Target Shooting

I’ve never considered shopping a date so even if we were dating, this still would not count as a date. We’re not dating anyway. Just hanging. I mean, if we were dating, he would at least be calling me Marie—he still calls me Professor. It’s really endearing, actually. We’ve tried the Marie thing, and it just felt weird. Jeffery doesn’t agree. He’s even a little pissed; he’s very quiet and starting to get the talk-to-myself-even-when-someone-else-can-hear Steeve syndrome.

I’m trying not to emit the glow of having been partially naked with Officer Muscles-To-Die-For. I’m also trying not to emit the ooze of guilt in having had a romp with someone other than Jeffery Rigger. I always want to tell the wrong people the most inappropriate secrets. Jeffery Rigger and I have agreed to not tell each other about other hookups. I’m having a hard time not saying anything about Steeve. He’s winning me over big time. The only time I honestly want to call the whole thing off is when I see Jeffery Rigger. Jeffery Rigger’s flattery. Jeffery Rigger’s humor. Jeffery Rigger’s tongue ring and thumb ring. Jeffery Rigger’s ease in being with me and how I feel as if I’ve never not known him when he’s there.

As I attempt not to give away any of my backseat secrets, I’m also searching for a parking space in Target. Jeffery Rigger is mumbling to himself.

“Everything all right?”

“Fine! Just fine! Even downright dandy, Professor!” He slaps his knee and stares out the window, creating fog on the glass. “Look, baby feet,” he adds in a lighter tone. He pushes the side of his fist against the window. His imprint resembles a tiny baby foot.

“You’re not acting like yourself. Something on your mind?” I swerve into a spot which seems half a mile from the entrance. We’re hiking it in the cold to the store.

“Who am I acting like then?” The wind kicks up and blows his snotty attitude my way.

He’s acting the way Steeve behaved on our fiasco date. However, Jeffery doesn’t want to know the details of my man situation. “You’re acting like a jerk.” I settle for the generic description. He doesn’t answer. Then I remember, he’s only twenty. I should give him a break now and then. Plus, I’m still shaken from confessing this whole thing to Leah, and that’s not his fault. “Sorry. That was kind of jerky of me myself.”

He stands aside and lets me through the doors first as we duck through the entrance and are bombarded with hot air. “No. I should apologize. You’re right. I’m not acting like myself. Got some stuff going on.” He disappears down the card aisle and I move to the other side to check out the wrapping paper.

My stomach sinks. I remember back to when I was a college freshman. “Stuff going on” meant one of two things: a psychotic roommate who left half exploded ketchup packets in your sock drawer and brushed her teeth with your toothbrush, or a love/lust problem. Suddenly, my chest is in a panic, What if . . . a hand on my shoulder breaks my train of thought when a baritone voice says, “Hey, sugar.”

I whirl around, expecting Jeffery to be there with a candy cane. I suck in a gasp that makes my head float off my neck.

“Hey, Steeve. How are you?” I jump to my tiptoes and give him an over-dramatic hug as if I he’s an old friend I haven’t seen in years. I wonder if he still has that amazing hard on. When I let go, I peer around him to find Jeffery. This is not good.

“I’m good, good. What are you up to?” He swings his little red shopping basket back and forth, feigning innocence. He’s obviously proud of himself for our backseat rendezvous.

My heart races. “Nothing.” I continue to peer around him. I’m looking everywhere except at him. “Shopping.” I swing my basket too, a bit too forcefully, and I catch him right in the crotch.

He lets out a yelp and keels forward, growing red. He ekes out, “Oh, Marie!” at a high pitch.

“What’s going on?” Jeffery appears out of nowhere, frantic with his arms up for battle. “He annoying you, Professor? Is this your ex?”

Steeve is stunned. He mouths the word, “Ex?”

“Oh, no. Um, accident. Crotch. NYLISC.” I become a sputtering idiot.

“Not an ex.” Steeve gasps out. His head is bright red.

“This is Steeve.” I rub Steeve’s back. “I’m so sorry.” Then to Jeffery—“Steeve is the guy I’m seeing. I hit his balls.”

“On purpose?” Jeffery asks half-jokingly.

“No!”

Steeve takes a last deep breath and finally comes back to a healthy peach. “I’m better. Thanks.”

This moment defines awkward. We just shift in each other’s presence. So I do what any normal person would. “Steeve, this is Jeffery. He’s a, a, um . . .”

“TA!” Jeffery fills in the blank.

“Yes, teacher’s assistant. We’re, um,”

“Getting office supplies.”

“Yes, and cards.”

“Yes, cards.” Jeffery holds up a birthday card with balloons and dinosaurs on it. “May as well get in some personal shopping on corporate time.”

Steeve pumps his fist, “Damn the man!” Then squeezes my upper arm. “Want to get together soon?” His fingers linger on my sleeve. So damn sexy all of a sudden.

“Strongly possible. Call me.”

“We’ll try for some pasta. Round Two.” He flashes his dimples at me. “Nice meeting you. Quite a loyal student you are.” He nods at Jeffery who nods back. Then Steeve kisses me and disappears. He’s taller than Jeffery, wider than Jeffery, tanner than Jeffery, older than Jeffery, and has longer fingers, stronger hands.

“Officer Steeve, I presume?” Jeffery is still holding up the big boy birthday card. Jeffery is smarter than Steeve.

"Yup. You don’t remember him from Halloween?”

“It was dark in there. He’s not in his uniform today. Unless his street clothes are his costume now.” Jeffery Rigger smirks bitterly.

“Quit it, you. I am seeing the man.”

“Seeing or dating?” We saunter into the card aisle and browse the kiddie birthday cards. Jeffery’s cousin’s son is turning five.

I mumble, “I don’t know what you would call it.”

Jeffery spits, “Just like you don’t know what to call what we’re doing.” That’s not a question. I knew that was bugging him. I can’t be dating a student. It’s just not possible. Plus he’s a freshman. That’s just unheard of. Absurd. How could I possibly fall for him? “I’ll take your silence as agreement,” he says, using my own line on me.

I hate it when that happens. “I don’t know what to say.” At least I’m honest.

“Aw, Professor, I make you speechless.” I become a statue as he lays one on me. His lips are better than Steeve’s. My body melts. I’m infatuated. Right here in Target, I have an orgastic epiphany. The realization that Jeffery Rigger is more than a student in my Comp I class, and when he says Professor, it’s more than just a title.

I have no time to let this revelation sink in. Jeffery jerks me around a rack of women’s sweaters. He pushes my head behind the 50% clearance sign. I pucker up. Hey, I could get used to this new level of passion. It’s not dirty at all. I don’t feel one bit guilty. My lips meet his armpit.

“Keep your head down!” he stage-whispers at me, pushing me behind the sign. He curls over me, checking sizes on the cable knits.

Then I hear it. The voice of evil. “Over here, Sharon. The women’s are across from the cards. Here. No, here.”

I squat down, practically climbing under the display rack. Then I see the ugly shoes. These are pink pumps. Also scuffed. Cockknocker’s ruin-everyone’s-fun radar is on target as usual. She’s three feet away from us. Jeffery must have seen her walk through the doors. He’s been in my office when she’s dropped off meaningless memos and when she’s given me work to do that really isn’t my job like copying flyers for the softball team fundraiser or for Halloween candygrams that she stole from the leftovers in the History Department. He hates her, too.

Now I feel the guilt I should have felt five minutes ago in that heavenly liplock. My pits are sweating. Sweat drips between my breasts, through my bra, down my stomach, pooling in my belly button. Oh, God, she saw, she saw, she saw. I’m caught, I’m caught, I’m caught.

I stumble in my squat—this is not the easiest position to hold in heels. I bump my head into Jeffery’s knees. He pushes me back up and puts his hand on my head. He shushes me even though I am not making any noise. Maybe my heart really is that loud—it’s pounding in my ears but maybe everyone can hear it too. That’s the sound of my career heading south. That’s the sound of Steeve finding out about the guy I’d rather be with if I could only bring myself to admit it. Wow—I just did. Saying it out loud would make it real. For now, it’s not. Now is not really the time.

“Sharon! Sweaters! Sale!” Now is so not the time for alliteration either. Who the hell is Sharon? Cockknocker actually has friends?

Jeffery leans into me further, hiding my entire body under his coat hanging from the crook of his arm. I lift the hem, trying to glimpse this Sharon person. For this, I get kneed in the ear. Then my blood boils as I listen to her conversation with the stranger.

“. . . and they’re so immature! I mean, how unprofessional to laugh so loudly. Oh, that Gattlin woman—I am so glad she switched departments. Don’t get me started on that other artsy psychological mutant. They all deserve each other . . . .” I don’t hear what the Sharon woman replies because I’m busy plotting the Cockknocker’s destruction. I bite my lip until I taste blood. I want to kill her.

Her shoes get closer and Jeffery pushes me down further until . . . “Hi, Professor Clepper.” Oh, my God. This is it. This is the end. I want to die.

“Hi.” The voice isn’t joyful. It’s confused. She doesn’t really know any of the student body. They don’t hang out in her office. They don’t run to sign up for her classes. They don’t like her—just like the department. “Harry, right?”

“Yup. That’s me. How are you?”

“Good. Shopping.”

“Yup. Me too. Harry likes to shop.” I hit him in the knees. He knees me back.

“Very well.” She’s flustered. She’s been exposed to the general population of NYLISC. It’s too much for her. “Sharon. Over there. Pots!” I see two sets of shoes move away rather quickly, clicking over the tiled floor.

I tug on Jeffery’s pant leg and whisper, “Let’s get out of here before more unexpected guests show up.”

Jeffery huddles over me as if I’m a criminal being shielded from the media and escorts me to the door. Then we stop dead in our tracks as we hear the shrill voice.

“Harry! Is this yours?” Pink pumps clack on the dirty white tile.

The stage-whisperer pushes me on. “Just go, just go.”

The clacking speeds up. We speed up. The voice shrieks, “Harry?”

We pass the motion detector, slip through the automatic sliding doors, and run into the parking lot. I fumble for my keys, unlock the doors, and fall into my car. Jeffery slides across the hood, Dukes of Hazard style, and rips open the passenger side. I back up, burn out, and hop onto the highway.

“Oh, my God! Can this day get any more hectic?” I peek over at Jeffery. He’s panicked. “What? Don’t worry. I don’t think she figured out it was me.” He remains quiet, shifting his coat over his lap. “I owe you one.”

He grumbles, “Shit.”

“Shit what?” I peer into my rearview, expecting too see Cockknocker tailgating us. I slump down just so low that I can see an inch above the steering wheel.

“Harry lost his wallet in Target.”

“Oh, shit,” I echo.

“Yeah. Now Clepper has a wallet that belongs to Harry with Jeffery Rigger’s ID in it.”

I pat his thigh. “So, you lied to her. Big deal. You could say you were saving face, with her calling you the wrong name.”

He puts his hand on mine. “Um, Professor, you don’t understand.” My heart jumps to my ears. My pits are pumping sweat. First Steeve, then Cockknocker. What could be worse? “There’s a picture of you in there.”

“A what?” My head snaps in his direction. The car goes in the same direction. I swerve back with an “Ack!”

“Careful! Don’t kill me just yet!” Jeffery exclaims in an attempted joke.

I return my eyes to the road. “Kill you yet? What the hell? What’s in your wallet again?”

“A picture of you.” He actually repeats it as if I really didn’t hear him. He adds, “And one of our emails.”

“Why?” I’m not annoyed. I’m not confused. I know why. I ask anyway, hoping that the answer he’ll give is not the answer I already felt in the kiddie card aisle of Target.

“Because, Professor, I like looking at you when you’re not around.” Out of the corner of my eye, I see him blushing. He continues, “Professor Roma, I think I’m falling in love with you.”

“Oh.” I say it as in, oh, is that all? Just a little bout of love? I mean it as oh, oh my God, oh, wow, holy shit, oh. I don’t say any more. I pat his knee. He smirks. Then I run a red light and get pulled over for a moving violation. The officer’s uniform reminds me of Steeve. My tinglies long for the guy sitting next to me instead.