Love in the Time of Climate Change (4 page)

It had started innocently enough.

“You ever played one of those cooperative games?” Hannah asked Trevor. “You know, the ones where you work together and everyone wins?”

“Never,” said Trevor.

“I suggest you keep it that way,” Hannah replied. “They totally suck! I mean, if you can't kick butt, what's the point?”

“Truth. Which is why I'm going to kick your ass.”

“What do you mean?”

“It's all about the miles, sweetheart. All about the miles and the smiles!” Trevor dangled his commuting log in Hannah's face.

“Trevor. Don't be a moron. We have the exact same commute.”

Hannah and Trevor lived in the same apartment complex in Glenfield, about three miles from campus.

“Yeah, but, how many miles did you put in this morning?” Trevor asked, an evil twinkle in his eye.

“What are you talking about? We've measured the route what, seventeen thousand times?”

“How many miles” Trevor persisted.

“Three, of course,” Hannah said.

“Wow. I always knew you were a lightweight, Hannah, but
three
? What'd you do, ride your trike? Or have you made the leap to training wheels?”

Annoyed, Hannah cocked her head. “All right, out with it, what are you up to?”

“Check out my log.” Trevor crowed, thrusting it at Hannah.

She looked up in disgust.

“Trevor, I know you're languishing in developmental math for what, the third time, but you seem to have moved the decimal point a tad too far to the right.”

“Read it and weep, darling. Thirty miles.”

“You rode thirty miles?”

“Yeah.”

“Today?”

“Yeah.”

“You've gone home and back, what, ten times already?” she asked.

“Nope, just once to school.”

“What the heck, Trevor? That is so low. You'd actually cheat on a bike log? What a loser!”

“I didn't cheat, Hannah. I took the long way. The scenic route. A little diversion up the Mohawk Trail, past Apex Orchard, back through town. Sure, I was late to economics. Actually, I missed economics and was late to English, but hey, that's the price you pay for being a winner. Thirty miles.”

“You can't do that!” Hannah whined.

“Why not?”

“Because it's cheating!”

“It's not cheating, Hannah. I rode thirty miles to school. There are no rules on the route you have to take. I'm going to ride another fifteen home. Anyway, who made you the two-wheeler police?”

“My god, Trevor! What is this, the Tour de France and you're Lance Armstrong? Better go pee in this cup and I'll test you for doping!”

Day Two and the battle lines were drawn. The Great Bike Week War had begun.

That afternoon Trevor found the air let out of his tires. He had a sneaking suspicion about who did it.

Hannah woke up the next morning to find her bike locked to the rack in front of her apartment, same as it always was. Only it was Trevor's lock.

On Thursday they declared a truce. Let the most miles win.

Hannah missed an exam in history and a meeting with her advisor. She logged seventy-two miles.

Trevor blew off economics and English again. He had cruised sixty-seven miles when he blew a second tire and had to eat crow and call for a ride home.

Both had missed their shifts at the Thursday table and texted me to fill in.

I sensed, somehow, this was in violation of the spirit of the event. Friday morning, I sat the two of them down.

“I don't mean to be condescending or insulting,” I began, “but maybe, just maybe, the two of you need to take a step back and think about the bigger picture here.” They were glaring at each other in my office, a low, hyena-like growl emanating from Hannah, Trevor grinding his teeth, clenching and unclenching his fists.

“I didn't start it,” Hannah said.

“Dude!” Trevor roared. “Air out of tires? Hello!”

I rolled my eyes, wishing the twenty-nine-year-old middle-school
science teacher in my Tuesday/Thursday class were here. I could have used her expertise. This seemed much more seventh grade than college.

“Well, it's irrelevant. Unless you are both superhuman, neither of you is in the hunt. This kid Teresa Jones has put in 235 miles. Legitimate miles. And she's got a return trip home to go again today. Pack it up, you two. The game is ovah! T-shirt and bottle? Hers. And for you? Nothing!”

Trevor and Hannah looked incredulous.

“Two hundred and forty-five miles?” they groaned.

“Two hundred and forty-five miles!” I laughed, not bothering to hide my inner glee. “And a bunch more to go!”

I handed them each a Kleenex.

“Something to dry your tears. Don't sweat, there's always next year!”

Bingo. Tension gone. Those two were roadkill.

Teresa had whupped their tushes. Nothing like getting crushed to put you in your place.

And there had been another upside to Bike-to-School Week.

Both Tuesday and Thursday, Samantha, the Twenty-Nine-Year-Old, had ridden her bike to class while dressed in a stunning, tight spandex bottom and a revealing riding top. I tried my best all through my alternative transportation lecture to avoid any visual contact with her. It was all I could do to breathe.

I
CAN DATE MY FIRST REAL INTEREST
in her to the class after bike week.

I had walked into the room after break to find Samantha chatting it up with another student. I fiddled with the computer and pretended to look busy, all the while doing what I do best—eavesdropping.

“I was so upset.” she was saying “I could've killed him! Honestly.”

“What did he say?” the girl with the pink hair asked.

“‘Don't make a mountain out of a molehill. It's not a big deal.' ‘It is to me!' I told him. ‘Enough molehills make a mountain!' ‘Chill' he says. ‘You are so overreacting.' God, if there is one thing I can't stand, it's when people tell me I'm ‘overreacting.' I absolutely despise that!”

“I'm with you” Pink Hair said. “Last month I was totally freaking out ‘cause I was three days late and my boyfriend told me I was overreacting. I kicked him in the you-know-wheres! Jerk.”

“Guys! They are so clueless.”

Both women rolled their eyes.

I continued to pretend not to hear while inching ever closer for a clearer earful.

Naturally, I assumed they were talking girl stuff. Truth be told, there is nothing—
nothing
—I like to overhear more than intimate details of women's lives.

It never ceases to amaze me how they open up immediately to each other about the most personal of things. I've done introductory exercises where I ask students to briefly interview their seatmate and then share what they learn with the rest of class. In three minutes women will reveal the most astounding of details to each other. How many partners they've had. First orgasm. Favorite position.

Okay. So I'm exaggerating. But with guys you're lucky to get anything more than their favorite friggin' football player.

Samantha continued. “I read somewhere that a hundred acres of forest a day are cut down to make those. A day! If that's not a mountain then I don't know what is!”

The plot thickened. Eavesdropping midway into an interesting conversation can present a delightful puzzle. I had just assumed the conversation had to do with sex. But a hundred acres? For what?

Hmm… Latex comes from rubber trees. Were they talking condoms?

“BYOC,” Samantha went on.

“What's that mean?” Pink Hair asked.

“Bring Your Own Chopsticks. Otherwise, just say no.”

Pink Hair laughed.

I was confused. While women's issues remain a vast conspiratorial convoluted mystery to me, I do try to keep up on the latest. But chopsticks?
Chopsticks?
Was this a new slang word for contraception? Some sort of intravaginal device that picked up sperm one by one and flung them out? I moistened my lips and bought some time by shutting down and restarting the computer.

“Next time I do Chinese I'll remember that,” Pink Hair said. “No more disposable chopsticks for me. One hundred acres.”

“A day!” Samantha emphasized. “Imagine that! It's a tragedy!”

Whoa, whoa, whoa … they weren't talking sex here. They were talking deforestation! They were on task. This had to do with
The
Issue!

I couldn't believe it. Here, I thought I was the only one who had a shit-fit at Panda Garden every time the Roommate insisted on eating the Chinese way. The only one who couldn't leave it alone even when we went out to eat.

Hmm… I thought to myself. Chopsticks.

This one could be interesting.

—

It was a Tuesday and Samantha came to class dressed like a pirate. Striped shirt and blue jean bell bottoms. A flowing fake black beard and an eye patch. A cocked hat proudly displaying the skull and crossbones. Hook on one hand, plastic sword in the other. There was even a fake parrot perched on her shoulder.

She made a stunning pirate.

From the very first class, I couldn't help but notice that she was a beautiful woman. I wasn't nearly as distracted by my younger attractive students. I looked at them as … students. But beautiful women in my class who were also my age? Arrrrrrr…

“Ahoy, me hearties!” she growled, entering class with a swashbuckling flourish.

“And to what do we owe the honor of this, my … captain?” I asked smilingly.

“Shiver me timbers!” she exclaimed. “Don't tell me you land-lubbing bilge rats don't know what today is?”

“Dress Like a Lunatic Day?” one student shyly asked.

“Yo ho ho! Though not at all funny. It's September 19!”

“And …?” I asked.

“International Talk Like a Pirate Day.”

“Are you serious?” a student asked.

“I'd sooner walk the plank then tell a lie to me crew! 'Tis the tenth anniversary today. Celebrated around the world and, closer to home, at Glenfield Middle School. You're looking at this year's seventh-grade honorary captain!”

The class applauded while giving each other furtive glances. She bowed, theatrically, tipping her hat.

“I was going to change my outfit but then I thought, Hey, why not. For the rest of the class you will kindly address me as Mad Sam Bellamy, Pirate Extraordinaire.”

“Aye aye, Captain!” the class called out in unison.

“You do know who Sam Bellamy is?” she asked.

“Umm…” I replied. “That would be … you?” Her name was Samantha. Samantha Bellamy.

“My goodness. ‘Black Sam' Bellamy. His ship, the Whydah, is the only real pirate ship ever recovered. Sunk in 1711, treasure and all. The plunder is in a museum in Provincetown on Cape Cod.”

“Who would have thought?” I said.

“And check this out, me beauties!” she
arrrrrr
ed, disengaging the parrot from her shoulder and passing it around.

Placed prominently on the bird's chest was a big button.

“Pirates Against Global Warming,” it read, with a smiling picture of Samantha dressed in her pirate garb.

“I want one!” one of the students demanded.

“Me too! Me too!” I clamored, hopping up and down like one of her students. “Where did you get that?”

“Me very own button-making machine, me hearties. No seventh-grade class should be without one. If my kids do particularly well on a project, or stick with a particularly difficult assignment, whatever, they get to make a button. It's a fabulous incentive!”

God, I thought, I could use one of those in my classroom.
Grades would skyrocket. Work would come in on time. Papers would exceed the bare minimum and might even be—
gasp
—literate.

Be gone, ye slackers!

After all, college students are only a hop, skip, and jump away from seventh grade. The things we'll do for trinkets!

The button was a big hit. As was the pirate.

“Wow!” I overheard one of my guy students comment as they were walking towards the door at the end of class. “If she's the captain, then sign me up. I'd be the first to drop anchor in her lagoon.”

Shiver me timbers! I thought, briefly allowing inappropriate faculty–student interactions to entertain themselves in my head.

Me too. Me too.