Testing Kate (15 page)

“He’s an asshole,” Lexi said. “He’s been after you since the first day.”

“How else did you do?” Nick asked.

“Better,” I admitted. “I got an A in Civ Pro and an A-minus in Torts. And I think I got an A in Contracts, although there’s an asterisk next to the grade, and I don’t know what that means. Maybe it’s provisional or something.”

“You got an
asterisk
?” Lexi asked, her voice sharp. I glanced at her, startled by the tone. Her lips were pinched up and her thin nostrils were flaring.

Jen stared at me, shaking her head. She exhaled a plume of smoke and sat down heavily on one of the metal chairs. “You don’t know what that means?”

“It means you fucking rocked the class,” Addison said. “You got the highest grade.”

“What?” I asked, staring back at the paper. “How do you know that?”

“They told us at orientation,” Nick said.

“I wasn’t there,” I said.

“It’s a big deal. They give you an award for it,” Jen said.

“Congratulations, Kate. That’s great. I’ll see you guys later, have to get going,” Lexi said abruptly. She tucked her shiny dark hair behind her ear and stalked out of the courtyard. I stared after her.

“What’s up with her?” I asked. “She did really well.”

“But you did better,” Nick said.

“And now she’s angry at me?”

“Not angry. Jealous,” Nick said quietly.

Chapter Sixteen

W
hen I was in the fifth grade, my school held a fire safety assembly. The local squad of firefighters was there, wearing the pants and black rubber boots of their uniforms strapped on with suspenders, their helmets perched on their heads. The fire chief had a thick Boston accent and dotted his speech with a lot of “ums” and “ahs” that suggested a lack of experience with public speaking. He explained to us how to check a closed door for fire on the other side, how to wedge damp towels at the bottom of the door to keep smoke from leaking in, and how second-story bedrooms should all have an emergency exit ladder rolled up in the closet. And then he gave us a handout, faded from the copying machine, to plan our family’s fire strategy.

When I got home from school that day, I set myself up at the kitchen table with my drawing tablet and markers and drew a picture of our house, carefully labeling the exits and where everyone slept. My mom sat with me, sipping from a mug of chamomile tea, and we planned out what our emergency exit path would be and which of our neighbors’ driveways we would meet in.

“We’re supposed to have a fire drill,” I’d said. “One night when we’re all asleep, you have to hold a match up to one of the smoke detectors, so that we can practice how to get out. We’re also supposed to get out our fire ladders, to make sure we know how to use them.”

This was the exciting part. It’s not every day that you get to climb out your bedroom window.

“We don’t have a fire ladder,” my mother had said. She blew on her tea, her breath making tiny ripples across the surface.

“Then we
have
to get one,” I’d insisted. “The fire chief said that every second-story bedroom should have a fire ladder stored in the closet. He said it can make the difference between life and death.”

“Don’t worry, we’ll get one,” Mom said, and she smiled at me with that distant look that I knew from experience meant she wasn’t really listening to me anymore. What did she think about when her thoughts wandered? Was she wondering what direction her life would have veered off in if she had accepted that postcollege job offer in Los Angeles instead of turning it down in favor of my dad’s marriage proposal? Or was she contemplating whether she should paint over the border of stenciled-on pineapples that circled the kitchen walls?

I wish now that I’d thought to ask her.

My parents never did get a ladder for my bedroom, and we never had an emergency fire drill. And for years after, I’d fall asleep worrying that someone would leave a candle burning too close to the drapes or that the toaster would spontaneously burst into flames, and we’d be totally unprepared for it. My parents wouldn’t remember which emergency exit they were supposed to take, nor where we were all supposed to meet up together outside, away from the danger of the fire.

And I decided that if I had to get out my window, I’d knot my sheets together the way the fire chief had instructed, tie a corner to the bedpost, and lower myself down one inch at a time.

“I thought I’d find you out here,” Nick said.

I looked up at him from the faded orange plastic chair I was curled up in, a throw blanket warming my lap. Nick was standing at the French doors that led out to my petite balcony overlooking Magazine Street. It wasn’t much of a view—there was a boarded-up Cuban restaurant directly across the street, and next to that a burned-out storefront. There were some lovely homes nearby, but to see them I’d have to lean way over the balcony, and I didn’t have enough faith in my landlord’s maintenance of the wrought-iron railing to risk it.

Nick sat down in the mate to my chair and glanced at the mug I was holding in my hands.

“Coffee?” he asked. “I didn’t see any brewing when I came in.”

Graham—who’d apparently memorized every crime statistic about New Orleans—nagged me to keep the doors to my apartment locked at all times, but I’d gotten in the habit of leaving the back door unlocked. All four tenants in our house shared the small paved backyard, and Nick and I could visit each other by climbing up and down the flight of wooden steps that led up to my back door. And since Nick shamelessly sponged coffee off me, it was easier to just leave the door unlocked for him, rather than get up every time he knocked.

“Wine,” I said, nodding to the bottle of merlot resting next to my chair.

“Pass it over,” Nick said. I handed him the wine, and he took a swig right from the bottle.

“You’re all class,” I said. “Just don’t backwash.”

The late afternoon was chilly and getting even colder as the sun shrank down from the sky, but I didn’t care. I didn’t want to go back inside, where I knew I’d just end up staring at my grades, which I’d left facedown on my desk, as though that would somehow lessen their power.

Lexi’s jealousy aside, I didn’t understand how I’d managed to get the highest grade in Contracts class. Of all my exams, that was the subject I’d been the shakiest on. My strongest subject had, ironically, been Crim. Fearing Hoffman’s wrath, I’d prepared for his class twice as thoroughly as the other classes and knew the case law inside and out. There was no way I could have done better in Contracts but so much worse in Criminal Law.

Unless, of course, I was right and Hoffman had flagged my exam and purposely marked me down. Over the past few weeks, I’d tried to convince myself that I’d just imagined the whole thing, but now it seemed that my worst fear had been realized. It could have been worse, I thought. I could have gotten one of the three Ds Hoffman was rumored to have given out. But somehow that didn’t make me feel much better.

“Congrats on your grades,” Nick said. He held up the bottle in a toast, and I clinked my mug against it.

“You too,” I said. “You really did amazing. I haven’t heard of anyone who’s done better.”

Nick shook his head. “I’m sure that’s not true. And you did just as well. Even better, Asterisk Girl.”

“Did you talk to Dana?” I asked.

“No, but Add saw her later. She told him she did fine. All As and Bs,” Nick said.

“So why was she so upset?”

“I don’t think she’s used to getting anything other than straight As.”

“At least she didn’t get a C,” I said ruefully, taking a swig of wine.

Nick was quiet. “You should talk to Dean Sullivan about your Criminal Law grade,” he finally said.

“No way.”

“Then why don’t you talk to someone else in the administration? Like Dean Spitzer?”

“Because he wouldn’t take me seriously. No one would. They’ll want to know why I didn’t make the Honor Code complaint right after the Crim exam. It’ll sound like I’m only complaining now because I got a low grade. Which is true,” I said.

“Maybe they’ll talk to Hoffman. Or transfer you into a different Con Law class,” Nick said.

“It didn’t do any good to complain last time,” I said. I stretched my legs out, so that one white Tretorn sneaker poked out from underneath the blanket, and balanced my foot against the black metal bars that surrounded the balcony. “I’m just going to try to stay out of Hoffman’s way this semester. Not give him any reason to go after me.”

“Sounds like the safest course of action,” Nick said.

His words hit me the wrong way. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just what I said,” Nick said.

“No, you said it in a pointy way.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Yes, you did.”

“I just think…you like to stay in your comfort zone,” Nick said.

“Doesn’t everyone? In fact, isn’t that how you’d define ‘comfort zone’?” I asked sarcastically.

“Yeah, but you sort of take it to an extreme.”

“Are we still talking about my Crim grade, or are we talking about what happened between us in the Quarter that night?” I asked. The wine was making me bolder than I’d have otherwise been.

Nick was quiet again. “Is there anything to talk about?” he finally asked. “Or can we just pretend that I had too much to drink and exhibited shockingly bad judgment as a result?”

I smiled. “We can.”

“Good,” Nick said. “Because now that you’ve proven yourself to be a legal genius, I’m counting on you to get me through Property. That class is going to be a bitch.”

“You’re on,” I said.

La Crêpe Nanou was a French bistro nestled on a side street in the upper Garden District that specialized in, not surprisingly, crepes.

“Yum,” I said, digging into one of the dessert crepes that was filled with fudge sauce and topped with coffee Häagen-Dazs ice cream. “This is the best thing I have ever tasted.”

“Are you going to share that?” Armstrong asked. We were supposed to be splitting the dessert, but he’d been sipping an espresso while I greedily attacked the crepe.

I grudgingly moved the plate a quarter inch closer to him.

“Did you get any work done on the new book while I was gone?” I asked.

Armstrong looked guiltily down at his coffee cup.

“You still haven’t started, have you?” I said accusingly.

“I told you, it’s a process. The creative juices have to flow for a while,” Armstrong said. He brightened. “Although I did get the most fabulous carpet for the living room while you were gone. And I finally boxed up all of Mother’s Limoges miniatures and sent them off to Goodwill.” Armstrong shuddered. “Good riddance. Elvis ate one of the boxes, and I had to take him to the animal emergency room.”

“Did they pump his stomach?”

“No. We had to wait for him to crap it out,” Armstrong said. “It took three days.”

I could have lived without that mental image.

“That’s it,” I said firmly. “We’re getting to work on the book tomorrow. Real work. No more shopping.”

“Bossy pants. I’ll have you know I happen to be a world-renowned historian,” Armstrong said.

“A world-renowned historian who never actually works.”

“I just have a slight case of writer’s block,” Armstrong corrected me. He sipped his coffee. “How was your first day back at school?”

“Oh! I forgot to tell you—I have Hoffman again this semester,” I announced. Armstrong knew all about my tortured history with Hoffman.

“Not by choice,” Armstrong said, his eyebrows raised.

“No, of course not. I was supposed to have another professor for Constitutional Law—Professor Chai—but she didn’t show up. My friend Addison said he heard she’s an alcoholic and had to go to rehab. Hoffman took over her class,” I said. I shook my head, the horror of it washing over me anew. “I can’t believe I’m saddled with that asshole for another semester.”

“Can’t you drop the class?” Armstrong asked.

“No, we aren’t allowed to change classes. But want to know what else Addison told me? It’s juicy.”

“What?” Armstrong set down his coffee and leaned forward eagerly. He loved gossip, even if he didn’t know any of the people involved.

I gave a little wriggle of happiness. “Supreme Court Justice Ginsburg was in town last year giving a talk at the law school. Hoffman sat next to her at a luncheon and apparently ate some bad shrimp,
and…,
” I hesitated, reveling in the climax of the story, “Hoffman ended up getting food poisoning and
threw up
right on poor Justice Ginsburg.”

“What do you mean on her? On her shoes?” Armstrong asked.

“No! On her lap,” I crowed triumphantly. I could picture it vividly—hell, the same thing had happened to me four years earlier when Fitz upchucked on me at the Cornell student union—Hoffman’s stomach heaving, his pale eyes watering. The moment of panic he must have had when he first realized what was going to happen. He’d probably been turning to get up, ready to race to the men’s room, but didn’t make it out of his seat in time. “He must have been humiliated. I’d have given anything to see it.”

“Good evening, Ms. Bennett,” a familiar voice said.

I froze.

Oh, no. Oh, please no.

This wasn’t happening.

I looked up, hoping that the person who had suddenly materialized at the edge of our table was not who I thought it was—even though I wouldn’t have mistaken that voice anywhere. It was the very voice that mocked me in my dreams, sneering at me coldly, ridiculing me for my incompetence.

Hoffman.

He was standing next to our table, staring down at me with his flat, malevolent eyes. He looked much the same as he did in class—the windblown hair, the button-down blue oxford shirt with the rolled-up cuffs, the wrinkled khakis hanging down over his flat ass (which I couldn’t see at the moment, since he was facing us, but I knew it was there).