Learning Curve Page 2

The student wore jeans that fit her loosely and a shirt that covered her midriff. She leaned forward attentively and the copy of the article she had on her desk was heavily highlighted with numerous notes in the margins. She’s going to be one of my good ones, Carrie thought. In every class, there were always one or two who showed up fully engaged in the subject matter. They could be counted on to bring some insight to the discussion.

  “The birdcage analogy is a good starting point for us,” Carrie said. “What does the author talk about?”

  “She says that if a bird were just to look at one wire of its cage, it would never understand why it can’t get out. It’s only when the bird can see how all the wires are connected that the cage can be processed as a whole.” The student paused. “She says that’s why women are able to be oppressed. They see each little thing individually and don’t see the big picture.”

  “Very good.” Carrie picked up a marker and drew a line on the dry-erase board. “What are some of the individual wires the author mentions?”

  “Women make less money than men,” someone said.

  Carrie labeled the line “gender wage gap,” and drew another. “What else?”

  “Domestic violence.”

  Carrie kept drawing lines and labeling them based on the students’ answers until she had drawn an entire cage.

  “You see,” she said, facing the class. “Anyone could get out of an abusive relationship, if most things were running in her favor, and anyone could move out of a low-paying job if other resources were available to her. It’s only when many factors come together in the same place at the same time that we have a real system of oppression strong enough to hold women down.”

  “Bad things happen to everyone,” a girl defiantly said from the back of the room. “Some people just complain too much.”

  There she is, Carrie thought. The girl was wearing a tight sorority sweater that showed way too much skin to actually provide any warmth, and her skirt was so short that Carrie was afraid to look too closely. The student didn’t have anything on her desk to take notes with. Instead she was slouched back in her chair with her arms folded across her chest. Every class had its malcontent, a student convinced from day one that the class was full of evil feminists out to brainwash her. They were usually lost causes, and keeping them from derailing the discussion could cost a lot of class time.

  “That’s true,” Carrie said carefully. She had to set a professional but nonthreatening tone, if not for this student, then for the rest of the class. The worst thing she could do was become snide or sarcastic. That would only confirm the stereotype about feminists being bitchy, and might prevent other students from speaking freely about other contentious topics in the future. Credibility was key, and she couldn’t afford to lose it for any reason. “The author discusses this in the article, remember?”

  When the student glared at her instead of responding, Carrie continued. “She gives the example of the rich guy who is on a ski vacation and falls and breaks his leg. Now that’s unfortunate, and it probably hurts quite a bit. An injury like that will definitely slow him down, but is it oppression?”

  When a student in the middle of the classroom shook his head slightly, Carrie asked him, “Why not?”

  He flushed slightly, looking nervous about being called on. He appeared to be a typical college male, in jeans and a T-shirt, with unruly curls sticking out from underneath a tattered baseball cap.

  “Because it was just a one-time thing,” he answered.

  Carrie could see that he’d been taking notes and also had the article out on his desk, so she decided to nudge him into a more complex answer. “What does the temporary nature of the event have to do with oppression?”

  “Well,” he looked down at his notes as if willing the answer to pop out of them, “I guess for something to really be oppression, it has to be part of something bigger, not just an accident, but something that happens as part of a whole system. Like that cage you drew?”

  “Excellent,” Carrie responded. While his answer lacked confidence, it was sincere and thoughtful. He’s my guy, she thought. He would represent that silent majority that made up middle-class America, neither hostile nor eager. He might become a teacher, or a local politician, or maybe just a father to the next generation. He represented the future, and she had sixteen weeks to reach him, sixteen weeks to inform the way he viewed the world around him.

  It wouldn’t be easy, especially in a department that was understaffed and underfunded. She’d have no support from the administration, which consisted solely of stuffy old white men, or from the campus climate that glorified drinking, sports, and sex. To compound the situation, she was teaching two other classes, advising several student groups, and working on her own scholarship in an attempt to gain tenure in a highly adversarial environment. Still, she’d entered teaching for the possibility of changing lives and, by extension, changing the world. She carried that goal with her every time she stepped into a classroom. Distractions abounded in the university setting, but she couldn’t afford to let anything take away from her interactions with her students. She had sixteen weeks to shape the future, and that was exactly what this group of students represented.

  *

  “Come on Ash, don’t be such a bad-ass. You’d be great at the center,” Mary said as Ash gently pushed the toddler on the swing in front of her. “Just look at how good you are with Annie.”

  “That’s different.” Ash glanced at her best friend.

  Mary Saban was short with blond hair she kept cut neatly at shoulder length. She’d put on a few pounds over the decade since Ash first met her, and had also taken to wearing the denim jumpers that seemed to come with her job as an elementary teacher. She had a contagious smile and an energy that seemed to radiate from every pore. Mary and Ash could not have been more opposite, but perhaps that was what made their friendship so perfect.

  “Why is it so different?” Mary asked. “They’re still just kids.”

  “Well, those ‘kids’ at the center are teenagers, and the last thing I want to do is contribute to the delinquency of minors.”

  It was a beautiful day for a stroll in the park. The warmth of the sun was only slightly offset by a cool autumn breeze. After the night she’d had, Ash was glad Mary’s daughter, Annie, had opted for a mindless activity when they reached the children’s play area. All she had to do was remember to push the swing when it slowed.

  “Why are you fighting this so hard? You were in their place not that many years ago,” Mary said.

  “Yeah, and I made it just fine without any gay and lesbian youth groups to coddle me.” Noting the dejected look on her best friend’s face, Ash added more softly, “I’m sorry, but I’m just not a role model.”

  “You were a role model to me.”

  “And look how you turned out,” Ash teased. “You broke my heart, settled down, and started a family. I thought I could make a player out of you, but all you wanted was respectability.”

  “You helped me through a tough time, and you did a great job. I think you could do the same thing for some of the kids at the center.”

  “You want me to sleep with them?”

  “Oh my God, no!” Mary blushed. “You can’t do exactly what you did with me, but you could show them that it’s okay for them to just be who they are.”

  Ash lifted Annie from the swing and put her back in her stroller, carefully fastening the straps. “Mommy is just not giving up on this one, kiddo.”

  Mary tried one more time. “Just come to the meeting tomorrow, and then if you still don’t want to do it, I won’t bring it up again.”

  “Promise?”

  “I promise.”

  “All right, Annie, you heard her. One meeting and she’ll drop it.”

  The toddler smiled and nodded as she usually did when she heard her name.

  “Okay, you win,” Ash said. “I’ll go tomorrow. But it’s the only Saturday night I’m giving up.”

  “Thanks, Ash, and the
kids have to be home by eleven, so we can still hit the Triangle Club afterward. I’ll even buy you a beer.”

  “Miss Mary at a bar? What will your wife say?” Ash mocked.

  “She trusts us. Besides, I’ve been home all summer. She can handle Annie on her own for a few hours. And by the way, she thinks coming to the center would be good for you, too.”

  “Good for me how?” Ash raised an eyebrow.

  “You need something stable in your life.”

  “I thought you were my stability.”

  “Just come. Okay?”

  Heaving a protracted sigh, Ash picked up her old leather jacket, stroked Annie’s soft blond hair, and kissed Mary on the cheek. “I’ll be there at seven.”

  As she strode toward her car, she regretted caving in. She was a pushover when it came to Mary, but the gay and lesbian youth center was not her idea of a good time. The thought of coddling a bunch of kids who needed to be babied through the coming-out process didn’t appeal to her at all. She found the whole concept silly. She hadn’t needed any role models, and she certainly couldn’t see herself playing that part for someone else.

  *

  After leaving the park, Ash headed downtown and pulled into the parking lot of a small gray building labeled Mick’s Mechanics. She rolled down her car window and shouted “Hey” to a red-haired man with his head under the hood of an old Cadillac. “You got an open lift?”

  Mick Darby stood up and wiped his hand on his jeans. He was about twenty-five years old, but still had a bit of a baby face. His hair was tousled, and it looked like someone had taken a dirty cloth and smudged grease and oil randomly across his arms, face, and clothes.

  He grinned broadly at Ash. “For you, anything. Pull on around.”

  Ash drove the Mustang into the big bay door he rolled open for her and pulled slowly forward until he motioned for her to stop. She hopped out of the car and tossed her jacket into the front seat.

  “How’s business?” she asked as she walked over and flipped a lever on the wall. The lift climbed up out of the floor and made contact with the frame of her car, raising it ever so slightly.

  “I can’t complain.” Mick closed the hood of the car he’d been working on and took a seat on a nearby stool. “That transmission you sent me last week was quite a piece of work.”

  “If you thought the car was a piece of work, you should have seen the owner.” Ash rolled up her sleeves and checked to make sure the lift had hit squarely on the Mustang’s frame.

  She and Mick had a deal. She got to use his shop and tools for her car care projects, and in return she sent him any major repairs she couldn’t handle on her own.

  He shook his head. “It figures.”

  “What?” Ash levered the car high enough that she could stand beneath it, then rolled an oil pan under with her.

  “You get laid, and all I get is a busted transmission.”

  Ash threw back her head and laughed. “Yeah, I guess I did get the better end of that deal.”

  She took a socket wrench from an open toolbox, gave the drain plug a good twist, and then reached up to remove the plug by hand. The minute the plug was out, a steady stream of oil ran into the drain pan. Ash moved out from under the car and leaned against a workbench to watch the process.

  “She’s beautiful,” Mick said, admiring her ride.

  The red ’64 Mustang convertible was flawless. Ash had taken the time to rebuild the engine herself, using only original parts. She then searched all over to find the perfect shade of burnt red to match the original color and personally oversaw the paint job. It had been a three-year labor of love but the end product was enough to make any car junkie drool. In fact, Mick looked like he was on the verge of drooling at that very moment.

  “How much would you want for her?” he asked.

  “Not a chance, buddy.” Ash returned to the Mustang with an oil filter wrench in hand. “There’s no way I’m selling her. This car is a chick magnet. We’re a team.”

  Mick rolled his eyes. “Like you need any help. I’ve never set foot in a gay bar and even I know your reputation.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Ash feigned innocence as she unscrewed the oil filter and allowed the excess fluid to drain into the pan.

  Mick mumbled something about her being a poster girl for the love-’em-and-leave-’em lifestyle and she threw her grease rag at him.

  “Yeah? And where’s your wedding ring?”

  “Fair enough.” He smiled. “I’m in no hurry to settle down, either. All I’m saying is you don’t need the car to pick up women.”

  “Probably not, but she’s still fun to drive.”

  After wiping out the filter ring, Ash dipped a finger in the oil pan and coated the gasket of the new filter seal before twisting it into place and screwing the drain plug back in. She rolled the drain pan out from under the car and lowered the lift. Mick handed her a few quarts of oil.

  “Got a funnel?” she asked, popping the hood.

  “No, we used them all at the wild kegger we had last night,” Mick answered sarcastically. He tossed her a plastic funnel.

  When she was done and had checked the oil level with a dipstick, she closed the hood and shook Mick’s hand. “Thanks for the lift.”

  “You know you can use the shop anytime,” he said as she slid back into the Mustang. “But do me a favor. Next time you send me a blown transmission, just make sure you send the girl with it.”

  Ash just smiled as she drove away. She wasn’t about to make any promises.

  Chapter Three

  Ash spent most of Saturday trying to come up with an excuse Mary hadn’t heard before. When there was something she wanted to avoid, she could get quite original, but her best friend knew her too well to be fooled. In the end, Ash decided her best option was to give in and make an appearance. Mary would be happy she made the effort, but she and everyone else would soon realize Ash was not a positive role model. Hopefully she could slip out early.

  It was seven p.m. when she slowed the Mustang to a stop across the street from the gay and lesbian youth center. She took a moment to check out her appearance in the rearview mirror before turning off the engine. She looked like she did on any given day, in jeans and white T-shirt beneath a denim jacket that had seen better days. Her dark brown hair was cut short, giving her a boyish look. Usually she radiated confidence, but tonight she had to take a deep breath before getting out of the car. She strode across the street, but as she reached the door a group of teenage girls pushed through from the other side.

  Ash stepped back to let them pass. They were bantering among themselves and paid no attention to her. One paused briefly and flashed what appeared to be a practiced smile before moving on. She looked as tempting as she was young. Her blond hair was pulled into a ponytail threaded through the back of a baseball cap. She wore a black sweater and a baggy pair of khakis. She was a few inches shorter than Ash and had to look up to make eye contact, but when she did her eyes flashed a mysterious hazel.

  The encounter only lasted a few seconds, but Ash was left shaking her head. She could spot the type from a mile away; she’d wasted too many nights with women who knew their own power but were still learning how to use it. They knew how to get what they wanted but weren’t mature enough to know what they needed. They were dangerous and most often more trouble than they were worth.

  That kid will break a lot of hearts, especially if she’s starting this young, she thought as she entered the building.

  The inside of the center looked like a doctor’s office waiting room. Several magazine racks lined a narrow foyer just inside the door. These overflowed with pamphlets and gay publications: The Advocate, Curve, AIDS and You, not to mention a plethora of safe-sex booklets and brochures. As Ash walked on, the room seemed to widen, opening up to what looked like a large living area furnished with couches and beanbag chairs. A TV stood in the corner, complete with DVD player and video game console. The walls were decorated with modern art
and posters, complemented with the occasional photograph of smiling young people, usually clad in rainbow apparel.

  Ash couldn’t help but wonder how she would have fit into a place like this when she was a teenager. She would probably have been the one who got in trouble for bringing beer or seducing the chaperones. She chuckled at the thought.

  “You came!” Mary approached her with a smile.

  “I said I would.” Ash gave the mandatory three back pats before escaping Mary’s hug.

  “Well, come and meet everybody.” Mary tugged on Ash’s arm, and they almost bumped into a group of boys making a mad dash for the video games.

  She introduced Ash to several she said were regulars. After mumbled hellos, the boys slipped past and Mary gestured toward a young man impeccably dressed in khakis and a baby blue polo shirt. His perfectly coiffed hair and emerald green eyes made Ash wonder if he’d been the boy in school pined over hopelessly by all the girls, or the sensitive one picked on by the jocks. Probably a bit of both, she decided.

  “This is Michael Hays,” Mary said.

  Michael shook Ash’s hand gently. “It’s nice to meet you, finally.” With a sly smile, he added, “Your reputation precedes you.”

  “Oh? Has Mary been telling stories about me?”

  “Just a few. She seems enamored with you.”

  “I tend to have that effect on women.”

  “So I hear. In fact, I think you’ve already made quite an impression on one of our other volunteers,” Michael replied cattily. “Speak of the devil, here she comes now.”

  Great! Ash thought. She’d wined and dined her fair share of women but had hardly ever stuck around the next morning, so the reunions were rarely as sweet as the rendezvous themselves. She scanned the woman approaching. In capri pants, a white tank top, and a cut denim jacket, she looked like she’d stepped out of an advertisement for the Gap. Her lips were painted a deep red and her auburn hair was fashioned into a bob that called attention to her bright green eyes. Ash had no trouble figuring out why she’d pursued the redhead; she was attractive and had a good body. But details of the night they’d spent together eluded her. Vague images filled her mind: a bar, drinks, making out in the Mustang, and then at the woman’s apartment, where there was more wine and they’d fallen into bed.