Chapter 21
THURSDAY EVENING, HEATHER and Mark post up in the dining room to chat with Grant.
While they won’t be of much use as far as info about elementary-level stuff, our teaching program required that we intern at a middle school as well as the high school where we ultimately worked.
The two of them had been deeply involved in the junior high’s extracurriculars, whereas I saw much of my free time that semester divided between trying to convince myself that I hadn’t made a multi-thousand-dollar mistake in pursuing my master’s degree and in waiting rooms, hoping to find out what was causing my abdominal pain.
At least I got an answer; for the hours they put in, all Mark and Heather had to show for it was an abiding hatred for Annie and a sneaking suspicion that very few seventh graders were wearing deodorant.
They’ve been talking for the better part of an hour, and when I looked in earlier, Grant was taking notes. He still hasn’t talked to Ian about his change in plans, but it says a lot about his commitment that he’s taking the process so seriously.
I’d taken to the couch with a book, but I keep losing my place on the page.
I used my day off yesterday as a rest day, though my body needed the break less than my exposure to Ian.
I did brush up on my American history. Lady Bird Johnson’s pet project was the Highway Beautification Act, which, minor controversies aside, sounded right up my alley.
She also worked to tidy DC, planting millions of flowers on National Park Service land around the capital.
She was a big believer that beauty would make the US a better place to live. Better, one might submit, than “fine.”
She also had one hell of a hair helmet. Which is what made her instantly recognizable when I spotted her image on my desk this morning, gracing the glass of a novelty prayer candle.
There’s one on my nightstand, a white elephant gift from the school, with Dolly Parton fashioned in the style of a Catholic saint.
They’re all over Austin, done by a local company, with a slew of celebrities and historical figures.
Taped below the icon was a note in Ian’s distinct, blocky writing, reading, “Our lady of better than fine.”
Hot.
I close my book. Alistair stands at the end of the hallway, eyes distant in thought, or… not-thought, possibly.
Or not not-thought. He’d been valedictorian of his high school graduating class, after all. And I’m overdue for my apology tour. No time like the present.
“Alistair,” I start, “I know basically nothing about you. I’ve been remiss. And I’m sorry.”
His head quirks to one side, but he doesn’t seem particularly affected by the statement. “It’s cool. I keep to myself a lot. I have a rich inner life.”
It had been not not-thought! I gesture to the lounger. “Sit! Tell.”
“Like, what’s in my head right now? ’Cause right now, I’m just pissed because I have an underwear shoot on Tuesday, and it’s gonna fuck up my weekend.”
“Oh, man,” Grant groans, coming in from the dining room with his notebook. “That sucks. For all of us,” he adds, pointedly.
Heather frowns, she and Mark joining me on the couch.
“What? Why?” she asks, unaccustomed to the unspoken rule of the Dawghouse: One doesn’t request elaboration from fellow residents.
But after my spat with Ian, I’m thinking that I might have misinterpreted their acceptance of my silence.
Just because I wasn’t forthcoming doesn’t mean that no one else wants to be asked about themselves.
With these three having such a long history together, they might just take for granted that they know everything about one another.
I’m the interloper. I should have been asking all along.
“I gotta cut my water weight.” Alistair eases into the recliner, draping himself across the armrests. “It makes the muscles look more defined. So shitty, though. Dieting is bad enough, but when I’m dehydrating like that, I swear, the last day? I can smell water nearby.”
“He’s a dick the whole time, too,” Grant says.
“You would be too if walking past a sprinkler had you drooling. Actually…” He frowns. “I don’t think I can even produce saliva at that point.”
“Is that level of dehydration even safe?” Mark asks.
“Fuck no. But it’s not long-term. And it only comes up every now and then. I’m used to it because of the other stuff I used to do.”
Heather’s brows quirk upward. “Other stuff?”
“He used to do bodybuilding competitions.” Grant laughs. “Until he was banned.”
“Banned?” I ask.
“Because of my penis.”
Heather’s “Excuse me?” is a squeak.
Alistair groans, letting his head drop onto the armrest. “When I competed, I’d do my individual program to ‘Like a Rock.’ Because my body is hard. Like a rock. Like, every time the song would go, ‘Like a rock,’ I’d flex. To go along with the song.”
“That’s…” What is someone supposed to say in this situation? “Very literal.”
“Exactly. And I’d do a standing backflip at the end. As a finale. But my abs were so tight, doing that meant that sometimes my dick would pop out of my shorts.”
This time, Mark squeaks.
“My mom always let me know,” Alistair continues.
“She’d be in the wings—she’d help me out backstage.
So good at coverage for my tanning stuff.
And she’d”—he makes a downward motion with his hand, as though tucking in a shirt—“‘Tuck it in, sweetie!’ But I guess some people thought I was doing it on purpose.”
“To be fair, folks probably aren’t expecting full-on dick at an event like that,” Mark offers, reasonably.
“I guess,” Alistair concedes. “It was still sucky that I got banned, but I was already over it. And that’s kind of where I am with modeling, too. The money’s good, and I’ll be putting away a lot more now, with your draconian-ass budgeting,” he says to me, accusingly.
I shrug; I’m more impressed with his use of draconian, even if I don’t think it applies. My guidelines are hardly written in blood. “So, what are you saving for? A place of your own?”
“Med school.”
“Med—” I goggle at him. “Med school?”
He nods, lazily confident as ever, but med school? For him? I’m really trying not to make assumptions, but…Doctor Tongue Zap?
Grant laughs. “Yo, Alistair was a nerd back in the day.”
“I’m, like, real fuckin’ smart. A lot of people don’t know that, because I’m also hot, but yeah.
You know how people know you’re smart, Ellie?
Even though you’re hot? It’s like, she’s a smokeshow, and I bet she could recommend a good book?
But with me, people see that I’m hot, and the most they can hope for is a rec for a good body spray. ”
“And what self-tanner to avoid if they’d rather not look like a sparkle vampire?” Heather offers.
He brays out a laugh. “Right? That shit took forever to come off.” He shakes his head, examining his palms as if for lingering shimmer. “But, for sure. I’ve been accepted into a few programs—”
“Aren’t you only twenty-one?” Mark asks.
“Yeah. I came into UT with, like, half my undergraduate degree in the bag. But I didn’t want to be buried under a mountain of student debt.
And there’s scholarships and stuff, but I’m cool taking my time right now.
I’ll only be this”—he gestures toward himself with both hands; as always, we have no choice but to take him in—“for so long, you know?”
Heather rolls her eyes. “I think it’s pretty safe to say that barring disfigurement, you’ll just transition to a silver fox and end up representing different things.”
“Prolly. But I might start looking into those scholarships again, see what I need to do if I want to enroll in the next year or whatever.”
His eyes flit toward me, and for the first time, I see something other than vacant self-possession; the man is capable of doubt.
“Do you, um, think that’s something you could help me with?
Because there’ll be essays, and personal statements ’n’ shit, and I kind of write how I talk.
I used to be better,” he says, pushing himself higher in the chair, though he’s still half reclining.
“Like, talk better, but I think I’m out of practice. I’ve had my brain off for a while.”
“Absolutely,” I say, happy for the chance to make up the time I’ve been underestimating him…
even if it had been based on every interaction I’ve had with him up until—and kind of including—now.
“And if you want to prime your brain a bit, I have it on good authority that I’m the right person to ask for a book recommendation. ”
He frowns, then the lightbulb clicks on. Good Lord, he really has turned off his brain, hasn’t he? “Nice callback.”
“Alistair…” I shake my head, but I can’t help but smile. “You are a mystery. Wrapped in an enigma. And, generally, very little else.”
“And sometimes a plant!” He chuckles to himself for a moment, then cocks his head, brow furrowed. “It’s probably gonna take a while to get my brain back in gear, yeah?”
“I’ll start a reading list.”