Not so super -- Chapter 17.

 

Nearly a month later, March had brought a surprise.  Boston was usually frigid, but the temperature had spiked.  We had arrived at school wearing drab, light jackets.  By the time school ended, an infestation of colored t-shirts had burrowed their way free.  With jackets stowed away, we strolled down Mass Ave.

 

The beautiful weather couldn’t have come at a worse time.  It was mid-week and there was homework to do.  There was the threat of midterms, lurking in the background.  We told ourselves that we would have used the chilly weather to propel us into action.  December’s icy entrance always shocked Boston to a standstill.  But by March we handled the cold like pros.  By contrast, it was these gentle breezes that bowled us over.  They had knocked every instinct to work out of our heads, so we jubilantly left school to engage the less productive hobby of people watching.  

 

Da boyz had originally planned to hang out in Starbucks.  My Starbucks.  I didn't really have the cash, but I was willing to be pulled along.  But as we got closer, I started feeling oddly protective of the cafe.  I was unwilling to see Dro, Kenneth and Gers desecrate the floor she had strode so lightly across.  I shivered to think of them, placing their coarse, oafish butts on the stool that should have been reserved for her delicate, sophisticated backside.  And so, when Dro expressed ambivalence to abandon the sunshine, I wholeheartedly endorsed the change of plans.

 

So we silently walked on, past Starbucks.  Instead of sitting in the cool inside, we remained out, where we could enjoy the spring-like atmosphere and clothing.  A sudden movement caused us all to look to the left.  We turned, just in time, to see a bikini, pair of sneakers and helmet, rocketing down the bike lane.

 

“You know what the worst part about Global Warming is?” Dro mused, thoughtfully.  “I see a half-naked girl and scream ‘The world is falling apart!’”

 

We chuckled a little.

 

“She's probably cold, if that makes you feel any better,” said Gers, always the voice of reason.

 

“Yes, Gerson,” Dro said, his slow words punctuated by a withering stare.  “Her mild discomfort restores my optimism about humanity’s long term chances of survival.”

 

We resumed our walk, but the sun couldn't penetrate the shadow Dro had cast over us.  There were still pretty people around, but they gave us less joy.  It was in this funk that we happened to pass a hardware store.  Gers stopped and peered through the window.

 

“Hey, guys, can we make a quick stop?”

 

Needing the distraction, we walked in and started looking around.  Gers made a beeline towards the section with nuts and bolts.  Kenneth ambled along behind him.

 

“So, Doc, what's on the agenda for this weekend?” Kenneth asked.

 

“Oh, the knuckles.  We're going to rebuild them entirely.  Right now they're too heavy for the motors.  The arm can't pick up anything heavier than a ping pong ball,” Gers chattered on while comparing the bolts to various pieces he produced from his bag.

 

I loved to hear Gers talk about the robot.  Frankly, I loved the robot.  I didn't see it often, but it was cool.  It was amazing that this was something they could build.  I thought about whether I would ever create something as special.  But if seeing the robot was wonderful, watching Gers compare bolts was deathly.  I walked away from the group towards where all the gadgets were kept, hoping to find something to entertain me.

 

The gadgets were always the best part of any hardware store -- an endless array of tools whose creativity was only exceeded by their lack of necessity.  I marveled at the ingenuity that created reversible hammers and magnetic screwdrivers.  Truth be told, I could spend hours in this aisle.  I found a disc that telescoped into a cup.  I found a keychain that doubled as a piano tuner.  Then I found a screwdriver that looked absolutely normal.

 

I held it gingerly in my hand, sure that it would fall apart or snap onto my finger.  I blew on it gingerly, wondering whether it would yield up its secret to me.  Finally, I held it up to my face and got blasted by the light bulb inside.  I barely avoided dropping it.  That was something.  A screwdriver with built-in flashlight.  For screwing in the dark.

 

This was a joke fit to share.  But when I turned to do so, I saw him.  Standing there, third in line, was Suspect #2.  I recognized the hair, the briefcase, even the style of dress.  Channy had called him an adjunct, and there he was, in his adjunct garb.

 

As quietly as I could, I put the screwdriver back and slipped out my phone.  Hiding among the shelving, I took two photos of him.  Then I pulled up the video and compared.

 

This was our guy.

 

Just to make sure, I decided to tail him, to see if he went back to MIT.  I slipped over to my friends to say a quiet goodbye.

 

“Hey, guys,” I whispered, “I got to run.  I'll see you tomorrow.”

 

“Mystery whipped!” shouted Dro, making me cringe.  I cast a quick surreptitious glance over at Suspect #2, who couldn’t have cared less.

 

“Yeah, say hello to your fake ball and chain,” added Gers.

 

“See you tomorrow, Honey,” said Kenneth, more kindly than the others.

 

I smiled weakly and slipped out the door.  I had a plan.  I was feeling adventurous, crafty and on the verge of triumph.  Of all of the hardware stores in Cambridge, Suspect #2 had walked into mine.  I crossed the street and leaned against the storefront, trying to conceal my inner excitement.  When he came out, I’d get a good look at him.  I’d see where he was headed.  If he turned right, towards MIT, I’d know that we had our man.  My heart rate accelerated with every passing moment.  Three minutes later, he exited and turned right.

 

I started tailing him from the other side of the street.  With all of the other folks around, I kept “my basset hound” losing him.  I darted across Mass Ave, through traffic, and ended up twenty feet behind him.  I made up my mind that if he went down a side street, I'd approach him and make him speak.  I’d hear his voice.  He didn't deviate at all.  Every step brought him closer to MIT.  This had to be our man.

 

Having learned my lesson from the Suspect #1, I concealed my phone.  But I did manage to snap a few photos.  As we approached campus, I decided that it was time to tell Channy how close I was to catching this guy.

 

=================================

**Rick Smith

@LittleTwerp

 

Check out these photos.

I'm following Suspect #2

=================================

 

My heart beat hard while waiting for her response.

 

=================================

**Channing

@MyFakeWife

 

He looks kind of short.

=================================

 

Was he?  I hadn't really seen him in person, only on the video.  But this had to be our guy.  He had the briefcase and the hair.

 

=================================

**Rick Smith

@LittleTwerp

 

Are you kidding?  He's at MIT!

This is our adjunct.

=================================

 

Her response came fast.

 

=================================

**Channing

@MyFakeWife

 

Where are you?

=================================

 

I looked up.  He’d seated himself on the benches in the courtyard.  He had a book in his lap, not yet opened it.

 

=================================

**Rick Smith

@LittleTwerp

 

He’s sitting in front of the student center.

=================================

 

=================================

**Channing

@MyFakeWife

 

Stay on him!  I’m coming!

=================================

 

I stared at the last DM for a few seconds.  She was coming here?  It suddenly hit me.   All the time I was following the suspect, he was leading me deeper into Channy’s lair. My breaths became shorter and my heart started pounding.  At the beginning, this had felt like a game.  But being near Channy was always fraught.  I had only seen her three times.  Each time had been a roller coaster of emotions.  I was far more ready to confront a killer than my future wife.  I sat there, hyperventilating, waiting for her to arrive.

 

I tried to shake myself out of it.  I had my instructions.  I had to stay on him.  

 

I sidled to the stairs leading up to the student center and slunk around the corner.  From here I could see him reading, but he couldn’t see me.  At first, the tension was overwhelming.  After a minute, my heart regained its normal pace.  Then I started to get bored.  It suddenly hit me that I just a boy watching a man read a book.  I felt foolish.  I started to type out a DM when movement caught my attention and my stomach clenched.

 

At first, all I noticed was her, in her entirety.  She was beautiful, radiant, and glowing.  I hadn’t been prepared for the strength of my reaction to her.  I had to remind myself that I might be mere feet away from a killer.  I shook my head and took another look.  The pieces of her started to come into focus.

 

For example, I noticed her loose ponytail.  I’d never seen her hair like that before.  But unlike Zeta’s tight, careful hair, it was loose and wild, from having run over.  Then I noticed her glasses, which seemed larger than usual.  With her hair pulled back, they seemed to take up too much of her face.  After that, I noticed what she was wearing: bright pink t-shirt, black gym shorts, pink socks and white tennis shoes.  It was girlish and oddly informal.  I wouldn't have guessed that she even owned such clothes.  But then I noticed what was between the black shorts and pink socks:  Nothing but legs.

 

I quickly reviewed the three previous times I had seen her and confirmed that I had never seen her legs before.  Yet there they were.  She had calves.  She had knees.  She had thighs.  I quickly forced my attention away, before my imagination went any higher.

 

But the moment had shifted.  Suddenly, all semblance of awe was lost.

 

Channy looked ridiculous.  She was performing, at best, a caricature of a stakeout.  With the most serious look one could muster, she was hiding behind a lamppost, focusing intently on our suspect.  But even her slender form couldn’t be concealed behind the post.  Her head and body emanated from one side while her butt poked out the other.  She looked so silly that I had to take a photo.  She caught me doing so and made a horrified face.  I caught that on camera, too.

 

Channy thrust her gaze away from me and turned her attention back to the suspect.  I did so as well, snapping a few more pictures of him.  Channy was on the move.  Once again, I lost interest in the suspect and watched my future wife.  She slowly walked from one lamppost to the next.  And then her face lit up in a triumphant smile.  It reminded me eerily of Zeta.

 

She looked at me briefly and took several more photos.  After that, she came out from behind her lamppost and walked straight across the plaza towards me.  She shared a nod with the suspect as she passed him.  Flabbergasted, I had no choice but to leave my post and meet her.  The suspect took no notice.

 

I plopped down on the stairs and waited for Channy to join me.  She delicately placed herself next to me and took out her phone.  She open it up and scrolled through her photes.  Finally, she zoomed in on a photo of the suspect.  I looked at the photo, unsure of what she was trying to show me.  After an unbearable thirty seconds, she explained.

 

“We are staking some individual who is decidedly not Suspect #2,” she whispered.  “He’s missing two fingers on his right hand.”

 

I gawked.  He was.  I quickly opened the video and skipped to the only shot we had of him.  You could see his right hand clearly, complete and whole.

 

“It’s been a few months,” I faltered.  “Could he have lost them?”

 

“Oh, Rick!” she said, blowing out her frustration.  “His hair is a lighter.  I suspect that he’s shorter, too.”

 

I looked at the two phones.  She was absolutely right.  The more I looked, the less I understood how I have made the mistake to begin with.  I turned back to Channy to defend myself when I noticed something more important.  

 

Goosebumps.

 

Channy’s arms and legs were covered in them.  Like our poor bikini-clad bicyclist, Channy was underdressed for the not-quite-spring-like weather.  Without a word, I unzipped my knapsack and pulled out my jeans jacket.  Channy watched silently.  I lifted it up and draped it over her shoulders.  I felt a thrill run through me as my fingers brushed her bare neck.  I exulted in the sensation of her tantalizing hair, teasing the back of my hand.  She gave me a lovely, grateful smile and pushed her arms through the sleeves.  They were significantly too long for her.  Her fingers barely emerged.  She wrapped her arms around her knees, to gain as much warmth as she could.  By the time she was dressed, the suspect was gone.  It dawned on me that this had all been for nothing.  I’d trailed this guy across half the afternoon yet we were no closer to finding our man.

 

“What a waste of time,” I grumbled.  “Now I feel bad for making you run over here.”

 

“That's okay,” she snorted thoughtfully.  “I like to run while I can.”

 

“How are we going to find the killer?” I moaned.

 

“I don’t know, Rick.  But we will.  I told you that we would.”

 

She did.  And I believed her.  But how did we do it?

 

We sat there silently, companionably sitting next to each other without talking.  For a minute, I was entirely surprised by the feeling of being so close to Channy -- to any girl really -- and being comfortable.  Or at least, not uncomfortable.  But gradually, as I relaxed into the experience, I started to notice the scene around me.  It struck me that I’d never really taken in MIT campus like this.  I’d come here multiple times, usually with my friends.  But I always felt like an intruder.  On those occasions, we’d always passed through quickly, like we didn't belong.  We had rushed as if we had to escape before someone took notice.

 

I’d walked Channy back after our only date.  But we’d both been traumatized.  I hadn't really taken it in.  This day, I somehow felt myself part of the institution.  The gentle ribbing between Channy and I had earned me the right to sit here.  So I indulged.  I sat there and soaked in the ambiance with Channy.  With my girlfriend.  By my side.  In my jacket.

 

For a while, I sat there quietly, taking in the scene around me.  There were kids playing frisbee.  There were folks eating.  There were student reading books, listening to music,  looking at their phones.  There was a background hubbub of conversation as people walked and talked.  It was hard to escape the difference between me and these older kids.  I felt like a tourist in a land of developmental maturity, a land that I would never personally experience.

 

But then my philosophical musings came to a crashing halt.  A guy walked right past us, with an unopened six-pack in his hand.

 

“Woah,” I whispered.  “That guy has beer.”

 

Channy gave a snort, which could have been a laugh, but felt somewhat heavier.

 

“He looks like a grad student,” she assured me.  “He's surely legal.” There was an edge in her voice, as dangerous as it was ambiguous.  

 

We regarded his retreating form in silence.  Suddenly, it hit me.  Maybe her comfort was part of the maturity chasm between us.

 

“Can, uh,” I tried.  “Can I ask you a question?”

 

I was surprised by the challenge of asking in person.  It was one thing to ask the virtual Channy, the one who was just words on my phone screen.  As I asked the living girl beside me, I felt a leaden weight forming.  Would she crumble at the realization that she was laying her soul bare before me?  I needn't have worried.

 

“Of course!” she said with a smile that was barely serene and not at all smug.

 

I was stunned at how easy it was.  I took some time in taking her up on her offer.  As much as I knew what I wanted to ask, I was afraid of what I’d hear. I was afraid that the answer would feel different, heavier, in person.  But I wanted to know.  I worked up my courage and asked.

 

“Do you drink?”

 

After a second of silence, I turned to look at her.  I saw the woman.  The girl was gone.

 

For a fraction of a second, I couldn't breathe.  Her eyes hardened.  Fire glistened in the faint, horizontal lines that divided each of her lenses.  

 

The feeling receded as abruptly as it had come, but she took some time in answering.  In the silence, her body language spoke for her.  She pursed her lips and lowered her gaze.  Behind those thick lenses, her eyes dulled, a certain sadness creeping into the corners.  Her shoulder hunched down and forwards, reminding me of the slouch I’d been so surprised to see on my video in Starbucks.  I realized that I was being given an unfiltered insight into those longer pauses in our DM conversations.  Even though I couldn’t hear her, I felt like I was listening to her mind.  She was cataloging her memories, past and future, evaluating what was okay to tell me.

 

“No,” she said, finally breaking the silence.  “I'm not much of a drinker.”

 

That seemed like little payoff off for all that thinking.  I stayed silent in the hopes that she'd continue.

 

“I tried it once, back in October, before you met me.”

 

Of course it wasn't before she met me.  That had been years ago.  For several more seconds, she remained in that huddled, little pose.  When she spoke again her voice was sad, small, almost frightened.  She half turned her body away from me, literally giving me a cold shoulder.  I felt like I was intruding on a personal moment.

 

“There was this guy.  I didn't want to date him, because I knew that you… I knew that we…”

 

“It's okay,” I prompted.  She knew it was okay, but I'm sure that it helped to hear me say it.

 

“Well, he asked me to a party.  I was so flattered.  I even got dressed up.  I remember feeling how oddly discordant that evening was with what our life -- yours and mine -- would be like.”

 

It occurred to me that I had no idea what our life would be like.  The extent to which I did not know this girl, my future wife, continued to astound me.

 

“I’d never been to a party like this before.  I wasn’t sure what to expect.  I guess I was looking for laughing and dancing.  And there was laughing.  But it was really all about drinking.  He got punch for us immediately and I would have felt foolish if I wasn't joining in.

 

“But you know…” she said, gesturing at her torso, “90 pounds…” the last was said in a whisper.

 

At first, I received this as a humble brag.  I thought about the many girls at school who were trying to lose weight.  They'd probably kill to be able to say they weighed so little.  But when I looked at Channy’s face, still turned away from mine, all I saw was shame.  She felt her size as painfully as Mom.  It shocked me to think about the many different ways in which society made girls feel bad about their bodies.

 

“I got drunk really fast,” she confessed, turning her body slightly back towards mine.  Her eyes were doleful, inviting sympathy.  But I was too caught up in the narrative.

 

“What happened?” I asked.

 

“I passed out!” she said, finally turning to fully face me.  She was appalled with herself.  I was a little relieved.

 

“I was afraid that this was going to be another story about throwing up.”

 

“There was plenty of that later,” she said absentmindedly.  She was clearly thinking about something else.  I could tell that the story wasn't over.

 

“Did he… Did he do anything to you?” I asked, fearfully.

 

“Oh, God no!  He was a perfect gentleman.  He scooped me up and brought me three doors down, where a girl let me crash on her sofa.  No, the problem was the dreams.”

 

Oh.

 

“At first, I dreamed only of him.  I remembered when we met.  I remembered the invitation.  I remembered him giving me that first drink.  Then I dreamed about the next time I’d see him and how embarrassing it would be.  But then it got weird.  My prophetic dreams feel different, like they have a layer of haze around them.  Those dreams are so distinctive that I almost felt like I could force them to happen by getting into the right mindset.  Well, all of the dreams after I passed out had that feeling, but they got so horrid.”

 

Her voice shuddered down to a low, breathy rumble.  She put her hand to her temple, as if she was trying to create a protective wall between us.  I wasn’t sure that she was going to be able to continue, but she steeled herself and plowed on.

 

“I remember hearing laughter, horrible laughter,” she said.  “And falling, falling forever.  I remember feeling trapped in… trapped...”

 

“In the fiery pits of hell?” I asked, as her words struck a chord.

 

She turned to me with a blank expression on her face, then turned away again.

 

“No.  Not on that particular night.  No.”

 

She was silent for a long time. I thought I saw tears welling up in her eyes.  I regretted that I’d intruded on the narrative.

 

“I vowed that I would never drink again,” she turned and gave me a “will protect Gina” sad smile.

 

I’d been going to say something, but I was stunned by the realization that the last words had been her thoughts.  I’d spent so little time with her and I’d already heard her twice.  That made me think about Kenneth and Jenny and maybe even Mom.  She was one of those people who I heard more easily.  I had no idea why.  Maybe she thought more loudly.  Maybe I was just better tuned into her.  Channy had suggested that I would hear her all the time.  I’d no idea what those last three words had meant, but the existence of them was overwhelming.  Channy was someone who I heard more easily.  These thoughts I heard were not just random noise.

 

That brought my thoughts back to her story.  I tried to articulate what I was thinking.  Channy seemed lost in her own world so we sat together in silence.  During her narrative, all those little movements had brought her closer to me.  There was barely an inch left between our shoulders.  I was conscious of the heat coming off of her.  Suddenly, I understood the idea I’d been reaching for.

 

“Hey, Channy… You had all of these dreams about that guy that night,” I said.  When she turned to look at me, her eyes were unfocused.  She shook her head, unsure of where I was heading.

 

“Could it have been the alcohol?  Did the alcohol help you, giving you the ability to focus your dreams?”

 

At the very center of her pupils, I could see pinpricks, the very beginning of that woman breaking free.  Her cheeks flushed red, and I had the strangest sensation of hearing a growl.

 

“You don’t know what you’re saying,” she pleaded.  “There was nothing good about that experience!”

 

Her ferocious mask of anger almost held me back, but I really wanted to follow this through.

 

“But it was remarkable, right?” I asked, hoping that she’d understand.  “These dreams weren’t just random.  You thought about that guy.  You dreamed about him.”

 

“Maybe,” she said, leaning in slowly.  “I don’t know.  What are you saying?” Her voice suddenly sharp.  I felt a hint of threat in every sentence she uttered.  I’d never seen her like this.

 

“Maybe I should try it.  Maybe alcohol would, you know, loosen up my ears.  Maybe I would be able to hear better…”

 

In the silence that followed, I watch the girl claw her way past the woman.

 

“Ricky, please, you shouldn’t even be thinking about this,” she said.  Her voice was strained, like gentleness tightly wound.  “You don’t know what you’re saying.  You can’t possibly imagine!”

 

I was struck by the fierce passion in her voice.  She clutched my arm, her face turning pale.  She closed her eyes and took several deep, cleansing breaths.  When she spoke again, I was pulled back to that morning in Starbucks.  The serene, competent girl was back in control.

 

“Listen.  In eighteen months, we’ll be living together.  Don’t try anything until then.  If you still want to try, I’ll get you the alcohol.  I’ll sit with you while you drink it.  I’ll be there if anything bad happens.”

 

Her eye contact was so strong that I felt a need to look away.  I was as stunned by her anxiety as by the knowledge that our cohabitation would start so soon.  And then it hit me.  She was probably just as sure about the dangers of alcohol as she was that we’d be living together.  There was something she didn’t want to tell me; something that she knew I wouldn’t want to know.  I nodded, wordlessly at first.

 

“Okay,” I said.  “I’ll be careful.  I understand.”

 

She loosened her grip on me.  We turned back to look out across the plaza.  Moments later, I felt an unexpected weight on my shoulder.  Turning as gently as I could, I saw that Channy was resting her head against me.  I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do.  I felt like there must be something she was expecting.  Awkwardly, I reached my left arm up and placed it on her shoulder.  And then I heard it, like a sigh, like a gentle breeze tip toeing across my brain.

 

“love… him…”