mean, that’s just what I thought when I saw it.”
“No, you’re right. It’s supposed to be a storm.” She turned away. “What kind of veggies do you want in your salad?”
The strange moment passed, and we set about fixing ourselves food, Janis Joplin’s greatest hits playing on the living room stereo as we chopped green and red peppers, tomatoes, mushrooms and cucumbers to put in the tomato sauce and our salads. Jess warmed a loaf of French bread in the oven, her favorite bread from her favorite bakery in town, she said. Once a week she tried to cook a big dinner. Last week it was grilled chicken.
For Thanksgiving, she was planning to cook a traditional turkey 4 Kate Christie
dinner downstairs for the couple she rented from, Sidney and Claire, and their friends.
“Wait.” I paused in de-seeding a pepper. “You’re staying here for Thanksgiving too?”
“Yeah.” She concentrated on the tomato she was slicing. “I actually live here year-round. I’ve had this apartment for a couple of years already, since summer before freshman year.” Turning away, she strode toward the refrigerator. “Anyway, what kind of dressing do you like?”
“Whatever. I’m not picky.”
I watched her pull salad dressing from the fridge. No wonder her place was so different from other student apartments I’d visited. Those were usually cramped, a bunch of guys or girls sharing a house or a multiple bedroom apartment with raggedy furniture and cigarette-scorched rugs.
Then again, Jess was different herself from most other students I knew. She seemed like an adult already, a real person with a real life complete with walls to keep everyone out and a past I was dying to know. Why was this apartment her home?
Where was her family? An image of the woman in the stands at the match the previous year popped into my head, but I didn’t want to scare Jess off this early in the evening by grilling her about her family life. While we finished making dinner, I let her guide the conversation toward classes and sports and people we both knew. Safe subjects. Impersonal topics.
“I heard Cory Miller, the starting quarterback, is dating a guy on the swim team,” Jess said as she pulled the bread from the oven and poked it with a finger. “This is ready. I think we’re good to go.”
“Awesome.” I helped carry the food to the table. I was even more impressed now—the glasses and plates and silverware all matched, and the glasses were painted with the same sunflowers that adorned the heavy gray plates.
“Looks great,” I said as we sat down.
“Let’s hope it tastes that way,” she said, tucking an errant strand of hair behind one ear.
She had disappeared into the room off the living room a few minutes earlier and reemerged clad in a gray Champion Beautiful Game 4
sweatshirt, dark hair freshly brushed and pulled back in a ponytail. We probably looked alike in our sweatshirts, faces flushed from practice still.
As she filled our plates, I asked casually, “Where did you hear about Cory Miller?”
I knew the swimmer in question was Jake Kim. If word got out, their relationship was destined to become the scandal of the sports world this semester, not only because they were both jocks but also because Cory was African-American and Jake was Korean and neither was out to his parents. Added to their familial issues was the fact that the university administration didn’t typically look kindly upon gay boys who played football.
I felt lucky sometimes to be a lesbian—at least we were expected to be high-performing athletes.
Jess handed me my plate, filled with mostaccioli noodles and vegetable sauce. “I heard from a friend on the football team, Chris Sanders. He actually said to keep it quiet.”
I was pretty sure Chris Sanders was one of the beautiful gay boys I’d seen at dances and at Zodiac. What did it mean that he and Jess were friends? She seemed so casual, chatting about these gay folks. Interesting.
“I
“No, you’re right. It’s supposed to be a storm.” She turned away. “What kind of veggies do you want in your salad?”
The strange moment passed, and we set about fixing ourselves food, Janis Joplin’s greatest hits playing on the living room stereo as we chopped green and red peppers, tomatoes, mushrooms and cucumbers to put in the tomato sauce and our salads. Jess warmed a loaf of French bread in the oven, her favorite bread from her favorite bakery in town, she said. Once a week she tried to cook a big dinner. Last week it was grilled chicken.
For Thanksgiving, she was planning to cook a traditional turkey 4 Kate Christie
dinner downstairs for the couple she rented from, Sidney and Claire, and their friends.
“Wait.” I paused in de-seeding a pepper. “You’re staying here for Thanksgiving too?”
“Yeah.” She concentrated on the tomato she was slicing. “I actually live here year-round. I’ve had this apartment for a couple of years already, since summer before freshman year.” Turning away, she strode toward the refrigerator. “Anyway, what kind of dressing do you like?”
“Whatever. I’m not picky.”
I watched her pull salad dressing from the fridge. No wonder her place was so different from other student apartments I’d visited. Those were usually cramped, a bunch of guys or girls sharing a house or a multiple bedroom apartment with raggedy furniture and cigarette-scorched rugs.
Then again, Jess was different herself from most other students I knew. She seemed like an adult already, a real person with a real life complete with walls to keep everyone out and a past I was dying to know. Why was this apartment her home?
Where was her family? An image of the woman in the stands at the match the previous year popped into my head, but I didn’t want to scare Jess off this early in the evening by grilling her about her family life. While we finished making dinner, I let her guide the conversation toward classes and sports and people we both knew. Safe subjects. Impersonal topics.
“I heard Cory Miller, the starting quarterback, is dating a guy on the swim team,” Jess said as she pulled the bread from the oven and poked it with a finger. “This is ready. I think we’re good to go.”
“Awesome.” I helped carry the food to the table. I was even more impressed now—the glasses and plates and silverware all matched, and the glasses were painted with the same sunflowers that adorned the heavy gray plates.
“Looks great,” I said as we sat down.
“Let’s hope it tastes that way,” she said, tucking an errant strand of hair behind one ear.
She had disappeared into the room off the living room a few minutes earlier and reemerged clad in a gray Champion Beautiful Game 4
sweatshirt, dark hair freshly brushed and pulled back in a ponytail. We probably looked alike in our sweatshirts, faces flushed from practice still.
As she filled our plates, I asked casually, “Where did you hear about Cory Miller?”
I knew the swimmer in question was Jake Kim. If word got out, their relationship was destined to become the scandal of the sports world this semester, not only because they were both jocks but also because Cory was African-American and Jake was Korean and neither was out to his parents. Added to their familial issues was the fact that the university administration didn’t typically look kindly upon gay boys who played football.
I felt lucky sometimes to be a lesbian—at least we were expected to be high-performing athletes.
Jess handed me my plate, filled with mostaccioli noodles and vegetable sauce. “I heard from a friend on the football team, Chris Sanders. He actually said to keep it quiet.”
I was pretty sure Chris Sanders was one of the beautiful gay boys I’d seen at dances and at Zodiac. What did it mean that he and Jess were friends? She seemed so casual, chatting about these gay folks. Interesting.
“I
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