Ginger hasn’t changed the subject, so I go on. “The whole interview was intense but positive. They were really receptive about expanding the art offerings. It’s tough right now to find traditional schools that are willing to spend money on classes that develop skills not directly tied to employability.” That was the nice way to say it.
The real truth is that art doesn’t matter to most academics.
Maybe that’s not fair.
Art doesn’t matter to most academics who run high-end, fancy, Ivy League feeder schools.
But it seems to matter here.
So I love this place.
Ginger nods and swallows. “Seems like the very best schools are starting to lean this way. I think it’s great that Chamberlain is revamping its art department.” She sips her drink. “Some prep school parents don’t think your kind of stuff matters much, but the kids recognize it. Their advisement teams are convincing them. Trends are showing that a well-rounded kid with a perfect transcript is a better Ivy League bet than a specialist kid with a perfect transcript.”
I recognize this kind of talk. My interview sounded a lot like this—the chancellor, the parent board members, the old lady from the Chamberlain Trust all seemed to think that Ivy League ambitions are the only acceptable reasons to make academic decisions. And perfect transcripts are nonnegotiable.
Perfection. The only satisfactory goal. No problem, right?
I mean, I understand. This is not new to me. My four years at Brown in the visual arts department was barely acceptable to my parents. Ivy League was the only option, and to my Harvard-grad mother and my Princeton-grad father, Brown was the last choice—bottom of the list of the Ancient Eight. Cornell, where my sister did her masters, is a close second-to-last.
My rebellion runs deep. Right to the bottom of the Ivy League barrel. Yes, the Harkers are snobs. At least we recognize it. And I don’t fight hard against it. We don’t make waves. We don’t cause scenes. We simply set the bar in a place that might be a little high.
Ginger asks what kind of photography I like to do, and we talk about portraiture and landscapes for a while. I decide to hold off on the spectral stuff or details about the macroscopics until I know if Ginger is actually interested or merely polite.
“Do you take pictures?” I ask, with a smidge of trepidation. Nobody really wants to look at the pictures on strangers’ smartphones. But Ginger laughs again, erasing my worry. I am really starting to like that sound.
“Only for fun. You know, record a memory, like that. And when stuff explodes in my lab. That happens more often than you’d like to think.”
I laugh with her and then feel a shadow fall across my back.
I follow Ginger’s glance up to see the handsome but horrible possibly former Broadway actor standing over our table, blocking out the sun. His head is tipped artfully to catch the sun’s rays. Did he plan that? A charming looking guy in a faded Superman T-shirt and a struggling beard stands beside him, looking like he’s not sure what to do with his arms. Superman nudges Broadway, who looks, I think, a little nervous.
I like to see him nervous. It suggests the possibility of humility. Deep inside there somewhere. Far, far below the surface.
“Anyone want to throw a frisbee around before the meeting starts?” Broadway guy asks, his smile not faltering, even though his eyes dart between Ginger and me like he’s worried one of us will attack.
That’s fair. She might.
And I might just sit here and watch it happen. I certainly shouldn’t say yes to a frisbee game. I should not make it easy for this guy to ingratiate himself. Under no circumstances ought I to make it look like I desire his invitation, or his friendship, or anything else on offer.
“Come on, I can show you how it’s done.” His smile widens.
And there it is. The challenge. I can’t believe this guy would automatically assume I need him to teach me anything. But certainly not frisbee. I used to be great at it. These days, my depth perception leaves much to be desired. Even so, I love to play.
I wipe my hands on my jeans and stand up. “I’d love to. I have to warn you, I’m terrible” I wad up my trash and glance around for a garbage can. “Ginger? Want to come?”
I hope she says yes. I mean, I don’t want to do anything with this guy. But his stupid assurance that he’s going to teach me something? Infuriating. And, after all, frisbee is a distance game. I can have a little fun, miss a few passes, stand in the sunshine, and not speak to the guy. I glance again at Ginger.
Maybe I should have asked her before I said yes. But she seems game, even though she’s made it clear she isn’t a fan of him.
And neither am I, which of course I have not forgotten, even with the sun highlighting his hair like that.
And, come on, it’s frisbee. Frisbee is one of the world’s simple joys. These grassy quads are perfect for it. And how many more days of this will we get before the lawns are filled with kids? (Three. The answer is three more days.)
“Sure,” Ginger says, sliding off the bench and grabbing my lunch garbage. “On the east green?” She points with her eyebrows, and the guys nod. She nudges me with her elbow. “Meet you there.”
Broadway guy puts his hand on my back and directs me to a stone path cut into the grass. I fight two urges: say something to make him laugh that amazing laugh, or push back against this weirdly possessive gesture. I can find my way to the patch of grass Ginger pointed out without being led, thank you very much.
But I neither lean in nor step away. I just wait to see what happens.