mean, you’ve got, like, two pairs of pants, that you wear all the time – ”

“I do not!”

“Yes you do; your green cargoes, and your jeans – ”

“I’ve got two pairs of those cargo pants. And I wash them a lot.” I may be bad at buying clothes, but I hate wearing DIRTY clothes.

Cole stopped walking, which made me stop too. “Wait,” he said. Looking at me in disbelief. “Let me make sure I understand this. You have some pants you like so much, you’ve got TWO EXACTLY IDENTICAL pairs of them? Same color, same style, and everything - ?”

“Well – yeah,” I said. A little defensively.

I mean – why not? Makes sense to me. And the green cargoes, they, like, look right on me, and they’re really practical, with all those pockets, and they’re so comfortable . . .

“And your jeans - ?” he went on. A little weakly.

“Well . . . ”

Actually, I had three pairs of jeans. Loose-fitting ones; I got them all at the same time in San Diego, right before coming back here for the fall semester.

“Yeah. I’ve got more jeans.” I kind of looked away, a little.

“Jeremy, I lo – I mean, I can’t believe you,” he said, shaking his head. “I just – ” and he smiled up at me, crooked. “Come on,” he said, pulling me towards a door, and I looked up; it was a coffee house. “I’m buying.”

“Okay.” I looked at the coffee-shop sign, for a second. “Ummm – you don’t know . . . anybody who works here, do you?”

He just gave me a dirty look, and pulled me inside.

“I’m not really sure,” I was saying, a few minutes later. At our table; me with a cappuccino, Cole with a latte.

Usually I prefer straight espresso; but I wanted this to last, awhile. I really didn’t feel like doing more clothes shopping.

“I guess,” I went on, looking down into the foam – “maybe it goes back to first grade. I – well. You know, I’ve got two sisters? And they’re older?” I looked up at him.

“Um-hm.”

“Well. When I came along, a little late – I’m not sure I was planned, or anything, to be honest – ”

“I sure wasn’t planned. They told me.”

“They did?” I blinked at him. “But – ”

“Yeah,” he said, curling up one side of his mouth. “They said I was the nicest surprise ever . . .  But go on.”

“Oh.” I filed that away for future exploration. “Well. Anyway; I guess . . . when I came along, after two girls, my mom didn’t . . . quite . . . exactly know how to dress me. What to get for me.” I twisted the cappuccino cup around in my hands, on the saucer.

“She didn’t dress you up like your sisters?!”

“No! Nothing like that; maybe she just went a little overboard the other direction, dressing me up like a boy . . .  I don’t know. I don’t really remember the details. All I DO remember, is getting teased about the way I was dressed.” I scrunched up my face, a little. “For a long time . . . ”

“Oh, come on, Jeremy. You were what, five, six - ?”

“Well, I didn’t say anything to my mom about it. Not for a few years, actually, and she bought new school clothes for me, every summer. I just didn’t want to hurt her feelings . . . ”

“I REALLY don’t believe you,” Cole went, admiringly. “I would have screamed my head off, if I didn’t like my clothes. And they would have got me new ones.”

“Well . . . I didn’t. But when I got old enough to get my own clothes, I guess I always sort of, dressed down. Instead of dressing up.” I shrugged. “Besides – I grew up about ten minutes north of the Mexican border. It’s not like we wear a lot of clothes, down there, most of the year.”

“Mmmmmm . . . .” hummed Cole, flashing that grin at me, and I looked away, fast. I didn’t want to get hard in public again.

“Perv. I just meant, like, shorts and a t-shirt or a tank top are fine, most of the year.”

“But what about Derrick? You grew up with him, right? He was your neighbor. From what I can see, he’s, like, totally into clothes – ”

“Derrick is Derrick.” I shrugged, a little. Then I looked up at Cole, briefly, then back down at my cappuccino, and decided to go on. “But he’s not always right about clothes, either . . . ”

“Go on,” said Cole. Settling himself further down in the wooden chair; enjoying himself way too much.

Still. It felt kind of good, saying all this to someone else.

“Well . . . when we were sixteen,” I went on, slowly, “Derrick . . . well, he kind of did a, a, sort of makeover on me . . . ”

“Oh, no,” Cole laughed, and then he shut up when I glared up at him for a second.

“Oh, yes. He thought I should try a new look, so we went out, and we got some new clothes for me, and he, like, helped me with my hair . . . ”

“Sixteen?” from Cole.

“Yeah.”

“Let me guess. It didn’t work out.” He was still smiling, but it was a more sympathetic smile. Maybe he knew about being sixteen.

“It didn’t.” I went back to looking at my cappuccino. “Well – ” and I really DID have to smile at the memory – “it was kind of funny, anyway. At least. The first time our friend Lauren saw me, she just, like, started laughing. She thought it was a kind of costume, or something.”

“Oh, no,” Cole went again.

“Yeah. She was sorry, later; but she was still pretty scathing.” I took a sip of my coffee, and wiped the foam off of my lip. “See, Derrick always thought I should wear, like, darker things, and try to be a little edgier, I guess; that’s what he was always telling me, so that’s what we tried. But Lauren said I looked like Luke Skywalker trying to dress up as a grunge Jedi. Actually, she said a grunge Jedi with a bad garage band. And that it just didn’t work on me.”

Smothered laughter from Cole, and I glanced up.

“I’m sorry!” He tilted his head, a little, and then I saw his eyes glinting, behind the smirk. “You know, you don’t look anything like that guy, what’s his name – ”

“Thank you!” For once, someone didn’t see the resemblance.

“Okay,” he went. “Maybe just a little. But you’re cuter, I think, anyway. And taller. But – no. Dark wouldn’t work on you, I think.” He ran his eyes over me, like a painter looking at a canvas.

“Well – that’s what Lauren said. But – ” and here’s where the memory got a little painful – “she went a little further. She said, I was, like, a California surfer boy, and I LOOKED like a California surfer boy, and I’d ALWAYS look like a California surfer boy, and I just shouldn’t fight it . . . ”

You have to understand – it wasn’t necessarily meant as a compliment. San Diego is absolutely full of guys trying desperately to look like California surfer boys, guys pretending they know what to do with their boards when they actually don’t, and consuming way too many hydrogen-peroxide hair care products in the process, and it’s where I grew UP, and it’s a cliche, there, and it’s not exactly the way I wanted to look . . .

Derrick was livid, when she said it, too. He didn’t really forgive her for a month. Like I said, he can carry a grudge.

“No way!”, from Cole. “No way! You surf?” His grin was wide and delighted.

“Well – yeah. Back home, anyway. Some of the time. I’m not really all that big into it, but, you know, we all grew up surfing.”

“Oh, cool! Do you surf up here?”

“Are you crazy?” I shivered. “I’d need a wetsuit, like, four times as thick, and you’ve got sharks – great white sharks, that eat sea lions for breakfast . . . ”

And winter storms, too. The waves get BIG, in Northern California, when the winter storm season hits . . .  No, I wasn’t too tempted to surf up north.

“Shit,” he said, sounding a little disappointed – but still smiling. “Shit. Okay. Still – I can so TOTALLY see you surfing . . .  I’d really like to see you surfing. And I’ve always wanted to try it, myself. Will you promise to take me surfing, down South, sometime? Pleeeaaazzze?” And as he wheedled, still grinning, I felt his leg press against mine, under the table –

And it was a rush, of course. Thinking about taking him to Southern California –

“Okay. Yeah,” I said, and he pressed against me, harder –

Well, just about any mention of a future, especially a more distant future with Cole, doing things with him, was a rush – even if The Dance wouldn’t let me introduce him to my parents, anytime soon –

But even as I agreed, I couldn’t help fantasizing, just a little, about taking Cole home with me. The holding-hands thing, at the family dinner table . . . .

*  *  *

So in the end, the ways we were revealing ourselves to each other, the ways we were opening up to each other – and there were lots of ways, many more examples – just seemed to make the days sweeter; the golden haze more golden . . .

As Cole and I fell more and more in love.

And if you’ve ever been in love, if you’ve ever fallen in love, you know what I mean when I say, those November days, I felt like I was floating, sometimes, floating through my days, my classes and lectures, waiting for the twilit evening when Cole and I could meet –

I should have been watching where I was going.

*

“Jeremy? Excuse me, but do you have a moment? I’d like to have a word with you.”

Ka-CHOK. Ka-CHOK. Ka-CHOK.

It wasn’t even a Cole day. I’d just finished a quick dinner, alone, and come back up to my floor, on my way to our suite. My mind was totally on the homework I was going to do . . .

Well, the part of my mind that wasn’t thinking about Cole. And the next text message I was going to send him.

“Uhhhh . . . okay.” Rajiv’s face was right in front of mine; expectant. Observing. As always. “Now - ?”

“Yes, please, if you don’t mind. We can just come around to my rooms, all right?”

Ka-CHOK.

Nobody just ‘had a word’ with Rajiv.

Nobody – in the dorms, anyway – just hung out with Rajiv. He wasn’t your buddy. He didn’t play frisbee with you, joke with you, watch movies with you –

He definitely hadn’t been downstairs for the ‘Rocky Horror Picture Show’ night.

There was only one reason he wanted to talk to me, now.

“Would you like some tea?”

“No. Thank you.”

Rajiv lived in a suite, just like Derrick and me; but he lived alone. What would have been my bedroom was fitted out as a small office, complete with an office desk, chairs, bookshelves –

Mostly, his office – what would have been my room – was pretty stark. A few photos, of rock climbers and cliff faces, on the walls; a couple of nondescript posters –

But to me it was stark, and weirdly alien. Compared to my own room.

The most human thing about it was the cricket bat, propped up in a corner. An obviously used cricket bat.

I kept looking at the cricket bat, as I took the chair in front of Rajiv’s desk, and he took the chair behind the desk. Making the atmosphere shift even more, if that was possible.

Ka-CHOK. Ka-CHOK.

“So, Jeremy, I believe that you and Derrick were on this same floor last year, am I right? It’s odd, but I don’t recall that we ever really had much of a conversation before.”

He spoke beautifully, with the clear diction and just-slightly-musical tone of a lot of people from South Asia. And the underlying implication was clear; ‘You guys never screwed up, before.’

“I guess not.”

I could already feel myself falling back into high-school-boy mode, acting the way we all used to act, when confronted by authority; say as little as possible, admit nothing, keep your face as still as possible.

I was always terrible at it. But it was all I could do.

Ka-CHOK. Ka-CHOK. Rajiv kept squeezing his black rubber ball; and he looked at me – closely. Speculating; I thought.

“And so,” he went on, “how is Derrick doing, this term? I have seen very little of him, recently. I hope things are well, for him?”

“He’s – fine. He’s doing very well; he’s been spending some time with a friend.”

Yeah. I know you know, Derrick’s been sleeping out nights, a lot. I’m not going say, ‘boyfriend’, though. Even though you know we’re both gay. Even though we’re both out and happy. Because, it’s none of your business.

Ka-CHOK. Ka-CHOK.

“Yes, yes. Well, that is good to hear. And his academic work? No issues, no concerns? I hope he is keeping up with his academic work, too. He has made such good progress, since the beginning of last year.”

Meaning, he knew about Derrick’s early problems with his grades. Meaning, he knew a lot about Derrick. And me.

“I think he’s doing just fine. But you’ll have to discuss it with him.”

You shouldn’t be discussing somebody else’s grades with me, Rajiv. That’s a privacy violation. And I’m concerned about – WAY concerned about – privacy; right now. In this conversation.

“Oh, yes, certainly. Of course.” Ka-CHOK. “And,” he went on, peering closely at me – “are you also doing so well this year, Jeremy? Are you adjusting to your course load? I hope you aren’t having any problems or difficulties - ?” Ka-CHOK. “You know you can always come around to talk, if you have any problems. Or questions. On any topic, whatsoever.”

Meaning – we’re coming around to the point now, Jeremy.

“Yeah,” I said. Pretending to consider it, for a second. “Thank you. No, I’m doing just fine, right now, too. Actually.” Trying to keep my tone, my expression, neutral.

“And your young friend? How is he?” Rajiv carelessly tapped a key on his open laptop, and looked at the screen. “Cole, I believe. Cole . . . DiAmato. He seems to be a frequent visitor, here.” Rajiv looked back at me, eyebrows raised.

“’Are my eyes really brown?’”

It just came out of me; another stupid ‘Casablanca’ reference, but I couldn’t help it, all of a sudden I was mad, as in angry –

“I beg your pardon?” Rajiv looked confused.

“Nothing. Nothing,” I said, trying to get myself into neutral, again. Trying to fight down the growing fear, underneath the anger. “Cole is doing just fine, too. Thank you for asking.”

We were busted. Maybe, badly busted.

And it was my fault. When Cole first started signing in as a guest, he wanted to use a fake ID, with a different name – and I wouldn’t let him. The consequences – for him – would have been too steep, if he’d been caught.

We tried to be careful in other ways. Cole didn’t come up to my room very often – not nearly as often as we wanted. Mostly, I brought him up on weekend afternoons, when Rajiv was almost certain to be out rock climbing, or slacklining, somewhere.

Of course, Cole really shouldn’t have come up at all. It was dangerous.

But we didn’t have anyplace else.

But. Even though we shouldn’t have done it – we thought we were being smart about it. I thought we were being smart.

Ka-CHOK. Ka-CHOK.

“Ah,” went Rajiv, gently. “Ah. Is he a student, here?”

Long pause.

“He’s a student.” Another silence, as Rajiv looked at me, expectantly. “Not here,” I went on. Quietly.

“I see.” Ka-CHOK. Ka-CHOK.

And in spite of everything, in spite of the danger we were in, the danger I was in, – I felt the spark of anger inside me growing; getting hotter. And it was a weird feeling, in so many ways, because I really, really hate losing my temper, getting mad; I HATE getting mad –

It was because of Berkeley, really. Because of Cal – the place. The university, that meant to much to me. Means so much to me, still.

Derrick and I went to a public high school, in San Diego. And our high school was a really good one, as public high schools go –

And it doesn’t matter. Didn’t matter; that it was a nice school.

High school is . . . mandatory. Everybody goes. There isn’t any choice involved; and in the public school system, the school you go to is determined by where you live. All the kids in your neighborhood go to your school; they HAVE to go, unless they get sent off to private school.

U.C. Berkeley is so, so different.

I mean, think about it. Everybody who goes to Cal WANTS to go to Cal. Every Cal student has worked hard – really, really hard – to get there; and to stay there. And it is NOT easy to do . . . either to get admitted, or to stay in.

And everybody – EVERYBODY – is smart. Just join in a conversation with anybody on campus, any group of students on campus, and you will come away just amazed at the depth of knowledge and intelligence and articulateness and, and, sophistication, of the people you’re talking to . . . it actually scared me, deeply, my first term here; and I know how it scared Derrick.

In so many ways . . . Cal was a kind of haven, to me. An adult place, with intelligent people my age, post-high-school; a place where I could TALK to people on an adult level, talk about interesting, interesting things, it was an accepting place, an accepting place with really progressive viewpoints that are light-years ahead of where I grew up in San Diego, with really strong non-discrimination policies and everything. Cal, to me, was freedom, and living on my own, and being openly gay for the first time in my life . . . and in so many ways, I loved it, I loved being at Cal.

And here I was, being interrogated like a high school kid caught smokin’ in the boys’ room.

Okay. Slight exaggeration; I knew the stakes were much, much higher; and underneath, I was still terrified.

But the anger kept growing, inside me. As I sat, and said nothing more.

Ka-CHOK. Ka-CHOK.

Rajiv looked at me, and sighed.

“Do you know, Jeremy, being a Resident Advisor really is a most unusual experience. Most unusual.” He sighed, again, and turned up one corner of his mouth. “One is expected to dispense advice . . . often very valuable advice, and one is expected to help protect students against their own missteps, their own impulsive actions; but one has no real power to do so, beyond this dispensing of advice.” He paused. “For the most part.”

Yeah, Rajiv. I get the message. With the threatening qualification.

“At the same time, however, I am charged with protecting the University from certain legal liabilities.” Another pause, as he looked at me, closely. “And I will also confess – in this particular case – I am somewhat concerned about my own, personal,  potential legal liabilities, as well . . . ”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I said it automatically; woodenly. Full high-school-boy armor mode, now. Trying to keep the resentment, the anger, out of my voice.

“Yes, yes. May I ask – how old is your young friend?”

A pause.

Now we were getting down to it.

I felt like everything about Cole and me, everything we’d done, everything we felt for one another, was carved on my face. In some ways, it probably was.

“I don’t know for sure. I haven’t seen his driver’s license.”

He didn’t have one, of course.

“Yet he is clearly a close friend, to have visited you – in your rooms – as often as he has done.”

“He’s a friend,” I said. “And I don’t understand where this is going. Is there something in University policy against having friends? He isn’t living with me, he hasn’t stayed with me too many times, like the rules set out, he hasn’t even stayed overnight – ”

It was a mistake.

“Except the first time,” Rajiv said. Evenly.

“Except once.” I let a silence build, for a second. “Just once. So how have I violated any of the rules of conduct for the dorms?”

“Jeremy,” went Rajiv, and he shook his head a little. “Please don’t think of me as a policeman, in this matter. Or a prosecutor. Believe me, it is in my own best interest – as well as the University’s – to help you avoid both of those individuals.”

Okay, Rajiv, that’s pretty direct. And yeah, I just felt myself turning white.

“And as far as rules of conduct are concerned, please be aware that illegal activities – say, just theoretically, an adult student having sexual relations with a minor – such activities in campus housing are indeed violations of the rules, and would be grounds for immediate eviction. And a lifetime ban from the University system. And that is quite separate from the legal liabilities you would face.”

“I don’t understand what you’re talking about. Cole is a friend.”

I gripped the arms of my chair, hard. The whole office – the weird double to my own dorm bedroom, where Cole and I made love, sometimes – seemed unreal. Like it was tilting. My heart was hammering.

Rajiv looked at me. We both knew.

He sighed, again; deeply. And he touched his laptop keyboard, again, and I saw the light of the screen, reflected on his face, as he glanced at it.

“Believe me, I was not asking if you were breaking the law. Believe me, I would not want to know, if you were breaking the law – except, perhaps, to help you, and myself, and the University, to avoid trouble.” He touched another key, and his laptop began clicking and whirring, as it went into shutdown mode. “But do please also believe me, that appearances are really quite important; and people do notice the slightest details, sometimes. And even the misleading appearance of impropriety can be grounds for gossip; and much worse.”

I blinked at him, for a second; as it sunk in.

And then on one level, slowly, slowly, not quite willing to believe it – I began to feel relief. Overwhelming relief; back-from-the-brink relief. He was as much as saying, he wasn’t going to call the campus police, file a report with anybody – yet.

And on another level – I mourned. Rajiv’s message was clear.

Cole doesn’t come back. Maybe ever. Maybe I couldn’t even take him to the Academic Center, even; anyplace he had to sign in.

We had no other place to go. We had no other place to be alone; really alone, indoors. No other place to make love.

And behind Rajiv’s message – still the implied threat; he could make an issue, out of Cole and me. He could.

A long silence, between us.

And then, for once in my life – one of the first times in my life, when it was important – I didn’t avoid confrontation.

I pushed back. Because I had to.

“Are you telling me that Cole isn’t allowed into my room as a guest, anymore?” My voice was a little harsh, and I could hear it just beginning to shake.

The people in my family don’t do confrontation. We don’t argue. We don’t push. My dad files court briefs, on paper; that’s how we confront.

“I am suggesting that it would be better for you both – ”

“Because if you’re going to ban him from visiting me, I’m going to appeal it. Cole is a friend. He’s a friend.” I stressed the word; hating the lie. “If you say he can’t come up, I’ll go appeal it, to, to, the Resident Director. Or, wherever.” I’d have to look it up, in the dorm contract; I didn’t even know the procedure. “And I’ll say that I think you’re treating me differently, from other students, here. And I’ll say why; because I’m gay. Have you told any straight students that they can’t have their friends visit - ?”

It was a bluff. It was a total bluff; I could never risk Cole’s mom being notified. One letter, one telephone call . . .

But it was the only thing I could do.

Ka-CHOK. Ka-CHOK. Ka-CHOK. Rajiv just sat back, looking at me. Intently.

“Jeremy. Are you sure this is a wise course of action?” He said it neutrally.

“Cole is a friend,” I went. Feeling my face burning; feeling my heart hammering. “You don’t have any proof that he’s anything but my friend.”

“This undertaking is not in your best interest, Jeremy,” he said. Chilling me even more, if that was possible.

“I think it is. Unless we can find some . . . compromise?” I went.

A long silence. A LONG silence.

Ka-CHOK. Ka-CHOK. Slowly, now. Thoughtfully.

“You know,” he said, at last, “this is my last full year of being a Resident Advisor.” He gave a small sigh; and silence, for a few beats. “My ambition for this year was to concentrate on my own studies . . . and to avoid problems. Particularly official problems. Particularly problems with the University authorities.” The evenness of his stare slipped, for just a second; and I thought I saw – dislike. Intense dislike; for me. And then, that mask was back.

“We don’t need to have any problems.” I was still amazed at the sound of my own voice. Not quite believing it was me, talking.

Threatening an RA. Essentially.

Another long silence, as Rajiv looked away. Ka-CHOK. Ka-CHOK.

“Of course,” he said, at last, “if you had a reason for your young friend to visit you – that might make things just a little different.” His eyes came back to mine; speculating, I could see. “If, for instance you were tutoring your friend; if you were studying together . . . ”

For once in my life, I wasn’t slow on the uptake.

“I am tutoring him.” It came out harshly; full of pent-up resentment, at Rajiv, at this whole situation; maybe the world. “I am tutoring him; I’m helping him write a very demanding term paper. I’m giving him research tips, and formatting help, and, and, I’m basically his writing coach.”

And it was true.

And it was important, that it was true; because Rajiv could see, right away, that it was true – partly because he was good at being a narc; partly because I’m bad at lying, and I seized on this bit of truth like a life preserver –

“Ah.”

“Yes,” I went on. “And I’m getting more involved in his other schoolwork, too. Helping him with study schedules, showing him college-level coursework, what to expect when he goes on to college . . . we’ve been studying together three or four nights a week. At the library,” I added in, a little pointedly.

“Ah,” went Rajiv, again. “I see.” He transferred his squeeze ball to his right hand; Ka-CHOK. Ka-CHOK. Ka-CHOK. Slowly, rhythmically. He looked at me, then swiveled his chair, to look out the window; for a long count. Ka-CHOK. Ka-CHOK. Ka-CHOK . . .  

Then, at last, he swiveled back to looking at me; as if he’d decided something.

“You must indeed be a good friend, to give him so much of your attention. And help.”

Another long, speculative pause.

“Yes. We’re good friends.” I looked back at him; feeling naked and vulnerable.

“And you would certainly be a good writing coach. I believe you have quite a bit of experience.”

I didn’t say anything. How he knew about Derrick and me, I couldn’t imagine.

“Very well. If I could dispense some advice to you, Jeremy – which is, after all, my official, sanctioned function – ” Ka-CHOK! Ka-CHOK! – “I might suggest that you formalize this tutoring arrangement of yours, through the Student Learning Center; yes, I believe they do have a community outreach program. Such an arrangement would have many potential benefits, for both you and your young friend.” Ka-CHOK. Ka-CHOK. A measured, thoughtful pulse.

“Uhhhh – ” I began to allow myself to hope. Just a little.

“Oh, yes, a formalized tutor-pupil arrangement would have many benefits. It would certainly help you avoid – gossip.” His dark eyes were unreadable in his face, as he looked at me, steadily. “And, selfishly, perhaps, from my point of view, such an arrangement would be very advantageous to the University, in avoiding potential legal liabilities. And perhaps, by extension, advantageous to me as well, for the same reason. It would be – a compromise.”

Ka-CHOK. Ka-CHOK.

The irony was thick.

“Yes,” he went on, leaning back in his chair, thoughtfully, “I might even say that having a tutoring arrangement – on a fixed schedule – could be a perfectly acceptable reason to have an underage person as a guest in your rooms. Occasionally,” he said, fixing me with his intense narc-look. “For brief periods. And not overnight. If I may strongly suggest.”

“Right,” I said. Not trusting myself to say any more.

“Yes,” Rajiv went on, almost to himself, “this might very well be the solution to several problems. For all of us concerned. But I would caution you, Jeremy, to have this tutoring arrangement formalized in writing. With the University. I believe you might even be able to fill out the forms on the Student Learning Center website.”

It wasn’t really a dismissal; but I really wanted to go.

“I can start right now.” I stood up; surprised to feel the back of my shirt drenched with sweat, cold, now, against my skin. I felt the reaction to all of this, in my muscles.

“Yes. Wonderful idea.” Ka-CHOK. Ka-CHOK. “And, Jeremy?”

“Yeah?” I had already half-turned to go.

“You and your young friend should perhaps not take any more showers together. Not in the same stall, at any rate. Not here.” He gave me the most intense narc-look, yet. “Please.”

I stiffened. “I don’t know what you’re talk – ”

*  *  *  *  *

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