Hex - Rebecca Dinerstein Knight Page 0,15

if his attitude suited me. I couldn’t guess what he wanted with this Mendelson, who had apparently stood next to Barry and expelled me. There was no clear path leading from any of them to Carlo. Mishti had only come to your class twice. Your marriage to Barry is thankfully not widely reported. Carlo had only been dating Mishti a couple months. We were all essentially strangers. I thought of Carlo’s spreadsheets, his format of choice, all the order and intention and menace that format contained.

“He is indeed,” said Barry.

Tom: “Pun intended.”

I had forgotten Tom was standing there, the wind had been blowing through him.

Mishti: “What are you talking about?”

Tom: “Sorry I thought he said in-dean.”

Barry glowed. Mishti Singh had come to his defense.

“You’re a clown,” Mishti said to Tom, peeling Barry a grape.

Carlo said, “I love Mendelson.” He brushed the pompadour off his forehead and focused. “He’s going to fix Luxor’s hiring freeze and open the whole thing up.”

“Come by and meet him,” Barry said, peeling Carlo a grape.

Carlo knew better than to say anything more. He’d gotten what he’d come for. His completely satisfied hair fell over his forehead again and stayed there, rustling a little when the wind blew. It was suddenly easy to picture him standing in the disciplinary committee horseshoe.

I looked to Tom for some familiarity, some family. His cloud eyes had narrowed and he’d been bothered. Mishti was looking at him too, still irritated. She was significantly enlarged and padded by her shawl and her little head emerged from it like a seal head from the sea. She’d recently cut her hair short, chin-length. The sharp edges of the front layers made her face look especially heart shaped.

Barry took over, now proud and comfortable. It was incredible to me that he could bear my company without guilt, but only compassionate people feel guilt. He asked Carlo, “What brings you to our side of campus?”

“My Mishti,” Carlo said.

Mishti’s soul purred under her padding. I became a silent and irretrievable turnip. Barry didn’t want to process the fact of Mishti’s unavailability so he turned to Tom.

“And you? I didn’t catch your name.”

“Thomas,” Tom said, a thing I’d never heard him call himself.

“Thomas,” echoed Mishti.

“I don’t belong here either,” Tom said, “but I’m trying to name the thistles in the seventh Captivity hanging and I thought maybe Joan could help me. Nell speaks very highly of Joan.”

I’d never heard Tom say things like “speaks very highly” either and I wondered what kind of hat he was putting on.

“Me too,” said Mishti, abstractly. “I wanted a break from Orgo and treated myself to some flowers.”

And then you entered. It turned October yesterday and the campus maples are more than half red. Your hair is more than half gray. The midday sun did nothing to lighten the black of your sweater, your pants, your clogs. You saw us. You didn’t really want to come near and you came just a little nearer. We are in the freshest part of autumn now. This was a pumpkin patch quality day. Your two stone earrings hung wearily from your ears and the left one got to nuzzle into your braid. I wished I could carve you a pumpkin.

Barry saw you and said, “My Joan.”

Carlo smiled. Mishti smiled. Tom had his back to you and turned around, frantic. I wanted to remove the word my from Barry’s vocabulary forever.

“Do I crash the Breakfast Club?”

Barry reached into his pocket and gave you an apricot. It was the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen him do.

Carlo wasted no time in saying, “Carlo.” You shook his hand as if shaking hands with a bus stop. Carlo turned to Tom and said, “And I don’t think we’ve met properly either, but, hey man.” Tom smiled because he liked being called “man.” Carlo put his arm around Mishti and turned her slightly, to announce that they would be leaving. Tom had nothing to say and seemed to want to have something to say. He kept smiling with his lips slightly parted. You must have sensed this and you told him, “Good eye with the bistort.” Tom filled his hands with his own hair and threw it all over one shoulder, like he’d just won a sack of prize tomatoes.

I’m not going to fight Tom for you, I’m just going to rely on your better judgment.

Nobody asked you what a bistort is. Mishti just stood there and suffered. She’d done the problem set Tom hadn’t done, and she’d worn