A Short Essay on Love

“So how’d your summer go?” Eric was organizing the tutor sign-up forms and a motley collection of beat-up pencils on a bright Monday morning, the first day of fall session. Steve shrugged. Two more semesters at Vermillion College, and he’d be out of there, degree in hand. Even now he was applying for a few internships that might transfer into a real job, with any luck one writing for a Silicon Valley giant with lots of fun perks. Maybe not the Google bus, but as close as he could get. He definitely wanted to stay in Northern California. As Eric explained the new filing system—and there was always a new filing system at the beginning of each semester—Steve listened with one ear while watching a guy who could only be his nine o’clock amble across the library toward the tutoring center. He was huge, a good six foot six and beefy, one of those men whose muscles are all anyone sees and who have no neck like a human fireplug. As he walked their way, students and faculty patted the guy on the back and said something to him. He ignored them, his serious frown carrying him forward as if he were breaking through an opponent’s line. “I’m Jason Woodard. Call me Jase. I’m looking for Steve Smith.” The hulk stood tall and assured. Steve stuck his hand out over the desk. “I’m Steve. Welcome to the…” “No, you’re not.” “What? No? Yes, I am. I’m Steve.” He looked around at Eric, who shrugged, but seemed to be laughing. “You can’t be Steve Smith. You’re Chinese.” It wasn’t said in a mean way, but more like Jase was confused and thought Steve was, too. “No. Yes, I’m Steve.” He pointed to the cheesy yellow name badge with its bright green letters. The school’s head librarian thought the name badges were welcoming and cheery as well as calming for students who were reluctant to use the writing lab. As usual, the head librarian didn’t have a clue. Students rarely looked at the badges, and most of them had no idea who their tutors were, even at the end of the semester after spending months with them. “Really, you’re going to have to trust me on this one. I’m Steve. Have a seat.” Steve watched as Jase sat on the wood and steel student chair, and he waited for it to collapse under the man. When it didn’t, Steve pulled one of the blank forms from the pile and handed it with a pencil to Jase. “I need you to fill in this schedule. Be sure to block out any part-time jobs or internships as well as your classes and your practice times. Then we can schedule the best hours for you to come in for tutoring.” Jase looked down at the paper. “Right now, after English class is best. That’s why I’m here.” He seemed to be ignoring the pencil and the form. Slowly Jase took the messenger bag from his shoulder and his hand disappeared inside it and retrieved a stapled bunch of papers. “Here’s a copy of the syllabus. I got an essay due in four weeks.” Jase put the stapled sheets on the desk and then sat back, looking at Steve as if evaluating him. Steve squirmed. He was all too aware of what Jase saw. Unlike many of the Asian men on campus, Steve was tall at six feet. Like most of them, however, he was slender, with beautiful long-fingered hands. He was clean-shaven, and his coal-black short hair was gelled to stick up in an array of artful spikes. Unlike Jase, whose tight T-shirt and form-fitting jeans gave him the look of a sexy stud, Steve’s button-down cotton shirt and chinos screamed nerd. Disconcerted, Steve picked up the syllabus, then without looking at it, he glanced again at Jase. He wasn’t filling out the form. “Uh, could you at least put down your name, address, and a phone number where we can get in touch with you? In case we have to reschedule.” “Do you cancel a lot?” Jase frowned. “Not usually, but sometimes things come up. A couple of semesters ago I got the flu and had to reschedule a bunch of appointments.” Steve tried to be patient as he explained. Jase nodded as if this made sense and picked up the pencil. “You’re not going to give my phone number to anyone, are you?” “What? No. No, of course not. It’s just in case we have to get in touch with you.” Jase nodded again and bent over, the pencil looking like a doll’s toy in his beefy hand. As Jase filled out the information, very neatly and in very precise handwriting, Steve glanced at the syllabus and groaned. f**k. Jase’s instructor was Trish Phillips, one of the toughest composition instructors at the college. Steve loved her, but a majority of the students didn’t, going so far as to leave scathing evaluations on ratemyprofessor.com and other student alert websites. “How come you’re taking first year English now?” Steve knew Jase was one of the senior football players, one of the touted four who were rumored to be headed to the NFL someday. “Never had time on my schedule.” Jase was scowling at the form. “I’m here on scholarship. I don’t get to call the shots about classes.” “Okay.” Steve dragged out the word as he took Jase’s paper. He noticed the phone number Jase had written down was the athletic department’s main line. He should know since he’d called it so many times the past four semesters, always looking for students who hadn’t shown up for their appointments. “Uh, we need a real phone number where we can reach you in person.” Steve pointed to the sheet. “Tell you what. How about I put my number in your phone? Then if you have to cancel, you’ve got it.” Jase looked determined, and since Steve couldn’t figure out any reason, other than maybe doing it this way broke all the tutoring department rules, he nodded. Jase put out his hand, and after a second of wondering why, Steve suddenly realized Jase wanted his phone. “Just don’t sell it or give it away to anybody, okay?” Jase muttered as he keyed in his digits. “Sure. Yeah. No problem.” Steve took back his phone, then looked up at Jase. “So do many people want your phone number?” “Only alums who need to tell me what I did wrong in a game, and girls who want a date.” “You don’t date?” “Not girls.” Jase lowered his eyes as he answered. “Oh. I mean, oh. You’re gay, too?” Steve was stunned he didn’t know this about the popular football player. He would have thought someone might have mentioned it somewhere. “Yeah. You, too, huh?” Jase’s head popped up. The stare he was giving Steve was much more intense, much more personal. Steve blushed, his heart pounding. What would it be like to go on a date with someone like Jase? He had no clue. They were caught in a surreal bubble, Jase staring and Steve blushing even harder as the seconds ticked by in silence. “Hey, Steve, you got Jase’s form?” Steve shook himself out of the trance as Eric bustled up, collecting forms from the tutors around them. “Yeah, here.” He thrust the sheet at Eric and turned back to Jase. “So let’s see what the first assignment is…” Still a little breathless, Steve settled down to do some actual tutoring. The syllabus looked exactly as it had when Steve had taken English comp three years before except all the assignment due dates were changed for the current semester. “What’s the essay topic—quotes or emotions?” Phillps’ first assignment was always a personal essay asking students to choose a quote from six she listed or choose an emotion. The essay was to be about how the quote or emotion was a guiding force in the student’s life, using specific examples to prove the essay’s point. “Emotion.” Jase’s one-word answer hung in the air between them. Steve waited, but Jase wasn’t offering details. “So what emotion have you decided to write about?” Before Jase could answer, Steve added, “And where do you think you’ll have problems with the essay?” “Love.” Jase muttered the word so softly Steve almost missed it. “I just don’t get what she means by specific examples.” Steve was surprised and a little apprehensive by Jase’s choice. Most students picked happiness or sadness for the essay, sometimes anger, hate or envy, but love was a first for him. Did he really want to know whom Jase loved or what the guy thought love was? Steve hoped it was mom, family, even country, not s*x. “Okay, so first she wants to see a definitive statement. Then we’ll get to the specifics. The sentence can be something as simple as ‘Love is blah, blah, blah’ or something more elaborate like ‘Love causes me to talk like an idiot.’“ Jase grinned. “It does?” He shot Steve an adorably quirky grin. “What?” Jase flipped his hand as if to demand, “Answer the question.” Steve stared, trying to recall what he’d said. “Talk like an i***t?” Jase asked. “No, no.” Act like an i***t, Steve thought, but not usually talk like one. “This essay isn’t about me. It’s about you.” After Steve went over how to write the sentence a couple more times, they agreed Jase would have written a sentence by his next tutoring appointment. * * * * On Friday, Steve was shocked to read Jase’s controlling sentence: “I don’t believe in love, an emotion I’ve heard about but never felt.” “What do you think? You look surprised.” Jase sounded suspicious. He was sitting hunched over in the tiny student chair. “I don’t get it. You’re Jase Woodard. Everyone loves you.” Steve was shaken at how quickly Jase had pulled into himself. “Hardly.” Jase gave a humorless, very sad laugh. “Well, let’s think about this a minute.” “Okay. Whatever.” Jase’s shoulders moved in a tiny shrug. “I mean, what about your parents?” Jase’s shoulders moved inward a tiny bit more. Then he added another shrug. “Never knew them. I grew up at the Central Valley Children’s Home. No love lost there.” “Oh.” The big man seemed to be shrinking in front of Steve. His family wasn’t particularly emotional or physically close, but he’d still felt loved growing up. He couldn’t think of anyone he knew who didn’t feel a little love from family. Of course, he’d been raised in a bland middle class suburb and until this moment didn’t even know a children’s home existed. “Okay, I guess. But what about football—the coaches, the fans?” Jase’s arms wrapped around his torso as if he were giving himself a hug. “Not hardly. The coaches see me as a big old slab of meat that brings the school a lot of money. And the fans worship me as a hero as long as we win every Saturday. If we lose enough, I’m nobody.” Steve was stunned. Where was this coming from? Jase sounded so matter of fact, not depressed or resentful about it like he would be. Then he thought of someone else. “What about boyfriends?” Steve asked the question triumphantly as if making a point. Jase shrugged then held his arms tighter around his body. “So far they’ve been kinda like the fans except they want s*x. Except for the last one who wanted more.” Steve was tempted to ask, but knew it really wasn’t his business. He was a tutor, not a counselor and definitely not Jase’s buddy. “What do you think about the sentence? Is it okay?” Jase asked after they’d sat there in silence not looking at each other for a few minutes. “Uh, yeah, it’s a good sentence, but I have to warn you. It’s usually harder to prove a negative than a positive.” He wondered if he even wanted to read the specific examples Jase would write as evidence for no love. Suddenly Jase sat up straighter. “Hey! Can I use the home, my coaches, the fans, and my exes for the body paragraphs?” “Yes,” Steve admitted reluctantly. “But you’re going to have to get really specific. Are you sure you want to do that?” “Yeah, whatever. Maybe writing about it will make me feel better, ya think?” Jase looked so hopeful that Steve didn’t have the heart to shoot him down. What did he know? “Sure, maybe.” Steve hoped so. He’d feel awful if writing the essay made Jase feel worse. “Hey, Jase. What do you think of our chances of winning tomorrow?” Eric broke in, his question startling both Steve and Jase. “Real good. We should cream ‘em.” Jase’s answer sounded like a rote sound bite. He turned to Steve. “What’re you doing after the game?” Eric laughed. “He’s doing the same thing he’ll be doing during the game—not watching it. He’s never been to a game since he started here.” “You haven’t?” Jase sounded scandalized. Steve shrugged. “Too expensive.” “You’re kidding, right?” “Two hundred bucks for the sports package at the beginning of each semester before I get paid is the difference between eating and starving the first four weeks.” “Oh. Well, no problem. I’ve got a bunch of tickets going to waste. Just ask for one at the door, section D. Bring your student ID.” “No, no. I couldn’t!” Wasn’t this what Jase had been talking about—people using him? “Sure you can.” Jase looked down at the table. “If you’re not doing anything we could maybe go out afterward.” Okay, this clearly had to violate the tutoring rules, didn’t it? But when else would someone as cool and popular as Jase Woodard ever ask someone as uncool as Steve out again? f**k the tutoring rules. “Yeah. Okay. Sure.” Steve wanted to high-five Jase. Holding himself back, he added as casually as he could, “Yeah, we can do something after the game.” Although Eric razzed him for the rest of the day, Steve basked in the knowledge that he was going out with Jase. The game was only a tiny bonus. * * * * The game had been a rout, just like Jase predicted. As they walked up the steps to the fraternity house, Jase was apologizing again. “When we get inside, I’m going into the kitchen. You stay in the living room,” he warned. “Why? What’s in the kitchen?” “The team.” Jase sounded depressed, but resigned. Sitting on the couch with another guy surrounded by super-hyped girls, Steve wondered if the kitchen wouldn’t have been a better choice. “So you came with Jase?” The slender, nearly effeminate guy eyed Steve. He looked surprised. “I’m Gordy, by the way.” “Steve.” He extended his hand, and Gordy giggled. The girls around them were giggling and bouncing around each other. “Yeah, I came with Jase.” “You’re not his usual type.” Gordy smirked as if Steve failed an important test. Steve decided to let it pass. So far in his life he hadn’t been anyone’s type, so why go there? “What’s up with the kitchen?” he asked instead. “Oh, they’re rehashing the game. Jase hasn’t been playing as well this semester. As rumor has it, not since he met you anyway. They’re gonna give him hell.” Gordy took a breath and moved closer to Steve. “They just don’t think he’s got his head in the game. They probably even blame him for losing the game tonight.” “But we won 77 to 6,” Steve was starting to think he’d entered a madhouse. “No. Don’t you understand? They shouldn’t have scored at all. As far as the team is concerned them scoring is the same as a loss, and it’s all because of big ole Jase.” “Huh.” Yup, he was sitting with one of the inmates. It had only been an hour, but it felt like days before Jase walked out of the kitchen and muttered, “Let’s go,” to Steve. In Steve’s Prius, they sat a while in silence. Jase didn’t seem to be angry, just nervous. “Where to?” Steve put his hand on the ignition key. “Look, I’m sorry.” Jase twisted as if trying to find enough room for his body in the passenger side of the car. “For what? Was it bad in there?” “Why were you late to the game?” Steve laughed. “Same old, same old. First they didn’t believe I was a friend or relative of yours. Then they didn’t believe I was Steve Smith, even with my student ID. I had to talk to a couple of security people before they let me in.” Jase frowned. “Sorry.” “Not your problem.” Steve laughed again. “C’mon, you have to agree it’s funny. We don’t look like we’d know each other, and I don’t look like a Steve Smith. You said it yourself when I met you.” Jase smiled slightly. “Okay, let’s go to Lot C and get my truck. This car’s gonna kill me.” After switching car for truck, they went to Charo’s Garden for Mexican food. Steve assured Jase that the waiter’s “Hey, we don’t got no Chinese food here” didn’t faze him. “Goes with the territory,” he assured Jase. What didn’t go with the territory was the way Jase kissed him when he drove them to a secluded spot along the river and they climbed into the truck bed to look for shooting stars. The ones they saw behind their closed eyes as they made out were much more brilliant than any in the sky.