“No, not at all. Come in, come in.”
He looked away and blushed deeply, then shuffled into the office and carefully sat down in the chair across the desk from me.
“Well, I’m a big fan, Mr. Ellis.”
“Isn’t there a law against formality at this place?” I said with an expression of mock distaste, hoping to relax him since he was sitting so rigidly in the chair. “Call me Bret.” I paused. “And have we met before?”
“Um, I’m Clayton and I’m a freshman here and I don’t think so,” the boy said. “I just wanted to know if you could sign this for me.” His hands trembled slightly as he held up the book.
“Of course. I’d be happy to.” I studied him as he handed me the book, which was in pristine condition. I opened it to the copyright page and saw it was a first edition, which made the book I was holding an extremely rare and valuable copy.
“I have class in a couple of minutes, so . . .” He gestured at himself.
“Oh, of course. I won’t keep you long.” I set the book down and searched my desk for a pen. “So, Clayton . . . I assume all your friends call you Clay.”
He stared at me and then—understanding what I was getting at—grinned and said, “Yeah.” He waved a hand at the book. “Like Clay in the novel.”
“That’s the connection I made,” I said, opening a drawer. “Is there another?” I found a pen and then looked up. He was staring at me questioningly. “That’s the right one. You were correct,” I assured him, but then I couldn’t help it: “You look very familiar.”
He just shrugged.
“Well, what are you majoring in?” I asked.
“I want to be a writer.” It seemed hard for him to admit this.
“Did you apply to my writing course?”
“I’m a freshman. It’s only open to juniors and seniors.”
“Well, I could have pulled a few strings,” I said delicately.
“Based on what?” he asked, a snap in his voice.
I realized that I was flirting with him and suddenly looked back at the book and the pen in my hand, embarrassed for myself.
“I’m not really any good,” he offered, sitting up, noting the sudden, subtle shift in the room’s vibe.
“Well, neither are any of my other students so you’d fit right in.” I laughed dryly. He did not.
“My parents . . .” Again, he hesitated. “Well, my dad, actually . . . he wanted me to go to business school and so . . .”
“Ah yes, the age-old dilemma.”
Clayton purposefully checked his watch—another gesture that indicated he needed to go. “You can just sign my name—I mean, your name.” He stood up.
“Are you working on anything?” I asked gently as I signed my name with an uncharacteristic flourish on the title page.
“Well, I have part of a novel done.”
I handed him back the book. “Well, if you’re interested in showing me anything . . .” I left the offer hanging there, waiting for him to accept.
At that point I realized where I’d seen Clayton before.
He was at the Halloween party last night.
He was dressed as Patrick Bateman.
I had seen him when I was looking out Sarah’s window as he disappeared into the darkness of Elsinore Lane.
I breathed in, something caught in me and I shivered.
He was putting the book in his backpack when I asked, “So, you weren’t at the party my wife and I threw last night?”
He stiffened and said, “No. No, I wasn’t.”
This was answered so genuinely that I couldn’t register if he was lying or not. Plus, if he’d crashed the party, why admit to it now?
“Really? I thought I saw you there.” I couldn’t help but keep pressing.
“Um, no, wasn’t me.” He just stood in front of my desk, waiting.
I realized I needed to say something that would get him moving.
“Well, it was nice meeting you, Clayton.”
“Yes, you too.”
I held out a hand. He abruptly shook it and looked away, mumbling his thanks as I heard footsteps coming down the hall.
Clayton heard the footsteps too and, without saying anything else, turned to leave my office.
But Aimee Light bumped into him in the doorway and they glanced at each other briefly before Clayton rushed away.
“Who was that?” Aimee asked casually, swaying in.
I walked over to the door, still slightly dazed from the encounter, and watched as Clayton disappeared down an empty corridor. I stood there trying to figure out why he had lied about being at the party last night. Well, he was shy. Well, he hadn’t been invited. Well, he wanted to come. Whatever.
Aimee spoke again. “Was that a student of yours?”
“Yeah, yeah,” I said, closing the door. “A very interesting young man whose allotted seven minutes had just expired.”
Aimee was leaning against my desk, facing me, and wearing an alluring summer dress, and she knew exactly what the response to an alluring summer dress at the end of October would be—a carnal promise. I immediately walked up to her and she pushed herself up until she was sitting on the desk and then spread her legs and I walked between them as she wrapped them around my waist, straddling me as I stood looking down at her. This was all extremely encouraging.
“A sycophant?” she asked demurely.
“No—then he would have received an allotted ten minutes.”
We kissed.
“So democratic,” she sighed.
“Hey, it’s part of my teacher’s oath.” Kissing her, I kept tasting lip gloss, which took me back to high school and the girls I’d dated when flavored lip gloss was the rage and I was making out on a chaise longue next to a black-bottomed pool in Encino and I was tan and wearing a puka shell necklace and Foreigner’s “Feels Like the First Time” was playing and her name was Blair and the delicious, slightly fruity odor of bubble gum was drifting into the office now and I was lost until I realized Aimee had pulled back and was staring up at me. My hand was at the nape of her neck.
“I just saw Alvin,” she said.
I sighed. Alvin Mendolsohn was her thesis instructor. I had never met him.
“And what did Alvin say?”
She sighed too. “ ‘Why are you wasting your time on this?’ ”
“Why does your advisor hate me so much?”
“I have my speculations.”
“Would you care to share them with me?” I was gently running a fingertip up and down her forearm. I lightly stroked her wrist.
“He thinks you’re part of the problem.”
“Jesus, what an asshole.” I kissed her again, my hands’ innate sense of direction leading them to her breasts.
She nudged the hands away. “How’s the house—not too wrecked, I hope,” she asked, as I pressed my erection against her thigh, which she tensed. I was becoming more insistent and about to push away the laptop and lay her down on the desk when she asked, “Does Jayne know about us?”
I moved away from her slightly, but she grinned and kept me in position with her legs.
“Why do you ask?” I said. “Why are you asking this
