Chapter 16
Ramona’s hand shoots up before Nick has even finished asking his question.
“According to the Cannon-Bard theory,” she says when he nods to her, “emotions result from an external stimulus, along with a physiological reaction. So, if your teacher announces a pop quiz and you haven’t studied, not that that’s something I have ever personally experienced”—this draws some scattered laughs—“then you might feel anxiety and start to sweat, but neither of those is caused by the other.”
Nick tries his best to keep the smile from taking over his whole face. She’s clearly done the reading.
Another hand goes up, a sophomore named Matt. “But if you look at Darwin, it’s clear emotions evolved to help us survive.”
Ramona twists in her seat. “Yes, but I think that’s too rudimentary a way of thinking about it for the modern era. Our lives are more complex. There are too many emotions we experience these days that Darwin couldn’t have accounted for—no offense.”
“On his behalf, none taken,” Nick says. “I hope.”
Debates like this are his favorite part of teaching. They’ve just introduced six different theories of emotion, and it’s only natural for students to gravitate toward one of them. In fact, he doesn’t always fall in the same place, either.
Ever since the basketball game last week—since that afternoon in the library, actually—Ramona has been different in class.
More engaged. A couple days ago, he mentioned over text that he had a trunk full of things to take to Goodwill, and she asked if she could join.
It sounds VERY normal, she messaged, and he chewed the inside of his cheek and told her to meet him at the donation center on North Brand in Glendale.
After they dropped off his boxes, they browsed the aisles until Ramona started worrying a group of teens was watching her, so they grabbed iced coffees at a nearby café, then sat outside talking until all the ice had melted.
She was wearing her new Clippers hat, and the way he felt about that rivals the swell of teacherly pride he feels when she concludes the debate with another insightful remark.
“I think that’s a good place to stop for today,” Nick says. “Happy Halloween. Try not to think about what Freud would say about your costume choices.”
He busies himself organizing papers while his students pack up, though it doesn’t escape his notice that Ramona lingers, as though fighting with the zipper on her bag.
He did in fact consult the UCLA faculty handbook after their conversation in the library, and what he found was this: romantic or sexual relationships with students are unacceptable forms of conduct.
Getting coffee with a student? Not expressly prohibited. Going to a basketball game together? Also murky.
What happened in his office? Well, they already agreed that was a mistake. Therefore, it stands to reason that what they’re doing now is wholly innocent.
Just as innocent as her panties in the back of his drawer.
Ramona waits until he’s finished talking with another student, a freshman who wanted some clarification on that week’s assignment, before approaching his desk. “Big Halloween plans?” she asks. In artfully ripped jeans and a soft flannel, she looks absurdly cute. Like an ad for autumn.
He’s not sure where acknowledging that falls in the faculty code of conduct.
“I thought you were going to come up here demanding extra credit for all your participation today.”
A wave of her hand. “I’m sure it’ll be reflected on my next test.”
“I’m going trick-or-treating with my niece,” he says. “What about you?”
“My friend Betty always throws this party. She’s my personal trainer—well, she started out that way, and now she’s probably my closest friend.” She shifts her bag to her other shoulder. “Would you…want to come? After trick-or-treating?”
He considers this. Audrey will probably conk out earlier than she wants to, after the sugar high, and since they canceled pub trivia because of the holiday, he’ll have a free Friday night.
This potentially UCLA handbook–approved friendship of theirs was supposed to be about helping Ramona feel normal—but maybe going to a party would help him feel that way, too.
“I could do that,” he finds himself saying.
“Betty’s people are good people,” Ramona adds. And with a lift of her eyebrows: “Maybe you could even meet someone.”
Once she leaves, there’s a knock on the classroom door.
A mid-twenties guy in a pumpkin-patterned sweater steps inside, giving Nick a wave.
Hunter Page: one of the psychology TAs. Nick taught him as an undergrad, and he was thrilled when he decided to stay on for a master’s.
He’s not TA’ing any of Nick’s courses this quarter, but he teaches a section in this room after Behavior in the Brain, so their paths cross a few times a week.
“Hey there,” Hunter says.
“Hunter. Happy Friday,” Nick says as he zips up his messenger bag. “How’s the quarter treating you?”
“Good. Really good.” Hunter awkwardly rubs at a loose orange thread on his sleeve, then glances out the door, down the hallway. “So…Ramona Wilder seems to really like your class.”
The silence that follows makes the room feel cavernous.
Nick hopes he’s not visibly sweating. “I like to hope most students do,” he says, forcing a laugh. He and Ramona didn’t seem overly friendly, did they? And the door was closed. Hunter couldn’t have heard the party invite…at least, Nick doesn’t think so.
Hunter doesn’t smile. “I just…couldn’t help noticing that she sticks around afterward a lot of the time. More than any of the others. And my mom’s a producer, so I know a little about that world.”
Nick has to fight a roll of his eyes. People in LA like to consider themselves experts just because they know someone who works in the industry, when the reality is that just about everyone knows someone who works in the industry.
“Right. She’s had some great questions.” He gets to his feet, shouldering his bag. “She’s been doing really well. Participating a lot in class, too.”
“Just—be careful.” Hunter gives the desk a friendly tap. “Those people know exactly how to get what they want from you.”
—
“I think this is our best work,” Audrey says as she draws a final whisker on Nick’s cheek with an eyeliner pencil. She’s dressed all in white, curly red hair peeking out from beneath a chef’s hat. Nick adjusts the gray felt ears on top of his head.
She is Alfredo Linguini; he is Remy the rat.
He loves trick-or-treating with her—he’s gone every year since she was five.
It might be the sugar rush, but Audrey’s in particularly good spirits tonight, and they spend the whole evening rating candy selections at each house, marveling at other kids’ costumes, and posing for photos with neighbors.
When they get home, Audrey begins meticulously sorting her haul while Lexi finishes up work at the kitchen table.
In the guesthouse, Nick scrubs off the whiskers and changes his costume, because while he loved matching with Audrey and truthfully doesn’t consider himself that vain, he’s not sure he wants Ramona to see him dressed as a rodent.
“You going back out?” Lexi asks around a yawn when Nick comes through the main house again, pulling out his car keys.
Sheepishly, he rubs at the back of his neck. “Uh—yeah. Going to a party, actually.”
“Oh? Whose?”
“Someone from school.” Not a lie, exactly, but it settles uncomfortably in his stomach nonetheless. Because what could he tell her—that he’s going to a celebrity party with a former pop star? She’d still be doubled over laughing by the time he got home.
“Just remember,” Lexi says, expression turning grave, “if the other kids are drinking, that doesn’t mean you need to!”
A roll of his eyes, along with a pinch of sibling affection.
Apparently, he realizes as he pulls up to the modestly sized but gorgeously remodeled house in Culver City, personal trainers to the stars do quite well for themselves. He pops a mint, texts Ramona that he just parked, and heads up the front walk.
He’s not expecting her to be the one to answer the door.
He’s expecting even less to see her in a schoolgirl costume.
Light blue button-up with a little tie and a navy sweater-vest. Plaid skirt almost as short as the one she wore to school on the day they don’t talk about, knee socks—even a pair of saddle shoes. Her hair is parted down the middle, dark waves cascading down her shoulders.
Oh fuck, this is going to be a long night.
“Hi,” she says, a bit nervous.
“Hi.” His gaze flicks up and down her costume. Don’t ogle her. Don’t ogle her. “And you are…?”
“Rory Gilmore. In her Chilton era.”
“What’s a Chilton?”
Ramona’s mouth falls open, and he tries not to imagine what her berry lip balm would taste like.
“New plan. Instead of getting you back into the dating world, I think I need to educate you on the joys and disappointments of Gilmore Girls.” She gestures to his makeshift cape and T-shirt, where Ego is written in bold Sharpie letters. “Are you…the superego?”
He assumed it would be the dorkiest costume here by far, but alas, that is who he is at his core. “I am indeed.”
When she laughs, it’s a light, musical sound. “Obsessed. You’re always so on-brand.”
He hopes that’s a good thing.
Hunter’s words bang around inside his head. Those people know exactly how to get what they want from you.
But Ramona isn’t those people. She isn’t doing all of this—the friendship, the dating profile, the party invitation—just so she can get a good grade. He’s almost certain of it. Besides, she’s been doing well entirely on her own.
What’s most alarming about the whole thing is that someone else has noticed Ramona spending extra time with him. No matter how many other students come to his office hours or chat with him after class, none of them are asking him to spend Halloween with them.
If anyone knew he was at this party…
Well, it’s a good thing they don’t.