“Tell me about it,” said Katie.
“You are a nerd,” said Jill.
“I said, ‘Unlike me, an amoeba has no definite form but contains one or more nuclei surrounded by a flexible outer membrane.’ ”
“Actually, that kind of sounds like middle schoolers,” said Jill.
“Why do you remember this?” said Katie.
“Everyone cracked up and was like, ‘You’re such an idiot. You don’t even think you’re an amoeba.’ And Mr. Fields was like, ‘No, you guys are idiots. People aren’t amoebas. Amoebas are one-celled organisms without brains, which you guys would know if you ever used yours and read your homework.’ But it didn’t matter. Everyone made fun of me anyway. All year long I was Amoeba Jane.”
“Middle school sucked,” said Katie.
“If it hadn’t been Amoeba Jane, it would have been something else,” said Jill. “Everyone I know and like now was a loser in middle school. You can either be happy for three years in middle school or be happy sometime after that, but not both.”
“That’s what my guidance counselor said. She cut out a Far Side cartoon from the paper and brought it in for me. It had an amoeba with a lasso and a cowboy hat, and it said, ‘So, until next week, adios amoebas.’ She pasted it on a card and wrote on the inside, ‘For Janey, who says she is not one.’ She said sometime it would all be worth it.”
“I can’t imagine a harder job than middle school guidance counselor,” said Katie.
“Middle school science teacher,” I said.
“I wish we could spare Atlas all that. Since we know it’s coming,” said Jill.
“Guys have it worse,” said Katie. “They get made fun of and beat up.”
“You aren’t helping,” said Jill.
“Can you imagine how frustrating it must have been for our parents?” I wondered.
“I’m starting to,” said Jill.
“When I came home in tears every day? When I thought I was ugly and stupid and no one liked me? What if your little boy came home hurt all the time? You must want to pin the principal against a wall. You must want to barge in and start beating up little kids.”
“Sounds like a plan,” said Jill.
“Agreed,” I said and went upstairs to call my folks.
Sixteen
When she got well, Katie decided to try something different. On Friday night, she came downstairs skirted and perfumed, looking like a new person.
“I have a date,” she announced.
“I guessed,” said Jill.
“You always have a date,” I said.
“This one is different,” said Katie. “He’s a graduate student. History. He got his M.A. at Oregon but came here for the Ph.D. I met him at the infirmary actually. He sprained his foot playing soccer. I love soccer players. I think he will be pleasantly surprised to see how cute I am since last time he saw me I was completely exhausted and dehydrated.”
“You met him in the infirmary?” I was blown away. “He’s been here all this time? A Mormon historian Ph.D candidate? How did you not meet him in church?”
“It’s like a miracle,” said Jill. “What’s his name?”
“Ethan,” said Katie, hesitant somehow, like she wasn’t sure what his name was. “But here’s the thing: he’s not Mormon.”
I almost dropped Atlas.
“You’re dating someone who’s not Mormon?” Jill asked slowly.
“I am not dating him. I am going on a date with him.”
“Why?” I finally managed.
“What do you mean, why?”
“Is he religious? Is he a very devout and flexible Christian of some other kind?” I asked.
“I have no idea,” she said, annoyed. “I think you’re putting the cart before the carrot or the carrot before the horse or whatever. It’s premature to worry about this. We haven’t even been out yet.”
We were all quiet for a minute. “Besides, if it gets serious, he can convert.”
Jill and I were still considering this, stunned, when the doorbell rang. In hobbled Ethan with a cane and a grin and a soft cast on his right foot. He smiled at Katie, then at Jill, and then at me and Atlas. “You must be Jill,” he said to me.
“Good guess, but actually I’m Janey,” I said and put out the hand that wasn’t under Atlas’s ass.
“Sorry,” said Ethan and then added to the baby, “Well, you must be Atlas.”
“Better guess,” said Jill and introduced herself as well.
Ethan took off his coat, sat right down on the sofa, and started talking shop. He wanted to know what classes we were taking and with what professors, what our specialties were, what we were teaching. He wanted to commiserate about having to teach required courses to unwilling students. He told a story about a kid in his History 101 class who’d shown up for the first time at the end of the second week of classes explaining that he hadn’t been there because he’d gotten back late from winter break.
“That happened to me too,” I said. “This kid came in at the end of week two and said he’d been working at a ski resort for January and wanted to stay for an extra couple weeks to earn some more money. He was really annoyed that this didn’t seem reasonable to me.”
“Parker Tamlin?” said Ethan.
“Yes!” I was totally amazed until I realized that it wasn’t even that much of a coincidence. Most first-year students are taking both English and History 101. Ethan glanced at the TV. “Who’s winning?” ESPN Classic was showing a Mariners/Yankees game from 2001. (By late February, I get so impatient for baseball I even watch reruns.)
“Mariners,” I said. “One nothing. Top of the eighth.”
“Enjoy it.” He snorted. “Won’t last.”
I eyed him with disdain. “You’re a Yankee fan?”
“God no,” said Ethan. “Mets.”
Katie smiled at me. Ethan smiled at Katie. She glowed back.
“You guys have fun,” said Jill. “Remember I have library time in the morning, and Janey has yoga, so you’re on Atlas duty.”
“I remember,” said Katie. “We won’t be that late.”
After they left, Jill and I deconstructed their relationship. They’d been dating for five minutes. It was time.
“He’s going to want to have sex with her,” said Jill.
“At the very least, he’s going to want to take her out for a beer,” I said.
“Maybe he won’t be as creeped out as we are when he orders beer and she orders ginger ale.” Katie has this way of making you feel like a degenerate for drinking anything that isn’t pale soda.
“Maybe he won’t mind not having sex. Maybe he’ll like her that much.”
“Maybe he will convert.”
“Religious conversion for someone seems kind of wrong,” said Jill.
“Maybe it can work,” I said. “If you’re convinced, if you believe.”
“Maybe,” said Jill, “but not because you fall in love with a girl and she’s a Mormon and won’t have sex with you unless you’re a Mormon too.”