Tart (20 page)

“Miranda will receive a difficult lesson, and sometimes that's what we as educators are forced to provide.”

I swallow hard, feeling woozy and unsure.

“I see.”

“Really, Claudia, I hate to do this.” She looks almost vulnerable for a moment, her dark eyes going from blank to pleading for a split second. “I know you've worked hard. And the students—I know all that. But my hands are tied.”

How can this be happening? It doesn't even make sense. And here's Westby, calmly pronouncing the death of my precious show, as if it's unavoidable. “Who is he going to sue, anyway? His own daughter?”

“The university, of course. He insists we're providing a venue for defamatory material.”

“That's ridiculous!” I can't, in my confused state, recall the legal definition of
defamatory,
but I'm sure we haven't committed it, whatever it is.

“Perhaps.” She looks empathetic for an instant, but then her voice becomes hard again, precise and cutting. “Unfortunately, given his position, I have no choice but to take the threat quite seriously.”

A red streak of anger shoots through my chest and then, from out of nowhere, a lucid calm comes over me. I meet Westby's gaze. Her left eye spasms crazily, looking dangerously out of control. I almost feel sorry for her, with that weird little tick revolting against her gallant efforts to be made of ice.

“I won't do it,” I say.

“I'm sorry?”

“I'm not going to lie for you. It's—it's censorship,” I say. “I'm still too young and stupid to sell out just like that.”

“Claudia, I really think you should reconsider—”

“Why? You've already made it clear I'm just a stand-in. It's not like I have that much to lose, anyway.”

“Actually,” she says, “given how promising this production is—these unpleasantries aside—the department is seriously considering extending your contract.”

“Well, I'm not considering your offer, if this is how you run things.”

She stiffens. “It's not an offer. It's just a possibility.”

“Well, then, all I'm losing is a possibility.” I stand and make my way toward the door.

“Claudia?”

I turn at the door. “Yes?”

“I respect your ideals. Really. But there is simply no way you're performing this play again. I absolutely forbid it.”

A tiny smile plays on my lips, though I try to repress it. I can't help myself; I'm about to deliver the line I've waited for all my life. “Try to stop me.”

A
fter a sleepless night, five o'clock finally brings dawn. I'm pacing the floor of my apartment in my boxer shorts and wife-beater tank top, nursing a cup of English Breakfast with the phone glued to my ear. “Okay, let me get this straight. You're saying, if I make a big enough stink—”

“Become their worst nightmare—”

“They'll let me do the play and they won't fire me?”

“Right.” Ziv is getting excited now. He lives for this shit. I close my eyes and visualize him: bony white knuckles gripping his cell, a cigarette burning almost to his fingertips; balanced precariously on the porch rail beside him is his third demitasse of homemade espresso. “It would make them look bad in a
very
public way, and open them to a lawsuit they could lose. If it comes to that, I'll represent you.” He laughs explosively and a powerful wave of nostalgia washes over me, making me wish more than anything that I was there, sitting on our porch in the Austin spring light, sipping his magical espresso.

“And you really think Miranda's dad will back down?” I try to squelch my longing by focusing on the task at hand.

“Of course. He's freaked out because she basically outed him.”

“And made him look like a hypocritical fuckface his own family wants dead.”

“Which is probably all accurate, judging from his reaction.”

“Shit,” I sigh.

“Come on, Bloomie. This is what you drama queens live for.”

“You don't get it, Ziv. We like
make-believe
drama. Not the actual, job-threatening live-action kind.”

“I don't believe that for a second.” I make a tiny, scared whimpering sound in response, and his voice goes soothing. “No worries, okay? You've got the law on your side.”

“Yeah, maybe, except my enemy's got all the money and power. You really think the First Amendment's going to stand up against that?”

“If not, then the First Amendment's got to be amended. Just remember—” He speaks slowly and distinctly now, like a coach drilling his star player. “Make it as
public
as you can. The press is your friend. Turn this into the biggest scandal since OJ.”

“Ha.” I chip polish off my toenails and let Medea gently gnaw on my hand. “Unfortunately I don't have racial tension, organized sports, stardom, gender issues, billions of dollars or a bloody glove to spice it up.”

Ziv makes a dismissive sound and I can hear him taking a drag off his cigarette. “So improvise.”

 

Westby issued my warning Monday at half past one; by Thursday afternoon I've got the ACLU behind me, every newspaper in the area alerted, and a small army of student organizations ready to storm the castle as soon as I give the signal. I was wrong, actually, when I whined to Ziv about
not having gender issues on my side. Evidently, Miranda's backed by the Gay, Lesbian, Bi and Transsexual Resource Center. They see this as a bi-questioning author being silenced on important issues of sexual politics. As a result, they've galvanized all their affiliated organizations, including (but not limited to) the Down with Heterosexism Clan, the Kidz of Queers Club and the Jewish Transgender Organization. I've also got Students for Civil Liberties, Theater Students for Anarchy and the Slug Chess and Games Club (precisely why this last group cares, I'm not sure, but who am I to second-guess political fervor when it's on my side?).

So far, Westby hasn't actually issued anything to publicly cancel the show; the only proof that she wants to censor it is our private conversation. So, going on Ziv's and the ACLU's advice, I'm proceeding as if that conversation never happened. Only if they try to bar our performance Friday night will we rally the press and our ragtag army of radicals.

I've been so busy e-mailing, phoning and researching I don't have a spare minute to feel sick with remorse until Thursday evening around six o'clock. This is when it hits me: I've pitted myself against the University of California, Corporate America and somehow (though I've only the vaguest notions of how this happened) heterosexuality in general. I've probably pitted myself against God, as well, though I'm too tired to consider this possibility at the moment—Ruth Westby's bad enough.

Now that everything's in place, the twenty-four hours that stretch out before me are too intolerably suspenseful to bear. I figure I've got two options: put a bullet in my head or walk the streets of Santa Cruz until my muscles cry out for mercy. Then—only then—when I'm on the verge of collapse, will I draw a hot bubble bath, have a cigarette, a vodka tonic and two of Rose's sleeping pills to get me through the night.

The sun's been down for a while when I hit the streets. The sky's taken on that ethereal hue of blue that washes ev
erything in ocean shades and makes even the mundane sidewalks surreal, dreamy. I want to wash my brain in that color—drown out all the blinking red warnings and flashing green lights that have guided the congested traffic in my psyche all week.

I stop at my favorite, passion-flower-covered fence and inspect one of the blossoms, marveling at its insectlike stamen and its wild splay of purple fringe. Passion flowers are tart. They're eccentric, edgy and sexy. They disregard convention and refuse to be tamed.

About an hour later, as I'm meandering along the bluffs, I try to concentrate on nothing but what's around me. The seagulls surf the evening breeze, scan the ground for food and occasionally erupt in grumpy squawks. I look out over the darkening ocean. There's a billowy white fogbank easing slowly toward town, and I can smell the sweet, waffle-cone and cotton-candy perfume of the Boardwalk. As I stand there, watching the lights blink on along the coastline, it occurs to me that fighting for Miranda's play is the first thing I've ever done that isn't just about me. Sure, my ego's invested; the righteous rebel suits me, so it's not selfless. But there's also this little kernel of something else in there. For once, I know what it's like to fight for something bigger than the immediate gratification of my petty little needs.

Walking home in the dark, listening to the waves crashing at my back, I think: maybe this is what tart tastes like at thirty.

 

Friday at three, Westby summons me to her office and for once I go willingly, almost eagerly, aching for an end to the suspense.

“Have a seat, Claudia,” she says crisply. I do as I'm told but sit perfectly erect in the hopes that my posture will make up for the disadvantage she's created by opting to pace while I remain glued to my seat. It's the oldest ploy in the book: place your opponent lower than yourself, and I'm surprised
someone as slick as Westby would resort to such parlor tricks.

“How are you?” I ask. This throws her off guard.

“I'm fine, thank you.” She takes off her clip-on earrings and stashes them in the pocket of her silk blazer. “These earrings are driving me crazy,” she says, in an oddly human moment. Then she gets down to business. “Well, things have taken an interesting turn.”

“Have they?”

“Yes, they have. I'm referring of course to—well, who am I kidding? You know what I'm referring to.”

“Heirloom?”
I ask innocently.

“Yes. And more specifically, your choice to back Mr. Wilkes into a corner with the threat of negative publicity. When he caught wind of your little scheme, he was irate. It took us hours to calm him down.” She pauses at the window and I watch as green, rain-drenched branches lash about behind the glass. It's a windy day and has been raining on and off since I woke up at dawn. When I look at her face again, she's wearing an odd expression. As usual, I can't read it any more than I can Farsi, but I can see it's loaded with meaning.

“You're a clever woman, Claudia. Frankly, I never expected such violent convictions from you.”

I'm aware of a subtle insult embedded in this praise, but I ignore it and mumble, “Thank you.”

“No doubt, at a different, less liberal institution, your choices this week would lead to dismissal. But on this campus, we're very serious about artistic freedom. We don't take accusations of censorship lightly.” She paces back to her desk and sits down. “So you're fortunate. You happen to work for a university that values what you value.”

“Do I?” I ask, sitting up even straighter, eyebrows arched.

“You do. Which is why we've decided to stand by you in this awkward situation and defend your right to express yourself artistically without hindrance.”

“Meaning, the show is not canceled?”

“Correct.” She smiles, and though it's a twitchy, tense, hardly warm expression, neither is it completely poisonous. “The show, as they say, will go on.”

 

An hour later, Miranda and I have our heads bent over my desk, the door locked, not daring to raise our voices above the level of joyfully hissed whispers.

“I talked to my mom last night,” Miranda tells me. “She said Dad's lawyers finally convinced him that he'd better shut up about the whole thing or he'd risk being exposed even worse than he already is.”

“Oh, my God,” I giggle. “I can't believe it worked.”

I jump up and do a little victory dance, then sit back down when I hear footsteps in the hallway.

“What? Is that Westby?” Miranda whispers, wide-eyed with anxiety.

“Probably not—I just heard someone, is all.” I shrug sheepishly. “This whole thing's made me a little paranoid.”

Miranda laughs. “Join the club.” Then she looks down at her Doc Martens and says, “Claudia?” Her eyes shimmer with tears, and she tugs at her hair shyly. “Thanks.”

“For what?”

“For being on my side. Hardly anyone ever is.”

I reach across the desk and hug her awkwardly. She smells like incense and clove cigarettes and I think, if I ever have a kid, I hope it turns out as cool as this little freak.

T
he first day of spring falls on a Saturday—my first official day of spring break—and I sleep gloriously late. It's the kind of sleeping in where you wake up every hour or so after eight o'clock, squint groggy-eyed at the sunlight, consider slippers and a cup of coffee but opt instead to snuggle deeper into your soft, body-warmed sheets and drift back down the stream of lazy half dreams.

At eleven, however, there's a knock at my door. I open one eye and the empty place confirms that Rose and Rex are at work. Medea stretches luxuriously and blinks at me like, “What, you think I'm getting it?”

I roll out of bed, pull on my boxers and a crumpled camisole, stumble toward the door and, still too comatose to remember things like hurriedly examining my hair, open it. There, in a faded yellow T-shirt and a pair of blue board shorts is Clay Parker, beaming at me.

I shut the door.

He knocks again. “Come on, lazybones. Let me in.”

“I'm not awake,” I groan, leaning against the door in agony. “You didn't just see what you saw.”

I wait to hear rapid footsteps indicating he's fled in horror, but no such luck. Eventually, I open the door again and try in vain to flatten my hair as I shuffle to the couch and sink into it, wanting to disappear. “You're not really here,” I say as he follows me. “I'm dreaming.”

“Oh, yes, Ms. Bloom. I am very much here. And you're coming with me.”

“Get out of here.” I laugh, throwing a pillow at him. This is too weird. Clay Parker in my flat, with me half dressed and breathing the worst morning breath in the history of mankind.

“I've decided there's only one way to deal with you,” he says, flopping into a chair as Medea, the little slut, leaps into his lap, wiggles her rump against his thigh and purrs.

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yes. You're a very naughty girl. I insist you do as you're told.”

I laugh, then cover my mouth, afraid he can smell my breath from over there. “Tell me what you have in mind.”

“No.” His voice is matter-of-fact, but his eyes are sparkling with mischief. One of his lovely brown hands is absently stroking Medea into an embarrassing state of ecstasy. She arches her back as a string of drool slowly snakes through the fur on her chin. “Now, get dressed. I'll close my eyes if you like, but I'm not leaving. You have five minutes.”

“Five? That's not even enough time to change my under—”

“Five. And that's final.” He looks at his watch. “Starting…now.”

 

Let's face it:
take charge
is a turn-on. Don't get me wrong; I despise machismo, and if anyone tried to get masochistic on me I'd take my chances with the nearest blunt object, but that's not what I'm talking about here. What I'm talking
about is a man with a calm, commanding voice cutting through all the indecision, polite conversation and general crap that normally fills our days with orders as sharp and precise as scalpels. What I'm talking about is Clay Parker driving up Highway 1 until we arrive at a place where the artichoke fields end abruptly in cliffs and sea, getting out, nodding at the three surfboards strapped to the rack of his truck and saying, “Pick one.”

“Wait a minute here.”

“Go on,” he says, his eyes and voice both insisting that I've got no options. “I don't care which one.”

“Clay.” I gasp, incredulous. “I don't
surf.
”

“Yet. All that's about to change.”

“I can't. I can't—swim.” I put one hand on my hip in a “take that” stance, but he's unfazed.

“Uh-huh. And that story you told me about trying out for the diving team was…?”

“All lies?” I try, cringing.

“We don't have all day. You already slept through the prime surfing hours. Now pick one out and let's go.”

“But how am I supposed to know which…?”

“God. Are you always like this?” He yanks the straps off the big turquoise one and hands it to me, then grabs the pale yellow one for himself. He shoves a wet suit under my arm, grabs a big backpack stuffed so full the zipper looks ready to give and starts marching across the street toward a dusty path carving through the vegetable fields. I just stand there, slack-jawed. “Hurry up,” he calls, not turning around. “Last one in's shark bait.”

 

“Whose wet suit is this, anyway?” I ask an hour later, after a fierce battle with the breakers that looked to me like tidal waves but which Clay claimed “weren't even chest-high.” Now we're bobbing in the calm stretch just beyond the chaos, straddling our surfboards and contemplating the landscape of pale blue sky meeting navy-blue sea. A harbor seal's
black, shiny head pops up ten feet from me and I scream. Clay laughs.

“It used to be my sister's.”

“You have a sister?” I ask, trying not to think about sharks.

“Three. Well, two full sisters and one half. Now, listen, you want to watch the shape of the swells as they roll in.”

“What were you saying earlier, about shark bait?”

“Don't think about it,” he says. “You eat shark?”

“I have. It's delicious.”

“Don't do it again. It's bad luck.”

“Seriously,” I say, craning my neck to peer down into the opaque depths. “Are there great whites out here?”

“You're more likely to be killed by a terrorist.”

I try not to fixate on the fact that he's still avoiding the question.

“Okay, check this one out. This is a little more ridable, yeah?”

I turn and notice for the first time a tsunami steadily gaining bulk as it swells in our direction.

“Ahh. Clay—what do I…?”

“Turn around—there you go. Now, lie flat—hurry—chest to your board.” He gives me a mighty shove toward the shore. “Paddle!” he screams, just as I feel the fat part of the wave rising under me. “Paddle!”

I do as I'm told, cutting into the icy-cold water with my hands and pulling as I feel the suck of the tube just behind me. I can sense the wave preparing to crest, tugging me toward it. My heart is pounding like a teenager's too-loud car stereo. I want to scream, but I'm concentrating too hard on staying ahead of the foam and now—it's a miracle—I'm sloping down the face, white-knuckling the board with both hands, pressing the length of my body against it and riding the magic power of it, screaming at last, “Heeeaaaaa!” the taste of salt in my mouth and the white spittle of the sea frothing all around me until finally I flop triumphantly onto the sand, beaming.

The ankle-deep beer foam now reverses its direction, sizzling and popping and pulling slick black pebbles with it in a bubbly, percussive retreat. I just lie there on my board, tingling with pleasure.

I turn, and Clay's still where I left him, past the breakers, nodding his approval. I pull myself up off the board and jump up and down to demonstrate my glee.

Now I watch in horror as a
huge
wave—my tsunami times three—builds behind Clay. I scream a warning and brace myself for his terrible, waterlogged death. Instead he paddles nonchalantly, pops up to a standing position and surfs the great blue beast practically to the sand, carving and sliding with the cocky, effortless grace of the ocean itself.

Yeah, yeah, yeah. So you're good,
I think.
What else is new?

 

Taqueria Vallarta is packed. Aside from the huge mural on one wall painted in vibrant, rich tones, it looks like a million other no-frills taco joints in California. But from the second we walk in the door I can tell this place is one of a kind. The line snakes straight back from the counter to the entrance, and the smell that fills the air is sublime—carnal and steamy. As I look around, it's clear the patrons are divided into two classes: those who are ecstatically eating and those who are anxiously waiting to eat. I watch as a lanky guy with thick black dreads and full lips lifts a taco to his mouth. Oh, God. I work hard at suppressing the impulse to beg and drool at the nearest table until somebody takes pity and tosses me a scrap.

“Ever been here?” Clay asks, standing so close I could graze his hip with mine if I swayed ever so slightly. I just shake my head no, mute with desire. “It's one of my favorite places—especially after surfing.”

“Why does being in the water make me so unreasonably ravenous?”

“I know. I'm starving.” His eyes rest on my lips for a second, and suddenly all I can think about is that time at my
place when he made me scream with a piece of ice. I bite the inside of my cheek gently, willing the vision away, but when our eyes meet it starts up all over again: his big, solid hands spreading my thighs with gentle reverence, the wolfish smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he clenches the dripping ice cube between his teeth.

“You did really well out there today,” he says softly, tucking a strand of saltwater-crazed hair behind my ear. “You're a natural.”

“Yeah,” I scoff, grateful for the distraction from the pornographic film strip looping through my brain. “What about when I almost drowned?”

“Happens to everyone,” he says. “Teaches you respect for the power out there.”

“Oh, I respect the ocean,” I say. “I'm not so sure she respects me, though.”

On the drive here I learned that, in addition to running the record store and DJing occasional gigs, Clay shapes surfboards in his spare time. It's a labor of love, though he thinks it could turn into some pretty decent money if he keeps up with it. There's an old shaper named Vince who's a regular underground legend among big-wave surfers—the guys who go up against towering skyscrapers of water that make my adventures today seem like kiddie-pool stuff. Clay's been learning Vince's tricks for five years now; he's got a shop at home and a bunch of regulars.

Why is it that everything I learn about Clay Parker makes me want him more? I take that back; finding out he was Monica's hubby and Westby's son didn't exactly stoke my lust. But everything else about him is maddeningly sexy: every little anecdotal tidbit and offhand remark, the way he tugs gently at his boxers or licks his slightly chapped lips—it all stirs me to ridiculous levels of arousal. It's not the way I used to imagine falling for someone. Back in my Barbie-playing days, I always made sure Ken was a rock star or a race-car driver. Before I pressed their naked plastic bodies together
in a hopelessly vague attempt at anatomically inaccurate sex, I made sure Ken had wowed her with flowers and dinner and a gallant rescue from the lethal edge of my bed. No one prepared me for the effect minute details can have on your system: the gently swerving nose; the muscle that pulses at his jaw now and then; the tiny, crescent-shaped scar close to his ear.

After we order, there is a harrowing ten-minute wait during which I summon every ounce of willpower in me to resist prying a steamy burrito from the hands of a ten-year-old girl sitting so close I can smell the chicken on her breath. At this point I'm so hungry I feel dizzy. Luckily, we've ordered Coronas with lime, and a long pull from this takes the edge off my hunger, though I still feel as if the room is spinning slightly.

Clay lifts his bottle and says, “To the Little Surfer Who Could.”

I clink my Corona against his and take another swig. When I look at him again, he's staring at me with these bright blue saltwater summery bedroom eyes, and I feel positively nauseous with longing. I know he's taking off my clothes as we sit here—slipping the elastic neckline of my peasant blouse down my shoulders, kissing his way from my clavicle to the salty aureole around my nipple, licking—

“Clay. Don't
look
at me like that.”

“Why not?” He smiles shyly, and his fingertips sweep along my forearm with a feathery touch that makes my mouth go dry.

“I cannot, should not, must not,
will
not sleep with you.”

Just then a little visor-clad guy arrives with a tray full of our steamy food. He's attempting unsuccessfully to hide the huge smirk on his face by ducking his head slightly. We take our food from him, nod our thanks and Clay digs in, but I'm so embarrassed by my outburst, I've momentarily lost my appetite.

“Why's that?” he asks through a mouthful of taco.

“Because. Your mother's my boss, you're freshly divorced from my colleague.”

“So?”

The full aroma of my
carnitas
tacos suddenly overwhelms me, and my moment of appetite-killing mortification passes. I squeeze lime over everything and stuff a huge bite into my mouth. Oh. Heaven is a taco, a beer and a beautiful man after surfing.

“You're missing the point,” I say, after I've recovered enough from my first few bites to speak. “I'm so totally on probation. Your mom thinks I'm the worst shit-stirrer ever.”

“I know,” he says, “I heard.”

“What did you hear?”

“That you threatened to sic the ACLU and two-thirds of the campus on that dickhead dad if he didn't back down.”

“Who told you that?”

“My mom. And listen, I'll give you a little inside tip—one thing my mom likes is a woman with balls, if you'll pardon the expression. You may have pissed her off momentarily, but in the end that round scored you points. At least now she knows you're a force to be reckoned with. That's one thing she never liked about Monica—too much of a brownnose.” He reaches across the table with a napkin and wipes a bit of something from the side of my mouth. With most men I'd find this humiliating, but with Clay it's perfectly natural—sexy, even.

“You've run out of excuses, Ms. Bloom.” His voice is confident and brusque. “As soon as this meal's over, you'll be forced to come home with me and perform unspeakable acts.”

“Great, and drive right past Monica's cottage on our way?”

“I don't live there anymore,” he says. “I got a place in town.”