Man-Shaped Mirror

"I think this really wonderful, Sabine. This is great." Paulhan's complement is kind and genuine. He motions for me to retrieve the paper.

My face is burning with... what? Excitement? Embarrassment?

"Thank you."

I grasp the paper from his hands and scan over his comments below the last paragraph. My fingertips graze the deep, red, scrawling indentations on the paper—evidence of the brisk firmness of his handwriting.

Sabine—this is beautiful. Your insightful response reads like prose.

Below a large red "A", circled with the same firm hand, a second line of the private message he did not share with the class:

You think and write well beyond your years.

My heart pulses wildly, this small victory achingly sweet and delicious on my tongue.

Wed Sept 20, 2006 1:26 PM

"What should I wear to the homecoming dance?"

"Excuse me?"

"What do you think I should wear to homecoming?"

I'm taken aback by Paulhan's question. I'm checking student papers—this came totally out of the blue.

"Uh, what are you going to do at homecoming?"

"I'm going to chaperone you kids."

"Oh. I didn't know high school dances had chaperones."

Paulhan peers at me with mock suspicion.

"Aren't you a senior?"

"Yeah."

"Haven't you ever been to a dance here?"

"Um. No."

"Why? No one's ever asked you?"

His eyes twinkle with glee. Fuckface.

"I've been asked a couple times. It's just a huge ordeal, you know? You spend all your money on your hair, and your dress, and then you have to dance with some jerk all night long and bat him off if he gropes you."

He doubles over in his chair, holding his head.

"Sabine, you are really not like most high school girls." His face is rosy from laughing. The brazen charm in his words ...

"Anyway, if you're going to be a chaperone ..."

I squint my eyes at him. He freezes in anticipation, smirking slightly as he watches me.

"You'd look dashing in an old-school nurse outfit. Like Nurse Ratched, you know? Keeping the order and all."

A blank look. Paulhan turns his attention back to the computer. Um, did he not hear me?

"I can see you in art school, Sabine. Aren't you applying for colleges right now?"

"Soon. I'm thinking about some schools on the east coast. Maybe New York. Somewhere far away."

"Is that so. Do you have a major in mind?"

"I'm not positive yet. Maybe graphic design, or illustration." He was right about art school.

"Cool. I went to grad school in New York City."

"What did you study there?"

"Cognitive psychology."

"I bet you're pretty good at figuring people out, huh?"

"I guess."

Did he have me figured out? He's still not looking at me. Whatever he's doing on the laptop is occupying him. Or appears to be. Conversation comes and goes on his time. I want to get it going again.

"So you like my writing?"

"Yeah, your writing is very good."

"What do you like about it?"

Paulhan exhales and leans back in his chair, then folds his arms. His hair is short but just long enough to form a small brass curl on his neck. Forward-pointing, just behind his earlobe, the same way that boys' hair often curls. It curves perfectly, like an ornament or flourish on the edge of a swordsman's helmet. Something about him—his faultless posture? perhaps his name?—suggests the noble dignity of a British cavalryman. Or a decorated general of an Aryan army.

He touches his chin. He seems to be looking inward. Have I annoyed him?

"Well, writing is a utility for delivering meaning." He gazes out the window. "I think you write well because your form is simplistic. It's efficient. Your efficiency is powerful because it conveys passion."

My mind draws a blank. All I can say is...

"Oh... thanks!"

The bell goes off. It doesn't break Paulhan's focus as he continues to work. I stack the student papers together and slip the pile onto his desk. He looks up at me, the darkness of his eyes catching me off-guard.

"Thank you, Sabine."

"You know, I really hated you when I first met you."

He smirks. Of course he would.

"I don't blame you."

***

I don't know if it's these qualities that makes him difficult to read. I think it might be. What does that say about me?

Everything about him is active, sharp and crisp. His speech, his choice of words, his gestures, the way he dresses. The way he looks at things. The cruel and shallow tuck of the corners of his lips. The clean, fluid angle of his nose. Precision defines him.

His silhouette—a glinting, unforgiving die—is pressed deeply into me. Where is the mark? I can feel it inside my head, on the roof of my mouth, or on the small of my back. It's a sensation I can feel all over me, but as soon as I locate it, it's somewhere else. When I'm with him, it's around me, like some structure or doorframe he's architected.

I'm in my bedroom, seated by the window sill. The sweet scent of the magnolia tree outside draws me closer. What is he doing right now? Where is he?

My cellphone starts to ring. I snatch it up—it's Joe.

"Hi Joe."

"Hi baby. What are you doing right now?"

"I'm in the middle of physics homework."

"Aw, that sucks. Can you come over later?"

"No, sorry. My mom's home now. She's not going to let me stay out that late."

"Shit, that's fucked up."

"Yeah."

"It's been too long since we've seen each other, you know?"

"I know, I know, school starting and all."

Silence.

"Hey, so..."

A dog barks in the distance on Joe's end.

"Yeah?"

"You wanna go to homecoming with me?"

I think of Kate. And then I think of Paulhan. Right.

"Haha, I'd love to!"

"Word? Sweet. I'm really glad."

"Me, too. Hey I gotta get back to work. I'm sorry. This week we'll hang out, I promise."

"Okay. I'll talk to you later."

An odd coolness creeps into Joe's voice before he hangs up.

Mon Sept 25, 2006 1:11 PM

"Hey." Paulhan's face lights up above his laptop.

I've never seen him this animated about seeing me.

"Hi. What's up?" I set my bag down on the floor.

"Come over here for a second."

I scoot down next to him, behind his desk. From here the rest of the room seems distant. He motions excitedly at the computer screen.

"Look at these, Sabine. Aren't these cool?"

Digital sketches of striped cones and thimbles splayed across the screen. I inch a little closer—

"The Inferno. See?" He points at the lip of one of the cups. "There's Limbo. And the river Styx."

These aren't cups. These are cross sections of deep, multi-layered holes.

"It's a diagram of Hell," Paulhan says, "from Dante's Inferno. All these show up when you Google 'inferno map.'"

"Oh, I haven't read that yet." I see a stratum labeled Wrathful, one labeled Spendthrifts, one Gluttonous, one Lustful. There, a naked man and woman are locked in an embrace. At the very bottom is a three-headed devil.

"That's Lucifer right there."

"This is really cool. Are we reading this next?"

"No," Paulhan replies, alarmingly earnest, "you said you were thinking of getting into a graphic design program, right?"

"Yeah."

"Okay, here's an idea. You map out the books in the curriculum. Like the characters, the environments, the plot lines. That would make pretty cool supplemental material for the students, and you'd have more pieces for your portfolio."

His gaze passes over me, waiting for my response.

"What do you think?"

"Hm..." Did he come up with this just now? Or had he had this in mind since our last conversation?

"There's no pressure, Sabine. Don't do it if you're too busy. I thought it'd be a good way for you to get some work to show."

***

"Hello?"

"Hey, Katie. It's me."

"Oh hi, how's it going?"

"Good. I'm sending you something. Um, an email with a link."

"Oh, what is it?"

"Just open it."

"Can't you tell me what it is?"

"Trust me, you'll like this. Just get online and open it."

"Uh. Okay..."

I can hear her fumbling around her desk.

"Oh, by the way," she says, knocking something over, "I'm pissed at you. Joe told me you said yes to him."

"I know. I thought I'd like to go to homecoming after all, and he was the only one who asked."

"Ugh, you just never listen to me, do you."

Seconds pass. The hum of her computer is clearly audible now.

"Oohh my god. Sabine, how did you find this!?"

We're looking at picture online, of Paulhan. He's seated in front of a brick wall with two other guys, in what looks to be the backyard of a bar. Tall mugs of beer stand neatly in front of them. A game of Go is splayed out on the table. Little white and black stones are strewn about the board. Cigarettes between their lips. It was taken at night, and the photograph is a little washed out from the flash. But I can still make out Paulhan's face very clearly. His gaze is so tender. His face appears thin. He looks like he's dreaming.

The photograph is buried in someone's Flickr collection. It's tagged with "NYC," "Latham," "Jonathan," and "Hamilton." Dated July 7, 2002. Tidy, stringed coins of data for this distant fraternity.

"Found it when I Googled 'Hamilton Paulhan.' Cool, right?"

"God, look at him! He is so fucking sexy."

"I guess he quit smoking, huh?"

"Yeah I guess so. Wow. So hot."

"Really? He looks like he's stoned out of his mind," I say, hoping to sound funny.

I can hear Kate smile.

"So you're searching for pictures of him now?"

"I was bored."

"Yeah, uh-huh, miss teacher's pet. What's new with him anyways?"

"Well, actually, I'm going to help him illustrate some of the books for his other Lit class."

"Yawn. Nerd." She sighs. "Did you like, figure him out yet? It's been like, what, a month since school started?"

"I don't know. I'm getting to know him better, though."

"Please, details."

"It's weird. It's like, one moment he's taking all this interest in me, like, trying to take care of me, and then in a second he'll be completely distant."

"Uh, he's probably busy. It is his first year in this school and everything."

"I know, but it's like he plans all these ups and downs to toy with me or something. Like he enjoys confusing the fuck out of me. I think I can handle him though."

"I think you're over analyzing things again."

"It's like he purposely talks down to me to provoke me, like he's trying to get a rise out of me. As if I'm easy to bag because I'm young."

"Are you sure he doesn't talk that way with everyone?"

"I don't get the same vibe when I watch him talk to other people. It's like this weird mechanism in him that kicks in when he starts talking to me. Like he's—flirting with me."

"So? Maybe he's hot for you."

"Um..."

Kate giggles.

"Just kidding. But really, he sees you like, as often as you see him, doesn't he? Maybe he's got a thing for the little teacher's pet."

I weigh that thought. I don't know what to make of it.

"Branden's here. I gotta go. Toodles!"

Would that make sense?

I can't tell. I can only feel in half-dark. I can't piece together the insinuations in his words, or decipher their meaning. And I can't tell what he really thinks of me, but I'm almost positive that whatever it is, he's not showing it. He is impenetrable. Why would he try to hide it?

Oh, right. Of course.

Fri Sept 29, 2006 12:53 PM

Kate grins, her perfect teeth shining at me. "Wait—what did he say after class?"

We're seated in the quad again. A couple of boys from the junior class glance at us as they strut by. They look puny. Wet behind the ears.

"I'm going over to his place tonight."

Kate's hand flies up to her gaping mouth.

"Oh my god. Why?"

"To work on the maps."

I can barely contain my elation. I look down—my body is still firm against the ground.

"At his place? Why his place?"

"He said all the links and files are on his computer. He forgot to bring them to school."

"Um, is that even allowed?" Kate raises a skeptical eyebrow.

"I don't know... Isn't it okay if he's bringing it up in the first place? I mean, it's for work. It's not like some illicit tryst we're going to have."

"Whoaa. He invited you over? Looks like someone does have the hots for you."

"It's going to be work, Katie. Chill, it's totally cool."

"Please, there's nothing work about it," she retorts, pursing her lips.

"Well, I'll tell you how it goes."

"Yeah, you'd better."

"Look, you have to promise not to tell anyone, okay? I mean, I don't think it's a big deal..."

"Come on, what do you think I am?" She waggles a playful little finger. "Just remember, Sabine, no sex on the first date."

***

The swim meet has just adjourned. I head out of the locker room before the girls finish showering, gym bag in hand.

I turn the corner and see him. He's leaning against the wall.

"Let's go," he says.

Together we make our way to the teacher's parking lot. My heartbeat is drumming the insides of my ears—things are moving very rapidly.

We come to a stop in front of a white vintage BMW. It's old and a little tarnished, but dashing altogether. He unlocks the doors.

"Wow."

"This was my older brother's. 1973. He was a big car nerd. He left it here when he moved to Chicago. It's nice, huh?"

"Yeah, I love it." I climb in the front passenger seat. It's upholstered with black vinyl, tepid and sticky under my legs.

"What's he doing in Chicago now?" I ask.

"He's married and he's got two kids. He's a patent lawyer." Paulhan turns the ignition, and shifts into reverse. "He hates it. Being a patent lawyer, I mean."

I visualize the blond little-brother Paulhan in some fuzzy, off-colored photograph from the seventies. He—

"So thanks for taking the time, Sabine. I really appreciate you coming over to work on this."

"Oh, no problem," I reply, "I'm having fun."

"Good."

He guns the engine, just barely peeling out of the parking lot. Then he turns to grin at me, sandy hair mussed by the wind whipping in through the window.

***

"You want something to drink?" He asks.

"Water's fine, thanks." He leaves the room for the kitchen.

A couch, a futon, a desk and two chairs occupy the floor of his bedroom. Two large prints are fixed upon the wall, framed with dark and handsomely hewn wood. A full drum set sat gleaming and vacant in the shadows of a far corner. Paulhan's partitioned loft is tidy, but neat areas of controlled mess disclose his presence.

Books are piled together in stout, tousled stacks on his desk. I scan the names—some I've heard of, none I've read. Kierkegaard, Goethe, Pynchon, Capote, Dostoevsky. A couple literary journals. Occasional volumes of handsome, obscure comic books interrupt the stack of hardcovers. A dog-eared index card peeks out the mid-section of The Philosophical Writings of Descartes.

Sounds drift in from the kitchen. A glass being removed from the dishwasher. A fridge door opening.

I edge towards his closet. It's narrow, modest and exposed. A neat array of shirts and pants hangs from uniform plastic hangers. The colors are comically limited: white, light blue, dark blue, then gray and black. Here and there were spots of muddied greens and browns. I examine all of them, picking out in my mind the ones I've seen him wear to class, and trying to picture him in the ones he hasn't. I inch away a little, suppressing the appeal of indulging in his scent. Clean, crisp, perhaps a hint of salty...

Shoes are parked below the clothing in a short, orderly line. A pair of brown leather oxfords, two pairs of black leather oxfords, green Nikes, black sandals. One pair in the line, the pair he is wearing right now, is missing.

"Lost?" Paulhan is poised at the door, a Gibraltar glass of water in one hand.

"Just checking out your shoes." I sidle towards him, back to the front of the room.

"Oh." He sits down at his desk and turns the computer on. "You okay?"

I pull up a chair and rummage through my bag for my notebook. "Yeah, yeah. I'm fine."

"Good. I'd get us beers but, you know... " Paulhan smiles, trying to ease the awkwardness that's clouded the room.

The computer is booted up and we get to work.

"Okay," he says, opening a blank text file, "let's brainstorm for some diagram ideas now. I've gathered notes and pictures from a couple books we're going to read in sophomore American Lit next semester."

An hour swiftly ticks by. We're wrapping up work, and I have several pages of ideas in my notebook. A relationship map for Animal Farm, a plot graph for Cannery Row, floor plans for the House of Usher.

Paulhan closes the windows and files. "You hungry?"

"Oh, yeah, I guess so." I check the clock on his screen. "Wow, it's almost ten already."

"Yeah. Let's order some food. Dinner's on me tonight." He pads to the kitchen and returns with a handful of well-worn menus.

We order in for Japanese. My stomach is turning in hunger but my chest is brimming with quiet rapture. This is the most awesome night of my life.

Turning back to his monitor, I notice a folder labeled "Movies."

"Let's watch a movie while we wait!"

He sits back down and clicks it open. Not very many files, but I spot a few familiar titles.

"Oh, you're a Kubrick fan, too?" I can't help but grin at him.

"Big fan. His films are incredible." Paulhan smiles back at me with a twinge of brotherly admiration. "I don't think we should watch a movie right now, though. We'll want to finish it and you won't get home until after midnight."

"Oh." Oh, if only. I look around, then fasten my attention on the Descartes book. "I've heard of him before."

"Descartes? He's a very important figure in modern philosophy. Pretty much opened it all up for everyone else after him."

"Isn't that what they say about every philosopher? They pop up, one after another, and just shoot down the ideas of whoever came before them."

"So which one's ideas do you agree with most?" I can hear the tickle in his tone. I'm suddenly feeling a little self-conscious.

"I don't know. Nietzsche, I guess."

He cracks up. "Ha! I went through that phase in high school. Nietzsche and Bukowski."

I don't know if I feel kinship or some sort of defensive animosity towards his response. Maybe a little bit of both.

"Who's Bukowski?"

"I think you'd like him. Do you like Orwell? Vonnegut?"

"Yeah."

"Kafka?"

"Yeah."

"Yeah, you'd like him."

***

Minutes later we're eating dinner at opposite ends of his dining table. The surface is two inches thick. One solid, finished cross section of a tree trunk. A gift from a carpenter friend, Paulhan says. I'm picking baby corns out of my noodles.

"Do you have a lot of friends in the Bay Area?"

"No. Most of them are back in New York. My undergrad friends from Berkeley are all over the place now."

I hold my breath before blurting out the question I've been dying to ask all night. Well, all of the past couple weeks.

"So, do you have a girlfriend?"

He's forking balls of rice onto his plate. "No."

"No? No time for one?" I sneak a glance at him.

"I date now and then. Nothing serious."

"Are you looking for one?"

Maybe I'm venturing outside of my boundaries now, but I force a guiltless grin as I toe the line. Paulhan scarfs a mouthful of food, looking past me as he chews and swallows.

"Yeah, I guess I'm looking for a girlfriend. Not expecting anything though." He forks another mouthful of food. "Just taking it easy."

"Oh."

We eat in silence for a few minutes. I turn his answers over and over in my mind, but arrive at nothing. Being so close to him debilitates me. Time to change the subject.

"So are you enjoying yourself? Teaching English and everything?"

"Yeah, I'm enjoying it," he replies casually.