Page 30 of Sharkbait
The following day, I’m on the UPenn campus, trying to stay dry under a plastic bus stop awning while rain pours all around me. It’s weirdly peaceful. Like my own personal fishbowl.
I’m on a video call with my pseudo-therapist, Gail.
“Slow down, slow down, would you?” she says.
“Sorry. You’re right. I’ve been talking a mile a minute.” I take a breath and consciously slow my pace. “Thank you for taking my call, by the way. I realize I don’t have an official appointment. That therapist guy I was working with a while back just wasn’t feeling right, so I cut the cord. And listen, as soon as the health insurance goes through with my new job, Iwillfind a new therapist, so you don’t have to worry about me bothering you all the time.”
“An appointment. Bah! You know you never need an appointment with me.”
“Seriously, I can’t keep taking advantage of you! Soon you’ll have real clients lined up and—”
“Real clients? Bah! You’re a real client.”
Before I met Gail, I thought ‘bah!’ only came out of the mouths of old man curmudgeons in Charles Dickens books. But Gail is one of a kind.
“We both know I’m not a real client. A real client would pay you money for your therapy expertise.”
“Bah! Who needs money?”
“Um. Everyone?”
“Bah!”
“Alright.” I laugh. “Can we cool it with the ‘bahs’ now please?”
“Fine. Yes. The ‘bahs’ are banned. But let’s get something straight. With only four years of psych classes under my belt, no license yet, and plenty more education to go, the jury is still out on whether or not I have any therapy expertise. You’re doing me a favor just as much as I am doing for you.” She zooms close to her screen, giving me a comically enlarged view of her left eyeball. She puts on a weird, cartoony voice. “I’m looking you direct in the eye, woman. You see me?”
“Yes, I see you. And your cornea.”
“This is a win-win, okay? A. I need the practice and B. You’re my girl.”
There’s a split second of awkward silence.
“By ‘my girl’ I meant that you’re my completely platonic friend who I would never in a million years think of in ‘that way’ ever again. You are my friend who is a girl.” She continues like she’s coaching herself. “My actual girlfriend is an actual lesbian who actually loves me in ‘that way.’ And ya know what? I’m finding out that works a whole lot better for me than dabbling with girls who are just ‘trying it out’ between shitty boyfriends.”
I squeeze my eyes shut for a few seconds.
As much as I’d like to think that sophomore year is fully behind us, it still rears its awkward, ugly head from time to time.
“Louise. I’m trying to make you laugh. Don‘t worry, we can blast right past the weirdness like we usually do.”
I exhale. “Awesome. Thank you. How is Hannah doing?”
“She’s great, thanks.” Gail beams. It’s an honest-to-goodness contented smile. I love seeing her happy. “But this is about you.” She puts her “professional” voice back on. “When we texted last night, you mentioned an annoying-as-hell guy powering into your butt. Are we talking about Penguin Boy or Refrigerator Sex Man?”
I laugh. “’Refrigerator Sex Man.’ Though his name isJames,and I did not say he ‘powered into my butt.’”
“Pretty sure you did,” she teases.
“No, I said he feltempoweredto butt into my life.”
“Oh, right right. My bad.”
Two-by-two, people in their semi-formal attire huddle under umbrellas and tromp their way up the stone steps into the Arts & Sciences building.
Ralph should be here by now. He’s never late. Or he never used to be late. Apparently love means you’re always running behind.
“Your makeup looks fancy today. What’s up? You have a date with Refrigerator Sex Man?”
