My leg swings over, and then he takes his helmet off, reaches around, and pushes it down on my head. The world dulls as the padding inside the helmet squishes against my hair, and I let out a long breath when he gives it some throttle and we take off, the wind whipping against my wet clothes and the rain stinging my bare arms like little bullets.
He slows when we get about half a mile down the road and then turns into a bank that looks like it closed down a decade ago. We come to a stop under the shelter they have over the drive-through, and then he cuts the engine and gets off the bike.
“What the fuck are we doing?” But I realize I’m talking to the visor of the helmet, and lift it off my head. “What are you doing?” I ask again.
“It’s not safe to ride in the rain, Shannon.” He says this like I’m a child and all the things need explaining. “Besides, I only have one helmet.”
“Oh,” I say, looking at the helmet in my hands. I thrust it towards him. “Thanks. I can wait it out here.”
He takes the helmet, but instead of putting it on and riding away, he sets it down on his seat and walks over to the little curb up against the bank building. He slides down the wall, stretching his legs out in front of him like he did under the table at school. That excited feeling he gave me comes back.
“What are you doing?” I ask, hugging my arms to my chest. I’m soaking wet and my shirt is white and plastered up against my skin. I’m one hundred percent certain my bra is showing through the fabric.
“Waiting with you. I’m not leaving you here alone.”
“Why not? I’m not helpless.”
But he ignores me and tabs something on his phone. He sets his phone down on the concrete and takes off his leather jacket. It’s black, and old-looking, like he’s been wearing it his whole life. He holds it out to me and asks, “You cold?”
I’m freezing. I’m so cold my teeth might start chattering. And besides, I don’t want him to be looking at my bra through my shirt. So I reach out and take the jacket and slip my arms inside.
It’s warm. And heavy.
It makes me sigh and I wander across the small distance that separates us and take a seat next to him. Not too close. He makes me nervous. That’s a new feeling for me. Usually I’m the one making guys nervous.
I rummage around in my backpack and pull out a cigarette, offering Alesci one. He shakes his head and leans back against the brick wall. I light up my cigarette and blow out a puff of smoke into the cold air.
The silence hangs there between us and I start shuffling my feet, unable to figure out what’s going on. Should he be offering me rides? Should I be accepting them? Should he be allowed to be so hot and my teacher at the same time? Does he always wear a suit under his leather jacket?
“I’ve known Bowman for a long time,” he says.
“That right? Did he ask you to be my teacher?”
“Called me up last month and said he had a job for me. I’m between jobs right now. Well…” He laughs. “Technically I’m supposed to be writing my dissertation for my PhD. I go to UCLA and after ten years of work, the shit is about to pay off. All I gotta do is write up my contribution to science and I’m on my way. But I figure you’re a good excuse to procrastinate, because while math might be my thing, writing is not.”
“UCLA, huh?” I say. Last semester I worked in the office at Anaheim because my school in San Diego said I had a ton of credits and only had to go to school half a day. So at Anaheim I worked in the library first period shelving books and the office second period sorting mail into little cubbies. One day a catalog came for the art school at UCLA and I put it in my backpack and took it home.
I’ve never thought about college. No one has ever talked to me about college. Not even my guidance counselors back home.
But that catalog was so pretty I had to have it. So I stole it. And I read it cover to cover that same night. I’ve always wanted to be an artist. That’s why I was in that alternative school back in Ohio. I was taking graphic design and learning Photoshop, and that’s the closest I’ve came so far.
But UCLA art school. God.
“What are you taking at UCLA?” I ask, genuinely interested.
He laughs. And it’s such a warm, hearty laugh, I want to bottle it up and keep it with me for all the days ahead that I will be sad. “Computer engineering with a concentration in physics,” he says.
“Jesus,” I say. “If they make me take physics, I’m quitting.”
He laughs again and this time I catch a little gleam in his green eyes. “It’s not really my thing, either. My thing is astronomy. But I have a plan that ties it all together. Now I just need to sell people on it.”
Astronomy. That is so cool. “Do you think you will?” I turn my body to face him and wait for his answer. “Sell people on your plan?”
But he just shrugs. “Dunno. I did my best, so whatever.”
“How do you know Bowman?”
“I was his first student when he came to Anaheim ten years ago.”
“You’re twenty…?”
“Eight,” he says, smiling at me like he’s hungry.