Faking It (14 page)

That night, still elated from my discovery, I announced to my parents that I was going to be an artist. I was sure of it.

My father grunted, while my mother looked up from the book she was staring at long enough to say, "That's nice."

I tried again. "Dad," I said persistently, "I'm going to be an artist--a painter."

"The only thing men paint is houses."

"But..."

"If you're so set on being an artist, then the first thing you oughtta paint is a pair of fairy wings for yourself."

It was final. I said nothing and turned away.

My heart broke that day. I found and lost passion in a manner as quick and fleeting as those brushstrokes. I discovered beauty, discovered a way of seeing, and I couldn't change it or make it leave me anymore than I could make my father see the harmony of chaos or the power of a single line. What's more, I saw my father not in shades of glory, but in washed tones of reality. He was not the man I wanted to be. He was everything I wouldn't become. In the coming years, my classes would take more field trips to more museums, but I would never match the elation of escape, or the joy of timelessness that found me in the fifth grade. But I would find solitude, and would never lose it.

We had both improved significantly. I had let my guard down considerably since the bathtub date, and was much more comfortable undressing and showing off my body in front of Devin. I also found myself more willing to embrace the learning process without being so self-conscious about what I didn't know. Maggie and I even bought a
Playgirl
magazine and, like two curious teenage girls, sat on the floor of her bedroom and flipped through the pages, gawking at the centerfold. I concluded that Devin, in his Versace suits or in nothing but his silk boxers, still turned me on more than these well-endowed, ripped models. Still, giggling with Maggie and having so much fun karmically resolved the adolescent angst I'd suffered at the hands of Candace.

In turn, Devin was reading and writing on his own in addition to my assignments. Last week, I found a copy of
The Da Vinci Code
on his coffeetable, a Marilyn Monroe bookmark wedged neatly somewhere in the middle of the ninth chapter, I guessed (it was the tenth, actually), resting on top of two issues of
The New Yorker
, each dog-ear-flapped to reserve specific articles. His journal entries were longer, less about his dates and more about the things he was doing in his spare time--and lately he'd had more spare time. He was going to museums again--something he used to do when he was in high school and college.

I lost weight. Didn't even notice until Maggie asked me to attend a meeting with the dean in her place, and my dark gray pinstripe skirt hung loosely around my waist. All the dancing and walking and stretching, I guessed, although I had also failed to realize that I wasn't eating as many sweets anymore, either. The dean (one of Devin's clients) and my other colleagues (also Devin's clients, incidentally--I tried hard to get the image of him bathing their body parts out of my head) noticed my weight loss, however.

"Are you on that low carb diet?"

"Weight Watchers?"

"Join a gym?"

"New wardrobe? Hairdo?"

But the real culprit revealed itself when Jayce saw Devin and me walking to the Brooklyn Museum of Art one sunny afternoon that week.

"You getting laid, Andi?"

"You getting a life?" I replied.

Brooklyn U was getting in gear for the fall semester, and my department was abuzz with activity, from last minute class additions and cancellations, schedule rotations, orientation planning, student placement portfolio readings, you name it. Rumors of me being the escort's latest client had circulated faster than the air conditioning throughout the hallways. I couldn't be sure, but I guessed Jayce started the grapevine. Only Maggie knew the details of our arrangement, and I implicitly trusted her not to talk; others, however, were less dependable in that regard. When Allison the textbook rep asked me point blank if I was using Devin's services, I denied it.

"Come on, you don't have to lie. Do you know how many of us there are?" I got the feeling that Allison was really trying to find out exactly what I did with him in order to measure herself against me. I imagined she had regretted giving me his card so willingly. Perhaps she wanted him all to herself. Lord knows I did.

"It's none of your business," I replied, my face burning.

***

Meanwhile, the phone calls between Devin and me went from once a week to three times a week to almost every day, the conversations lasting somewhere between thirty minutes to an hour. The time we spent in addition to our scheduled meeting days steadily increased as well. Sometimes he'd come out to the Island, and we'd drive out to the East End and tour the vineyards and hop the ferries from Greenport to ShelterIsland to Sag Harbor. We found little, second-hand bookstores and could easily spend an hour perusing shelves. We sat in the stands and yelled at the same players and umps during Mets and Yankee games (he was a Mets fan; I was a Yankee fan), and laughed at the same lines on
The Simpsons
.

I reveled in the comforts of his companionship. We never ran out of things to talk about, although we rarely shared anything vulnerably intimate other than what was revealed in our sessions. We platonically related to each other with convenience and ease, despite the romantic and sexual attraction that I so forcefully tried to keep from him (and myself). Even hanging out on the couch watching a movie, brushing up against each other, felt good. It was like dating without the pressure of sex, and for once I wasn't the one calling the shots on whether sex was even going to factor in the equation. This not only relieved me of responsibility but also rendered me powerless to control the situation. The more he educated me about sex, the more I wanted to have it with him, and the more frustrated I grew that he didn't seem to want it with me.

However, I also reveled in, albeit secretly, the one thing that none of his clients were privy to, the one thing that trumped the lack of physical contact:
his attention
. He might be
theirs
for the night, but he called
me
the next day.

Knowing this somehow set me apart from them, yet it also kept me clinging to the hope that eventually things between us would progress.

***

One day at the Brooklyn Museum of Art during a Monet exhibit, I romantically gazed at the garden scenes, while he observed each painting like a scientist observes a phenomenon.

"I absolutely adore the Impressionists," I said dreamily as we moved on to the next painting. Devin stopped in his tracks and shot me a look that screamed absurdity.

"You
what
? You
adore
the Impressionists? No. You can't
adore
them. No one
adores
the Impressionists."

He talked at me with a superior tone while I stood there, unable to comprehend the cardinal sin I'd just committed.

"Why not?"

"You just
don't
. You--no one
adores
them. It can't be done."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"The Impressionists are
not
'adorable'. Things that scamper are adorable. Fluffy bunnies hopping in meadows. Little dogs with knitted sweaters. Those little hats that newborns wear. Baby shoes are adorable. Not Impressionists."

"Wha--?"

"--You don't 'adore' men who cut off their ears. You don't 'adore' men who eat lead-based paint. Men who refused to compromise themselves or their work, even when it meant depriving their families of food. Men who kept mistresses. Who died poor and alone and bitter. There's something bigger happening in these paintings, something way beyond adoration."

"Don't you think they're beautiful?" I asked, nodding towards the paintings.

"No, I don't. At least not the way
you
think they are." I could feel his words pointing sharply and accusingly at me. "You see pretty things: lilies and bright colors and swirls. Monet was dark and serious."

I listened, unsure of whether to be offended or intrigued.

He continued, "The Impressionists broke all the rules. People weren't supposed to paint like that. But they did what they wanted to do. They poured themselves into the pigment, onto the canvas. It takes great power to paint like that. They're not controlling; they're
harnessing
."

Devin abruptly took me by the wrist and pulled me past a wall of masterpieces, stopping before one of Monet's later works. "Look at this," he commanded, and began a systemic breakdown of the painting's colors, lighting, texture, and composition. "This is dark and intense--you'll never find
this
on a greeting card."

I marveled at it, fascinated by both the painting and his analysis. Indeed, I had never seen Monet--or Devin--in this light. He now stood speechless in front of the painting, still entranced by it. I peered at him from the corner of my eye: he seemed wistful for a moment. I thought about how he'd been discouraged by his father to pursue his artistic interests, how his father kicked the passion right out of him. The whole thing had been a rant, a tirade, an explosion of suppressed desire. For that moment, I felt as if I could read his mind, and I fought the urge to slip my hand into his.

"Calendars with pictures of kittens hanging from trees that say 'hang in there, baby' are 'adorable'," he muttered after a bout of silence. We turned and broke into hushed giggling just as our eyes connected. We moved to the next painting and stood before it in resumed silence together.

And then it occurred to me: neither of us ever dared to admit that we'd broken the rules of our contract.

***

Because of our demanding schedules the following week, Devin and I had to postpone our final meeting. The English department had its "Welcome Back" faculty orientation (which I solely planned and led this year), followed by drinks at the Heartland Brewery. Jayce, Maggie, and Jonah Stockwell, our recently appointed chairperson, were listening to me and roaring with laughter as I relayed a student's placement essay I'd read about a poor immigrant named Robert (whose name we gave a French pronunciation) who needed to smash a can of corn against the counter to open it because his country was so economically deprived they didn't have can openers; and then, upon arriving in America, dropped to his knees in thanksgiving for the bounty in the "isle" (I spelled out the word for them) of potato chips--all in response to a prompt about American supermarkets--when I nearly snapped my neck as I caught a glimpse of the Helmut Lang jacket and Gap jeans that just entered the bar with Della Mason, one of our adjunct faculty members. Della Mason: a pudgy, elfin woman with ash blonde dyed hair and dark brown-gray roots that grew out to at least an inch long before she got a touch-up. A forty-something who attempted to dress like she was twenty-something and wound up looking fifty-something. A woman who, much to my disdain, called freshman composition classes "Ghetto 101."

I stopped in mid-sentence and froze and clenched my ginger ale glass so tightly it nearly broke in my hands. Maggie, not one for tact, blurted, "Oh my God, Andi--isn't that...your guy...with Della?" she managed to stop herself from calling Devin an escort in front of Jonah, who poorly concealed a glare of judgment from me.

"I don't know what you're talking about, Mags," I attempted to bluff my way through coolly and shot her a look that could've blown a hole in the wall. "I don't have 'a guy'."

Realizing too late that she'd spoken in front of forbidden company, Maggie tried to backpedal her way out and rescue me. "Of course you don't. I was thinking it was that guy you told me you met last week. You know, the friend of your brother's?"

The damage was already done, though. Besides, by now, everyone knew about Devin the Escort.

"Yeah, right," Jonah snickered under his breath and went to refresh his drink. As he left, Mags turned to me, her face red as merlot, mine pale as chardonnay.

"I am
soooo sorry
! Oh God, I can't believe I said that in front of Jayce and
Jonah
!"

"Fuck it," I snapped and gulped my drink, the carbonation pinching my nostrils and causing me to blink rapidly.

Della had found out about Devin through one of the tenured faculty members, and I guessed this appearance was a sort of self-imposed initiation, a wanting to sit at the grown-up's table. I stared at them venomously, feeling a rage not unlike the first time I saw Andrew and Tanya together in a CVS, waiting in line to buy Robitussin and giving each other congested kisses. She pulled off her glove to pay for the medicine when I saw the platinum engagement ring catching the glare of the sunlight beaming through the picture window behind the cashwrap counter, like a spotlight just for me. If I could've, I would've jumped and wrestled them both to the ground in a rolling takedown, taken the shaving gel and Gillette Venus razor from my basket, and shaved their heads. But at Heartland, I just remained frozen and shook on the inside.

"Of all people," I muttered. "She still uses red pen and editing symbols on her students' papers. She still makes them read 'Once More to the Lake.' And she's an
adjunct
--hell, she doesn't even get health insurance! How can she afford him?"

"Maybe she's got an arrangement like you do."

"Oh yeah? And what does she teach him--subordinate clauses?"

"Maybe she saved her pennies. Or sold her car."

Despite her attempt to make me laugh and compensate for her earlier blunder, Maggie was only fueling my frustration.

"She's not even good-looking," I said, only to hear Devin's voice echo back in my mind,
All women are beautiful, Andi
.

Fucking rat-bastard.

To add to my mortification, Devin caught a glimpse of me and made eye contact in acknowledgement. He offered to buy Della a drink and left her side to go to the bar, where I was standing at the far end. It was too late for me to pretend I didn't see him or to make a break for it. This was one of those rare moments when I wished I drank--I would've been downing Mike's Hard Lemonade by the case.