22 comments/ 59908 views/ 57 favorites Man-Shaped Mirror By: ohmanon A special thanks to en_extase, who graciously and generously gave his time to edit this story. All persons and characters featured in this story are 18 years or older. Please do not copy, reuse, or reproduce without explicit written permission of the author. * A suburb outside of San Francisco Mon Sept 4, 2006 11:53 PM I'm naked. Joe's broad hand is buried in my hair, running his fingers through it as he cradles my head in his lap. His other hand caresses my face, a coarse thumb doting on the tiny mole above my lips. He croons at me. "Sabine..." He takes a long, leisurely hit, then sets the bong down. He bends over me to kiss me. He teases my mouth open with his and exhales in one even, practiced stroke. A thick cloud spills into my throat and into my lungs like a warm, dry river. "Sah-bee-een..." Joe says again, his voice slowing to a raspy drone. I see my name as an arrangement of dust particles. The "e" dissolves, then the "n," then all the other letters. "S" dissipates into a blurry cloud. The name evaporates within moments. It's not mine. It can be anyone's. I remember: it is someone else's. My dad pined after a Sabine in college, then named me after her when I was born. A tremor swims up my spine and splits into a million directions as it passes into my nerve endings. He smiles. Two rows of pearl and porcelain gleam in the dim light, bright against his silhouette. He lifts my head out of his lap, tenderly letting it down on the carpet as he gets up from under me. The impact with the floor trembles though me. I imagine my skull fracturing into a hundred fragments. Thick magma oozes out of my head, crushed under the weight of my face. I take a deep breath and find every part of my body still intact. Joe is undoing his belt. His fingers are deft tarantula legs, picking at the loops, pulling leather from leather. These simple, athletic gestures repeat themselves in my mind endlessly, tirelessly. I notice one lone tarantula peeking over my knee. It dances its way along my thigh on eight downy fingers, then comes to rest just below my navel. The tarantula stands poised and alert, its head drawn towards my pussy. "Oh, god, Sabine... you're so wet," he rasps. My eyes flutter open at the sound of Joe's voice. His fingers are teasing my pussy lips apart. He runs a thumb over my clit. "Uunh..." The sound of a moan slips out between my lips. I watch it fizzle quickly into air, joining the name that had dissolved not so long ago. A numbing, viscous sea envelopes me, sucks me down into its undertow. I can hear Joe calling out to me from above the surface. "Hey, Sabine!" God. I'm so high. Tues Sept 5, 2006 7:40 AM The initial minutes of my last year in high school slow to a crawl as we watch our teacher finish writing on the board. His name is Hamilton Paulhan, all caps in thick white letters. A generous space stands square and erect between the names, which are underlined with one straight, firm stroke of chalk. HAMILTON. PAULHAN. He wears his slim chinos with a black leather belt, and just ever so slightly below the waist. Tucked neatly into it is a crisp white shirt. Only one button undone. Blond hair, gray eyes, broad shoulders, clean shaven. Tight, tense lips. He looks like a prick. Dusting his hands, he turns around and looks over us. "Welcome to Lit Honors, people. Let's go around the class and introduce ourselves. Pick any book from the summer reading list and tell us what you liked about it." Shit. I am fucked. "Let's start with you. You sir, right here. We'll move down the back row first." Paulhan points across the room at Bernard, the hapless geek who just happens to be sitting right next to me. What kind of a dick starts class introductions at the last row? "I'm Bernard," he croaks. "I thoroughly enjoyed The Great Gatsby. I thought it was an enlightening look into the Jazz Age..." Fuck, fuck, fuck. There is no time to get out of this. I'm freaking out. My mind swirls, my palms grow damp. I glance at Bernard, then at Paulhan. His arms are folded, watching me intently. He knows. He can see it on my face. One corner of his lips curls in a cruel smile, rich with malice. Bernard finished drawling. "Awesome, Bernard," Paulhan nods at me. "You, miss?" His mouth is slightly agape and frozen in a half-smile, anticipating my spectacular fumble. "I liked The Great Gatsby, too. I listened to it on 'Books on Tape' early in the summer though, so the details are a tad blurry." Soft chuckles rise from the class. That works. "Okay, fair enough. What about the others? Did you like Moby Dick?" Isn't Moby Dick like two thousand pages long? "Uuhh, I didn't get through Moby Dick, unfortunately. It was just so lengthy, you know?" The entire class turns to gape at me. Paulhan's latched onto me, and my lie is wiggling out of my control. "Sorry, miss, what is your name again?" Paulhan's half-smile is now a smirk. "I'm Sabine." "How about Lord Jim, Sabine? Did you get through that?" No. I shake my head. "The Old Man and the Sea?" No again. "Walden?" "No." I can feel my cheeks and my ears flush. The pulse of my panicked hear— "Well, Sabine, you have a lot of catching up to do." "I know, I'm going to finish all of that." "Good, I'll let the class quiz you at the end of the week then. A special quiz just for you. So who's next?" I shrivel in my seat. My hatred for him curdles and churns. It eats away at my insides while I seethe with mounting humiliation. Yet, making eye contact with him again just seems oddly terrifying at this point in time. Finally, class introductions are over. I had zoned it all out in a fitful longing to curl into a ball and implode. I look up and meet Paulhan's steely gaze as he drops a crate of paperbacks onto the round table at the center of the room. His voice really projects. It booms and bounces against the walls of the classroom, against me, as he exclaims: "Alright, guys. First book we're gonna read is The Scarlet Letter. This is an awesome book. Let's read through chapter six before tomorrow's class. Write down any questions you have. And remember to write down some quiz problems for our Sabine." He winks at me. In my peripheral vision I can see the ass-kissers in the class turn to smirk and rub it in my face. Within minutes of our first class I decide that I would hate him. *** "Joe said you totally passed out on him last night." Kate and I are sitting on the lawn in the quad, drinking cokes and taking in the noonday sun. She is Joe's fraternal twin sister, my closest friend, and my confidant. "Did he say what we were doing?" I fish for the registration sheet and pull it out of my bag. "No, but I know you fooled around with him," Kate rolls her eyes and sighs loudly. "Why do you go for him? I totally know he's going to get kicked off the football team this year. He smokes way too much pot. He's such a giant loser." I scan the sheet. I can't believe it. Teacher's Aide. Room 54. "Oh fuck. Son of a bitch." Kate looks at me, then at the sheet in my hands. "What's up?" "I just found out they put me in Paulhan's room as a teacher's aide. Can you believe this? God, I should never have let them pick for me." Her eyes grow big and round. "Hamilton Paulhan? The new English teacher? You're going to be Hamilton Paulhan's teacher's aide?" "This is so fucked up. I'm going to go to the office right now and get a drop slip." Slinging my bag over my shoulder, I get up to make my way across the quad towards the office. Kate snatches the registration sheet out of my hands and gapes at it in disbelief. "What the fuck do you think you're doing? Sabine, have you seen him? He's, like, the hottest man alive! I would totally trade places with you if I didn't need to make up PE credits!" "Well, I'll just drop it then, I don't even need those credits." "Are you crazy?" Kate gasps, " Don't be stupid. They're not going to let you drop it. They need teacher's aides and they're not going to give you a free period between classes." "Katie, that asshole humiliated me in front of the whole class for not reading over the summer!" I'm livid. Confusion dances over her face. "You had to read over the summer? Why didn't you? That's so unlike you to miss assignments!" "Ugh." It's all I can muster. The guilt makes me cringe. "Sabine, oh my god, you just have to do it. Please! You have no idea how lucky you are!" The sixth period bell goes off. Crowds in the quad slowly start to pull apart. I feel numb. "There goes the bell," Kate says, stating the obvious. "I gotta get to the gym, so I'll catch you later!" She bounds away, her eyes two twinkling, lovelorn little stars. "Tell me how it goes!" she chirps. *** He's bent over his desk, a thick pile of index cards and loose grade book pages splayed out in front of him. He doesn't hear me when I step silently over the threshold. Just being in the classroom again makes the hairs on my arms and my neck bristle in alarm. A few birds land upon the branches of the tree outside, whistling little bird songs. I consider bolting. The thought weighs deliciously in my mind. I'm just about to turn and hurry out the door when Paulhan's voice stops me in my tracks. "Hi, Sabine." I look back at him. That same shit-eating smile. I'm in for it. "You're right on time. I heard you were going to be my assistant." He's sitting upright in his chair now, a glimmer of unspoken mischief in his face. "Yeah..." I reply weakly. I hesitate, then add: "It's gonna be marvelous." A slight smile lights up on his lips. He cocks his head as if he were sampling my acrid sarcasm like a sweet wine. Then he pulls his head back and laughs. "Don't be so sore about this morning," he says, reclining in his seat, clasping his hands over his stomach. "It's nothing personal. I'm not a meanie." His condescending tone is infuriating, and being alone with him gives me a little more courage than before. I look into his gleeful, hateful face and muster up as much scorn as I can offer. "I'm sure. If you don't mind, I'd rather change out of this period." I slump into an empty desk and throw my bag down next to me. This seems to amuse him. He doubles over as if in sudden pain, but his laughter is deep and throaty. This just isn't going well. "You don't have papers to grade yet so I can probably jet, right?" "Oh don't worry, Sabine," he says, wiping his eyes. "I'm afraid changing out of this period isn't really an option for you. See those boxes of text books over there? I need them stamped and numbered." *** My misery is intensifying. Twenty minutes have passed, with thirty minutes to go. I've plowed through only a third of Paulhan's mountain of books. Crisp, aromatic copies of Huckleberry Finn are open to the first page, where newly inked numbers are laid out to dry. I open stacks and stacks of poetry textbooks to repeat the motions. A task so simple and mundane is now my slow punishment. I look up from the work to glance at him. I can't help it, it's out of apprehension. He's thoroughly involved in whatever teacher shit he's doing. His eyebrows would furrow when he drew close to the desk, as if teasing apart some problem he was desperate to solve. Kate's words sneak back into my stream of thought. Is he cute? Well, he's not bad-looking. The ridge of his brow is slightly pronounced, affecting a subtle pensiveness. His hair is a dirty, muddy blond. Tall, a bit built. How old is he? Twenty-five? Perhaps thirty? Anyway, in terms of dress, he might as well have walked out of a Banana Republic ad. Bland. I smugly conclude that he's very nondescript. Paulhan's head snaps up, almost instinctively. He catches me staring. "What's up?" he says, completely nonchalant. "Oh, can I go to the bathroom?" I kick myself inside. Idiot! "Yes you may," he replies curtly, turning back to his desk. "I can come help you with those text books when I'm done with these course lists." Yes you may? Total dick. I trot out of the room without saying a word. Turning the corner, I notice the double doors to the office. Now's my chance! I'll go back to Paulhan with the drop slip and he can take it and shove it up his ass. *** "What do you mean?" I almost choke on the words. And my desperation. Misses Strand adjusts her red-rimmed glasses as she leans in for a good, final look. "Yeah, I'm sorry, honey. There's a ceramics class and PE class that are available as electives. But there's nothing else in sixth period that you can take." "I can take ceramics!" "That class is full. There's a waiting list with eleven people on it. And you can't take PE again, you already have all the credits." She sits back and takes off her glasses. Her apology is genuine and sweet, but her pity can't help me. My fingers curl in frustration. "Isn't there any other teacher that needs a teacher's aide? What about Miss Reilly?" "Sabine, they all have students already." Suspicion creeps into Misses Strand's voice, subduing her brassy twang. "Honey, why do you want to switch out of Mister Paulhan's class so badly?" What do I tell her? That he's a fuckhead who I can barely stand? That he humiliated me for not doing my prep reading, because I spent all summer swimming in Kate's pool and smoking weed? "Never mind, Misses Strand, I'm sure I'll be fine. I was just hoping I could take ceramics before I graduate." She beams at me, her face sunny with optimism. "Don't worry, sweetie! Plenty of time for that in the future. You just worry about getting those honors courses out of the way first." *** I pace back into the classroom. I can barely cloak my dejection. Paulhan is standing at the round table in the center of the room, poetry textbooks strewn all over it. He's patiently and methodically stamping each title page. He looks up at me and smiles—a clean, genuine smile. "Hey Sabine," he nods. "Let's get these Twain books out of the way." I hesitate for a brief moment before going to his side and start stacking up the books. I can feel him watching me test the ink with my fingers. The pages are dry. We continue like this for a several minutes: him stamping, me piling and opening books. We work quietly, steadily. I look up to tell the time. Twelve minutes left on the clock. The second hand is easing downward past two. The hour and minute hands are sad and still. "So what kept you from doing your reading, Sabine?" The sobering words pierces my reverie. He was still stamping, holding pages open with long, arching fingers. His voice betrays a hint of amusement. "Well, I was really involved in work all summer. I worked at the Great American Music Hall as an intern. I guess I just totally blanked out about the reading list." Total lie. That was Kate's job. "Ah, I see," he says. He inks the stamp, pressing firmly onto the pad. For the first time I notice his arms in detail. Paulhan had rolled his sleeves up just past the elbows. His arms are tan and covered in fine hairs, flecked with small freckles. Their shape is beautiful. Muscles near the crook of his elbow gently flex as he works. His hands and fingers are large but appear dextrous. The details of a striking male hand are there: defined knuckles, veins that tangle and weave around the distinct, structured framework of bone. "In San Francisco?" he asks. "Yeah." "I played there once." "What do you mean?" "My band opened for Mogwai there a couple years ago. I played drums after I got out of Berkeley." "Oh, that's cool. Do you still play now?" Unbelievable. I'm participating in a casual conversation with this creep. No, I'm just humoring him. "Once in a while. The band broke up when the singer went to England." "So now you're an English teacher. Are you new?" He looks at me and grins. "Do I look like I'm new?" What do I say? I realize that I shouldn't have said what I said. It was dumb. "I guess not." He laughs. "I taught in San Francisco for a couple years. This is my first gig outside the city." "Oh." "So yeah, I guess I'm new in this school." I'm not sure what to say next, so I keep quiet. We work in silence for a few minutes. "Anyway, I'm surprised that you missed all the readings. Your record tells me that you're an exceptional student. Aren't you?" I didn't even know teachers looked at our old grades. The conversation is making me a little uneasy. Being around him made me uneasy, I guess. "Yeah, you could say that." "The kids I taught in San Francisco are a whole other story. Out of everyone I've ever taught, you hold the highest GPA right now." Is this even something he should be telling me? Anyway, I think I see where this is going. He's trying to get me to like him, for whatever reason he might have. Probably feels guilty for ridiculing me. "Well, I guess there's a first for everything." I reply with the most careless, cliched remark I can think of. I glance at him. Paulhan's studying me intently, wordless. His expression is unreadable. The bell goes off. Fri Sept 8, 2006 3:24 PM The days and nights came and went until Friday morning. They blended together into one gray, infinite string of hours. I sauntered blankly to school and then spent the nights and early mornings desperately sifting through Cliff Notes and cheat sheets, napping for no more than a hour at a time. The "special quiz," which Paulhan gave to me in the form of ten question-and-answer problems, went by even faster. Stories, characters, symbols, overarching themes—all of it is now a dim, fuzzy patch in my fading short term memory. The guilt of missing my summer reading is put out, and my hatred for Paulhan has grown worn and dull. Our swim team is mulling around the pool waiting for Misses Hoffman, our coach of many loyal years. I'm standing in my swimsuit, my hair tucked inside my rubber cap. Headache. I'm so tired. Paulhan trots out of the men's locker room. His khakis are rolled up to his calves, and he's in sandals. A pair of aviator sunglasses, a black polo shirt, clipboard in hand. He looks cockier than ever. A hushed murmur of excitement sweeps through the team like a feverish wind. My jaws slip open in disbelief. There's just no way... "Okay guys, Misses Hoffman is rather busy with some personal stuff this semester, so I'll be taking over as your coach." My hand shoots up. Adrenaline is suddenly coursing through me. "Yeah, Sabine?" "What happened to Misses Hoffman? Isn't she still teaching Pre-Calc this semester?" "Well, actually..." I can't see past his ridiculous shades, which irritates me. "Misses Hoffman wanted to spend more time with her son this semester. She had to take time off of after school activities." Another murmur from the swim team. Not that they really care—almost every girl in the school is in over her head for him. Ah, right, but not me. "... Let's get started. Each of you will swim one lap. I'll be timing you. But don't sweat it, this is just so I know approximately how fast you are." He pulls a stop watch out of his pocket and motions us to form a line for the center lane. Annie dives into the pool from the front of our line. Everyone watches in silent anticipation. Her strokes are broad and graceful, and in no time she reaches the other end. She ducks under water and bounds back. Perfectly composed, she comes to Paulhan's feet in just over one minute. Annie is not the fastest girl on the team. I'm not either, but I don't want to look slow and sloppy. It'd be too embarrassing. Having Paulhan as a teacher and a coach is going to put pressure on me. Man-Shaped Mirror Lisa went, then Rebecca, then Angel. A couple of girls I don't know very well swam and finished at under one minute. If I could keep my time just above one minute, that would be enough. I'm suddenly at the front of the line. Paulhan sees me and grins. Twin reflections of my face dance across the lenses of his shades. Cecelia climbs out of the water. Her time is exactly one minute. I take a deep breath, pull down my goggles and leap in. I kick furiously. I make sure to keep my legs straight and rigid. My arms move quickly, and they carry me faster than I thought they'd be able to. I'm careful to keep them in the water as much as possible, and to split the water's surface with the sides of my palms when I bring them back under. Too much splashing slows you down. The sound of my blood pulsating through me drowns everything out. I try to picture myself as a perfect mechanism, a powerful torpedo, even an unthinking wind-up toy. I grow faint. I'm approaching the opposite wall of the pool. I just need to be there already. My head feels heavy but powerless, like an oncoming wave in the pool would snap it backwards. In a moment I'm inches from the wall, and I prepare myself to duck and turn. My head is heavier and heavier, like a solid anchor dropping into the bottom of a gaping ocean. Perhaps I wouldn't make the turn. Did I? *** "Sabine!" Something wet is patting my face. A seal's tail. "Can you hear me?" A sonorous voice. More patting on my face. This must be some kind of game. Like peek-a-boo, except someone else was closing their hands over my eyes. Guess who? My nose and my mouth suddenly fill with water. It welled up from my throat and it stings. My body is pulsating with a dull pain as I turn. I'm going to retch. Warm, salty water pours out of me instead. I can't smell anything but chlorine. Someone's patting me on the back. A warm hand is clasped around my shoulders. My goggles are on crooked. I pull them off and see the swim team—a crowd of frightened, closely huddled girls—on the opposite side of the pool. "Are you okay?" Him. His face is tense, gripped with shock. His shades are gone now, and he's drenched. His clothes cling to him as he kneels next to me. "What are you doing here?" What's going on? Did I drown? "Sabine, you passed out and almost drowned," he says urgently, "I had to get you out of the water." I have no recollection of this. I'm just more tired than ever. "Sabine, did you look in the mirror today? You've got dark circles under your eyes." He's watching me, his gaze sharp and intense. "You shouldn't even be in the pool." This made me angry. Yes, I know. Thanks to you, you asshole. I scramble to get up on my feet. My limbs feel frail, though Paulhan's arm is cradling my shoulders. I turn to him. "Piece of shit..." I mutter under my breath as I kick him with what energy I have left. Square in the shin. Turning on my feet, I make my way towards the locker room. Soft gasps flare out of the flock of wide-eyed girls. Paulhan's sandals were suspended upon the placid surface of the pool. His shades sat at the bottom, motionless. Sat Sept 9, 2006 11:45 AM Sunlight is peeking in through the blinds. I guess it woke me up. My cellphone is flashing—I reach for it. Eight missed calls, all from Kate, starting from last night. Four today. I sigh and hit "send." She picks up after one ring. "Sa-BINE! Where have you been!?" I have to hold the phone away. Her voice reached a painful pitch. "Um, sleeping." I rub my eyes and look at the clock. "Do you have any idea what time it is?!" "My clock says 11:45." "God, how long did you sleep for anyway? I've been trying to call you since ten last night!" "I don't know, like, fourteen hours? I feel kind of gross." "Yeah, well I wonder why!" "What's up?" Kate sighs, deeply exasperated. "What's up?! Don't you remember what happened? You kicked Mister Paulhan at the swim meet! You kicked him, Sabine! You are in deep shit!" Oh, right... "Um, honestly, I do not remember that. I just remember zonking out when I came home last night." "Seriously, Sabine, how could you do that? You like, assaulted a teacher! After he pulled you out of the water and did like, CPR and everything!" Uh, what? "Look, if I did anything wrong I just wasn't with it, you know? I was totally out of it when it happened." "Okay! I know! That's what Mister Paulhan told everyone. Angel told me he said you weren't yourself, so it's not a big de—" "I barely slept all week because I was studying for that fucking quiz he was going to give me. I had to do that, and physics homework, study for history, and read through that Scarlet Letter novel for his class. Katie, his class is just fucking me!" Just talking about it made me irritated. "I'm still worried for you." "Well, what could happen? Am I going to get suspended?" Kate's mom is on the school board. Maybe she can help me out. "I don't know. I don't think so. I begged my mom and told her what happened. You might actually be able to get out of it. We're not going to find out until Monday though." "Okay... I guess we'll see." I rub my face. I just don't want to think about that right now. "So did he really do CPR? Are you positive?" "Um, yeah, Sabine. Angel and everyone there saw it. He fucking saved you. You have no idea how fucking jealous I am right now. I would not have kicked him." "That is so gross." "Oh, shut up. Hey I gotta run. But look, please don't do something like that again. You're just so totally crazy sometimes." "Um, sure." "Okay I'm gonna go. Oh, so I overheard Joe talking to Branden last night. He said he's going to ask you to homecoming with him. You should say no." "I wasn't thinking of even going homecoming." "Well, you should go. Just not with him. Bye!" She hung up. I look at the clock again. It's 11:49. I try not to picture Paulhan performing CPR on me. It just felt wrong. Like, predatory. I pull my bag onto the bed and start sorting through all the homework for the weekend. First thing on the pile is a handwritten prompt for an essay on The Scarlet Letter. It's a photocopy of Paulhan's writing. The strokes in his letters go this way and that. Some r's and e's join, some dots are absent from their i's. The page is littered with curly, dismembered insect legs. Why do English teachers write so illegibly? You're going to compose an essay on the question of ETHICS in The Scarlet Letter. You're going to need to know the difference between MORALITY and ETHICS before you get started. Analyze the CONFLICTS that arise between the two systems of VALUES as the characters navigate through the narrative. Identify key themes that support your argument. Remember to cite examples. Here we go. Mon Sept 11, 2006 7:51 AM I was called into principal Smith's office first thing in the morning. Nothing much happened, actually. Mister Smith reprimanded me for not taking care of myself and then lashing out at a teacher. Everyone in the office knows the story already. After staying up all week making up for reading she didn't do over the summer, Sabine exerted herself during the season's first swim meet. She passed out, Mister Paulhan saved her, and in a delirious state she kicked him in the shin. Right. What a silly girl. "You're a bright student, Sabine. Everyone gets tripped up sometimes, I know that. But you have to stay mindful. One more mess-up and you might end up facing graver consequences." He may as well have wagged his finger at me. "Don't forget to thank Mister Paulhan. He saved you, and he spoke up for you, too." "I will, Mister Smith. Thank you." *** I open the door to Room 54. Paulhan is standing before the class, his hand suspended in front of the chalkboard. Thirty pairs of eyes are trained on me. Paulhan says nothing as I make my way to the back of the room. I make eye contact with no one. No one utters a word, and class continues. *** Word of the incident had spread throughout the school over the course of the day, if not already over the weekend. I'm now a sensation of sorts. Little freshman girls point and whisper when I walk by them in the halls. The punks and goths have been eyeing me with a newfound affinity. "Don't worry, Sabine," Kate assured me, "next week it'll all blow over." Otherwise, the day has been painfully slow. I guess it's all been building up to right now, the start of sixth period. I'm waiting outside Room 54, shifting restlessly on my feet. The school's hallways grow quiet as students and teachers file indoors. A flock of gulls touch down in the quad, bickering noisily for scraps. I check my cellphone—it's twelve past one. I peer inside the windows. The room is dark, the chairs empty. And then he finally appears. He looks sharp. He's in a thin white shirt, only the top button left undone, as always. Sleeves rolled up. Slim black slacks, the same black belt. Black leather oxfords. A binder in one arm, a set of keys in one hand. He struts up to the door and starts flipping through the keys. I look up at him. Right, he's got to be over six feet tall. "Hey there," he says. His eyes, again, are unreadable. I search for a hint of expression in his face and find nothing. He fits a key into the door. "Hi, Mister Paulhan." My voice is soft and meek. I just can't help it. "You know, I think that's the first time you've actually addressed me as 'Mister Paulhan,'" he says as the door clicks open. "Oh." Okay... "What did I call you before?" "I don't think you did at all." He isn't making eye contact anymore as he flips the light on and strides to his desk. A week into school, all these motions were becoming a familiar routine for him. "Look, Mister Paulhan, I'm really, really sorry about what happened on Friday," I try not to sound too pathetic. I just need make sure he and I are at least on neutral terms, even if it means feeling painfully awkward. "Really, I am. I had no idea what I was doing." "Don't worry about it, Sabine. I know you were out of it." He sits down and flips his laptop open. "It was just awkward, that's all it was. But it's nothing. Don't worry about it." A stifling silence creeps into the room as he starts clicking around on the computer. Is this where I'm supposed to thank him for helping me? I realize I just can't bring myself to say it. It's even more uncomfortable than apologizing to this man. "Aren't you going to sit down?" he asks. I pick a desk at a safe distance and sit down. Paulhan looks up from his laptop. "Oh, right. I need your paper from you, Sabine. The one on the Hawthorne Book. You left really quickly this morning and I didn't get it from you." "Right, I forgot. Sorry." I dig through my bag and find it. The product of my weekend's turmoil is printed on twelve crispy white sheets, stapled together in the upper left corner at a forty-five degree angle. The trick isn't to widen the margins or blow up the font size. The trick is to use Baskerville. I hand the essay to him. "Excellent," he says, reaching over and grasping it gently. "I'll have the papers graded by Friday's class." Another silence blankets the room. "So did you ever get your sunglasses out of the pool?" I ask. My hands are damp. I confine them to my knees. Paulhan's eyes are glued to the screen. He had slipped my essay into a pile of student papers next to him. "Yeah, I went back in and fished them out after you left." *** "Hey!" Joe calls out to me as I stride through the parking lot. I'm on my way home. His idiot friends peer at me in unison, their suntanned elbows resting on the hood of his black Mustang. Mac Dre is booming out from the open windows. I don't really want to go over there. So I stay where I am, my hands clutching the strap of my bag. The sun is incredibly strong. Hanging out in the parking lot all afternoon must be why Joe's so dark all the time. He does a light jog to where I'm standing. "What up, Sabine." "Hey Joe." I manage a forced smile. He leans in and kisses me on the cheek. "Baby," he purrs, "are you okay? I heard you kicked a teacher last week." He tries to smother a chuckle. "I'm fine now, I was just really tired all last week, you know? Everything's okay." "I know, we didn't chill at all last week. Or over the weekend either," he takes my hands in his. "I miss you. You want to come over tonight? We should hang out." I pull away. "Maybe... look, I have to run. I'll give you a call later about it, okay?" "You need a ride?" he asks, puzzled. "No, no, I'll be fine. You know I live really close." Joe limbers back to his posse as I pace out of the parking lot. "Sabine!" he calls out," I forgot to ask you something!" I hold my hand up and motion for him to call me. Then I turn the corner and I'm gone. I need to get Kate on the phone as soon as possible. *** "Um. What?" "Yeah. He didn't even look at me when I asked him if he got his sunglasses back. He just said, 'Yeah, I went in again and got them after you left.'" "Okay. I don't see what's wrong with that at all." "I don't know. He didn't make eye contact with me. He didn't even look at me. He wasn't nice, or mean, he was just... nothing. I just got this vibe that he was deliberately guilting me the entire time. Like, brutally." "Maybe it's because you are guilty. I mean, you attacked the guy after he saved you. You didn't even thank him. And you didn't read for his class. I know you. If I were you I would be pretty guilty." "You just have to have been there. Katie, I have to see him on three occasions. I see him every morning, every afternoon, and then twice a week for swim meets. I have a better idea of what he's like than you do. Every time I talk to him it's like some kind of test he puts me through. I swear, he's a sly fuck." "Yow, harsh words. Look, you know what I think?" "What?" "I think you have a crush on him." "What?!" "Yeah, I think you're hot for Paulhan. I knew it. You'd tell yourself and everyone that you hate him, and then completely turn it around. Look at you now. You're totally sprung." "Katie, you are so full of shit." "Whatever you wanna say," she sang, "I just know. Come on, you're calling me up to talk about him, all pissed and everything. It's okay, he kissed you and touched your boobs while you were passed out. I don't blame you." I can only scoff. She can be such an idiot. "Think about it. Just from what you've told me, it sounds like he didn't even say a whole lot. Don't you think you're reading into what he does a little too much? I mean, you're like, hanging on his every word." "Maybe I am, but I don't have a crush on him. People our age don't even have crushes anymore. That was junior high." Kate cracks up. She hoots and guffaws. "Look, okay, I'm interested in him. I have to say, he's hard to figure out. I just want to figure him out." "Okay, have fun," she says flatly. "Psychopath." "Sure. You're the one who wants to stab her brother. Or boink him, whichever it is." "What the hell are you talking about?" "Katie, you keep telling me to stay away from your brother. Or you're talking shit about him. Isn't he your brother? Don't you love him?" "Uh, yeah, he is my brother. And I tell you to stay away from him because I know he likes you for all the wrong reasons." "And those are?" "Sabine, he likes you because he's a loser, and he thinks you're a loser, too. He smokes weed all day, his grades are shit, and he's probably going to get kicked out of football. He's not going to make the next drug test. He might even get expelled. I can see it already. He wants to date you because you're hot, you put out for him, and it will make him look good in front of his buddies. At this point he just can't get any of the popular girls who no one thinks is a weirdo." "Wow, as if these aren't obvious reasons." "Well, why do you put out for him then?" "Um, he's hot and he has excellent sources for weed?" "Ugh," she groans, "See? He's a terrible influence on you. What did you do all summer? Didn't you tell me your GPA dropped last semester? Don't you care about any of that?" "Gee, mom, I'm really touched by your concern." "Like she's ever around anyways. When's the last time you saw her?" "I don't know. A week and a half ago?" "Yeah, my point exactly. I think her taking that sales job hasn't done you a whole lot of good." "Sure. Look, we took the SAT's already. My grades are spic and span, even though they aren't everything in the world. Anyway, I've got essays to write and some physics papers to finish. I'll catch you later, okay?" "Fine. But hey, don't trip about Paulhan, alright?" "Okay." "Do keep the juicy details coming, though," she quips. Fri Sept 15, 2006 7:38 AM "Okay, class. Good morning." Paulhan's voice is loud and steady. All eyes were on him. A stack of essays are cradled in his arm. One corner is fatter than the others, made thick with staples. Paulhan takes an essay by this corner and lifts it off the pile. "This is just what you've been waiting for, people. I've got your final essays right here. As a whole, you've performed very well for a first assignment. I'm very happy." He dangles one at eye level. "Camie?" Camie hobbles to his feet and retrieves his paper. "Jacob." "Shelley." "Jessica." "Mansi." "Aaron." The stack is thinning. A few sullen faces in the room. Some are beaming. Where's mine? "Alright guys, you did a good job. Everyone's responses were excellent." He shifts his gaze towards me. It's surprisingly warm. "There are a couple papers that I think should be shared with the rest of the class. They were very interesting responses. Let's hear them." Paulhan smiles. "Sabine, would you care to read the conclusion of your essay for us?" He holds up my paper. Traces of red pencil graced the first page. Um, no. "I think you can read it for me," I squeak. Out of the corner of my eye I see Bernard shooting me a hateful look. This attention is unbearable. "Are you sure? I might mess it up." Paulhan's voice is laced with delight. "No, no... you can read it." God, why do I always get put on the spot with him? He flips past the pages, tucking them neatly behind the very last one. The room is silent. Paulhan begins to read, his voice powerful and unwavering: "Hester Prynne's letter 'A' comes to mean a variety of things throughout the course of the narrative, as does its red color. Whereas red originally served to ostracize her from the community, in many instances it becomes a brilliant hue of pride. I would go so far as to say it takes on the color of her blood and her heart. "In a similar vein, Hawthorne shows us that while Prynne's past deeds are deemed uncouth by her community, she continues to evolve as a character who has learned to reconcile her sins and embrace them as part of her identity. "Prynne's social climate favored a black and white view of nature which they've imposed upon their existence. This is identified as ethics. Having experienced both extremes of the scales of ethics and morality, she was able to synthesize these conflicting views, developing a new, individual moral code of conduct for herself. Prynne found comfort in a clear, unclouded gray area. "I recognize this reconciliation as a process which every modern human being must partake in and endure. In a way, it is each individual's arrival at an equilibrium." The classroom was silent. Someone in the hallway trots past the window. 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.