Love At First Night

8.

JENNIE AND JOY ask me to put Lisa's note in the center of our coffee table so they can huddle over it like two historians examining a precious artifact.

"It sounds like she wants Roseanne to tutor her," Jennie says, like it's obvious.

"But tutoring might be code for sex," Joy argues.

"Why would a fucking college basketball player not just tell a girl if she's interested?"

"I mean, it's not like she could just give a librarian a note that says had fun kissing you up against a bookshelf last week, I'd really like to put my penis in you now. What if she read it before it got to Roseanne? This-" she taps the note, "-is definitely code."

Jennie is unconvinced. "If she wanted to keep the note clean, she could've asked her out or told her to come to a party at the basketball team's house. She didn't. She definitely just wants Roseanne to help her pass her class. And you know what? I think she's banking on the fact that Roseanne be all soft for her now and won't charge her."

"She wouldn't-" Joy begins, then sighs. "No, I take that back. Men are garbage."

I slump down on our couch, which is hard and creaky and banged-up in the way furniture in university housing tends to be. Joy is appealing to the hopeless romantic in me, but Jennie's pragmatism is more in line with my gut feeling. Lisa Manoban could've written anything in this note. She chose to ask for help with poetry. And if I've learned anything about situations like this-when I find myself so infatuated with someone that I have to physically restrain myself from Googling photos of her-it's that I shouldn't allow myself to project the traits of all my favorite romance novel love interests on a real-life woman. It's a recipe for disappointment.

Still, I can't help but think that if this were a romance novel, tutoring would be the plot device that throws Lisa and me back into each other's orbit. I am the reluctant heroine turning down the quest. But act two is inevitable. When I think about it that way, it's not so depressing.

Still, it takes me until Sunday night to work up the courage to email her.

I decide to play it straight, to avoid the horrible scenario in which I think Lisa is propositioning me and she genuinely just wants help passing English lit.

To: lmanoban@clement.edu

From: rpark@clement.edu

Subject Line: Tutoring

Hi Lisa,

The librarian passed your note along. I am available Mondays and Wednesdays between 10 am and 3 pm and Friday evenings before my shift at the library (10 pm). My usual tutoring rate is $25/hour but I can be flexible.

I look forward to hearing from you.

Best,
Roseanne

As soon as it leaves my inbox with a little whoosh, I start doubting every word.

I can't tell if it's too professional or not professional enough and fuck, what if Joy was right and her note was code and I've just somehow offered to prostitute myself? I can be flexible suddenly feels like the most overtly sexual thing I have ever ended an email with.

Not even five minutes later, I hear the telltale ping of a new message. The little red dot next to the mail icon sends my blood pressure through the roof. I breathe out through my mouth, reminding myself that it could very well be spam from a clothing store or an updated homework assignment from a professor, and click open my inbox.