culture shock
Dean’s plan succeeds only because the work-study student in Stanford’s registration office is a hopeless romantic. That’s true of many of Dean’s plans: he’s pretty sure evil would have a much more secure foothold if not for the world’s romantics. As it is, the girl squints at him speculatively when he asks about Jess Moore’s spring schedule.
“That’s confidential information.”
“Oh, come on! She was just in here complaining about how all the, uh, culture classes were taken, and then you click something on your computer, and she goes out all happy. I just want to know what class she’s taking.”
“We have a list of culture classes with openings, if you need to fill your graduation requirement,” the registration Nazi offers, adjusting her glasses, and Dean wonders how he got himself into this. He’d been following Jess for about three hours-on her morning run, to the Starbucks on campus (cinnamon dolce skinny latte and the daily paper), to the bookstore (she’d sold The Decline of Britain: Economy and Industry and bought something called Secession, State, and Liberty: Dean nearly fell asleep just reading the titles). It had been such a boring morning that he’d let his guard down and when she’d ducked into the registrar’s office, he’d followed right behind…only to find that suddenly he wasn’t one of a crowd anymore. Jess, who clearly knew how the school bureaucracy worked, had come at a slow time. They were the only two people in line, and the Nazi had waved Jess over and told Dean she’d be with him in a minute. Jess launched into an explanation about how she was enrolled in something but then it got canceled because blahblahblah and she needs a replacement class for some reason…Dean wasn’t really listening. He’d been slowly edging his way out of the room when suddenly the girl working the registration desk had dropped a form into her inbox, dismissing Jess, and informed Dean that she could take him now.
“Ok, look,” Dean glances both ways and puts his arms on the ledge of the registration window, leaning in like he has a secret. “It’s not the class, it’s the girl. I met Jess at this party and we were talking about our, uh, culture credit requirement and I sort of implied that I’d see her in class.”
“So you lied to her to get in her pants,” the Nazi states flatly, in a tone that says she’s not betraying the sisterhood for his sake.
“No, I…well, yes. But I don’t want it to be a lie! I want it to be the truth.” Dean looks as contrite as possible and mentally reviews everything he’s learned reading Cosmo covers while standing in check-out lines. “It was stupid not to tell her in the first place, but I just…I wasn’t thinking. I just wanted her to like me,” he adds plaintively.
“If you were talking about this class, how come you don’t know what it is?” At least she’s not calling campus security.
Dean smiles ruefully. “Too much mystery punch.”
“I can’t give you her schedule! What if you’re a psychopathic stalker?” A reasonable question-it’s true what they say about college girls: they really are smarter.
“I’m not, I promise.” He channels Sam’s puppy-dog eyes. He notices the coffee mug at the girl’s computer station. “I just want to see her again, maybe ask her out for coffee?”
She’s wavering a little, thinking it’s kind of sweet the lengths he’s willing to go to for coffee with a pretty girl. Dean leans forward hopefully and his elbow jogs the plastic display thingie on the window ledge. Brightly colored brochures advertising study abroad opportunities spill across her desk.
“Oh, shit, I’m sorry! Here, let me-” He reaches through the window to help her pick up the brochures and knocks over the girl’s coffee. She jumps away from the window to avoid getting splashed, then darts back to the desk to salvage whatever paperwork she can. By the time she looks up again, Dean is already outside the building, walking casually toward the library and unfolding the form he’d swiped from the girl’s inbox. It’s not Jess’s full schedule, just the latest change: due to the last minute cancellation of MUSAPP 318, Moore Jessica L. (DOB 01/24/84; university ID: 2109320078) is now enrolled in ARTHIS180, which meets from 1-2:15 on Tuesday and Thursdays in Room 0312 NCAB.
Dean hadn’t really been planning to do more than watch Jess Moore for a while, follow her for a bit, see who she hung out with, see where she went. He’d just make sure she is what she looked like and then be on his way, no one the wiser. So far, nothing in the least bit suspicious. Jess was almost too good to be true. Sam had apparently found himself a smart, pretty, all-American girl. No doubt, Dean thinks with a bitterness that surprises him, they’ll be very happy together.
Dean checks his watch: it’s a little past noon.
“Hey,” he says to a tall kid who is wandering past, walking and texting at the same time, “what’s this mean?” He holds up the paper, points out NCAB and wonders why people in college can’t use real words like everybody else.
“Nathan Cummings Art Building,” the kid barely lifts his eyes from his phone. He just jerks his head to the left. “That way.”
It’s a big room, 0312, with sloping row of seats like a movie theater and sleek projection equipment suspended from the ceiling. Dean arrives early enough to have his choice, but he sits near the back, near a door-not like he’s actually a student. He digs a pen out of his pocket, turns to the blank side of Jess’s schedule, and tries to look scholarly. The room starts to fill up at about a quarter to, everyone trying to be on time for the first day of class, lots of hey, how was your break, is this seat taken?, did you buy the books yet? Dean tries to find Jess without seeming too obvious but he can’t pick her out of the crowd. It’s California-all the girls are blonde and golden. He could get used to this, he decides, but the state’s not really big enough for both him and Sam, and Sam has dibs.
A guy in a blazer comes in carrying a couple of textbooks and a stack of papers comes in. People start to hush.
“Hello, everyone, I’m Mike Harris and this is Art History 180: Renaissance Art in Europe. Anyone who is not supposed to be here-get out!” There’s some laughter and a few people do, in fact, stand up and head for the doors. “Everyone else-the syllabus is going around, please take one. Before we get started, let me introduce the TAs…”
“Am I late?” someone drops into the empty seat next to Dean with a breathless laugh. Dean nearly chokes on his pen cap: it’s Jess, flushed like she’s just run up the three flights of steps to get here.
“Not really, they just started,” he whispers back and he kind of likes that she’s a little late, a little harried. Sam could use a bit more of that in his life.
“Good. I just registered this morning. Didn’t even know this building existed.”
“Yeah, good old NCAB,” Dean says sagely.
Jess pulls out a notebook. “So, are you an art history major?”
“Uh. No.”
“Me neither. Just regular history. But I needed the culture credit.” Normally, Dean likes chatty people. He likes diner waitresses who give you the local news along with your scrambled eggs, guys at truckstops who stand around shooting the breeze, people in bars who chime in with their own big-fish story. Talkative people are useful people, in his line of work, but they’re also just plain interesting: they notice things. (He never understood how Sam could just go silent for days, keep all his observations and comments bottled up). So, yeah, he doesn’t insist that his seatmates maintain monastic silence, but it’s just weird to be having a conversation with his brother’s girlfriend when she has no idea who he is. She seems to be waiting for him to chime in...oh, God, she wants to have a casual conversation while the syllabus circulates.
“Used to be pre-law,” Jess offers, when it becomes clear that Dean’s not going to chime in with his major. “My parents nearly disowned me when I switched majors.”
“No kidding?” Suddenly and for the first time, Dean is thinking that stalking Sam’s girlfriend might not be a great idea. Unfortunately, she’s between him and the aisle.
Dean never really thought much about Sam’s privacy: when they were living out of a motel room, it never came up because there was no privacy. But now Sammy’s all grown up and has his own life, populated by people who don’t even know Dean exists. Maybe he should just let his brother lead that life. Doesn’t seem like he’s done too badly so far.
“…ironic,” Jess is saying, “because his family kind of didn’t want him to become a lawyer.”
“Who?” Dean says automatically, passing the stack of syllabi, and as soon as the words are out of his mouth, he knows the answer.
“My boyfriend.”
“Sounds like a match made in heaven.”
Jess smiles. “We get along.” Dean had been watching from the park when Jess kissed Sam goodbye this morning; his brother had been leaving for that la-di-da internship just as she was coming back from her run. It had looked like a lot more than getting along, but-another point to Jess. Having always been the sort to kiss and tell, Dean appreciates people who don’t.
Before he can get any more information (what does else does she know about Sam’s family?), the last of the syllabi make it around to the front of the room and the lights dim. Right on cue, someone’s cellphone rings.
“Jesus,” Jess mutters, “are they waiting on a transplant organ or something?
“Win the lottery?”
“Publisher’s Clearinghouse.” Jess shoots him a quick smile in the gloom. And, God, but he likes this girl, and not just ‘cause they share the same pet peeve. (Dean figures he saves the world for a living: if he can manage to mute his cellphone, so can everyone else).
A mappa mundi is projected onto the screen and the professor starts to talk about political power at the dawn of the Renaissance. Dean settles back to chew on his pen and enjoy the show.