she looked like some old Italian painter’s idea of an angel, the same painter who would’ve painted Jesus with blond hair and blue eyes. What did art know about anything anyway? It was all just somebody’s idea of things.
Molly wasn’t big on angels, like many of her friends. They’d buy little statues of angels to keep on their bedside tables, little angel bookmarks, posters; one of her friends even had an angel tattoo on her belly, a sexy little angel. “Great place for a guardian angel,” Molly had said with a laugh. “Think that will keep the boys out of your pants?” But her friend had just given her a sly look, said, “Oh, no, it’ll make ’em want to come a little closer for a good look at what I have.”
Molly thought that was trashy, but she didn’t say so. She knew the way to keep her friends was to keep half her thoughts to herself. Like church. Most of her friends went to church. Mostly Baptist, and they were always trying to bring her along. But she got out of it by saying she was Catholic; she had her own faith. Right. They used to be Catholic, which meant her dad could run around all he wanted as long as he confessed, said a few Hail Marys. All that faith in God hadn’t done her mother any good with the breast cancer. No, it was a good doctor and a plastic surgeon who’d saved her from that. Her mother had learned a few things from how the church and a husband could fail you. She went to a women’s support group every Wednesday night—an excuse to drink wine and gossip, but it made her mom strong. She’d learned a few things there and kept repeating them to Molly: “Believe in this world, not the next, Molly. Keep your body fit, your mind sharp, and your money invested. If your wits don’t save you, nobody will.” With her mother’s words in mind, she remembered what day it was and hurried down the hall to her room. Molly sat at her computer to log on to the college website to see if the class she wanted had any openings yet.
Down the street, Jesse unhooked the leash from his dog and let him run through the woods alongside the trail. He needed to run. He thought about the girl. Yeah, she’d seen him. And what was with that stopping and bending down to tie her shoes? He let the dog run and sniff and pee on just about every tree in those woods. Dogs did that. Marked turf. He loved that dog, his muscled chest, the way his fur glimmered in the light, loved watching him run through those woods like the wild thing he ought to be.
His cell phone buzzed. His mother. She’d been completely on his ass since he’d stayed at Mike’s that night. He answered. “I’m walking Luke; I’ll be right home. Yes, ma’am,” he said. He clicked off the phone. He’d forgotten to edge the sidewalk after he’d mown the grass. Everyone else in the neighborhood had a lawn service. But oh, no, his parents had him, not a good boy but the bad boy, the one they’d bought on sale and couldn’t take back to the store. He called his dog, and he came running and stood at Jesse’s side while he clipped the leash on. He crouched, patting the dog’s side with firm, loving smacks. He ruffled the dog’s ears, bent close, whispered, “We’ve got a job to do, Luke. Let’s go.”
Molly looked at the clock. Just after 5:00. Perfect timing, she thought. It was the last day for students to pay their tuition; as of 5:00, those who hadn’t paid would be purged. Purged, she thought. It was an ugly word, as if the great computer system vomited out the poor ones who didn’t have the money, whose financial aid hadn’t come. So they were purged from the classes they’d registered in—no money, no class. The world isn’t fair, she thought, and that really did strike her as a sad thing for a moment. It wasn’t fair, but at least now there was a chance she could get into that afternoon section of the pedagogical theory class she needed. She was already in the night class, but she wanted her nights free to spend more time with Matt: dinners, movies, tennis at the club. She was trying to talk him into ballroom-dance classes, but he was resisting that. What she really wanted to tell him was that they needed dancing classes so they could dance at the wedding, really dance, not just wiggle and bounce around the way so many did. She wanted a real wedding with real dancing, even though Matt hadn’t done anything like propose.
She clicked on the website for course options and started scrolling down the list of classes open and closed. She stared at the monitor as the list of sections rolled up on the screen: “Closed. Closed. Closed.” In her introduction to psychology class, Molly had learned something about mind over matter, a theory that thoughts had energy, could actually change things in the physical world. Visualize, she thought, even though she didn’t really believe in such things. Magical thinking, she called it. But what the hell, she’d try it. She sat back, sipped her water, and closed her eyes, saw names blinking off enrollment lists. Blink. Blink. Blink. Students were being purged, names blinking out one by one as the system’s program sought out the ones who hadn’t paid. “Amount due” meant blink, gone. Sorry, Molly thought, then sat up, watched the screen.
She glanced up at Matt’s picture on her desk. He looked goofy with the snorkeling mask shoved on top of his head. But what a smile, a Brad Pitt kind of smile, just a little bit mischievous and sweet. She whispered to the picture, “I dare you to like ballroom dancing.” It was a game they played, getting each other to try out new things. She had learned kickboxing, and he’d learned just a little bit of French, just enough to get by when they went to Paris one day. They took turns choosing things they’d never done before. Her mother worried sometimes about just how far Molly would go, had made her promise to always ask permission before she did anything too crazy like bungee jumping or leaping out of planes. Molly didn’t know where she’d draw the line at too much risk. Molly had a belief, another thing she’d learned from her mother: Never let fear keep you from what you want. That was what she wanted to teach her students one day, fearlessness, faith in your own strength, curiosity—these were the things she wanted to teach the world, along with long division, and reading, and writing, and geography.
She stared at the computer screen, thought, Come on, come on, feeling like a gambler watching the balls whir around a roulette wheel. The unseen programmed intelligence was playing God now, choosing who was in and who was out while Molly sat in purgatory, eyes fixed on the screen, waiting for the word Open to appear. She stared at the line with the section she wanted: Tuesday/Thursday, 4:10 to 5:25. She stood, paced, waiting. She wanted dance lessons with Matt on Wednesday nights, not some pedagogical theory class. She wanted Matt to twirl her, dip her, lift her, her legs flying through the air. She wanted—that was her problem, her daddy had told her—sometimes she wanted too many things.
Molly stopped. She could feel it. She turned and looked toward the screen. “Open.” She sat and signed into the course, then clicked for her registration list to see if the course was really there. Yep. Done. She stood as the printer clicked and hummed out proof of her new schedule. Perfect, she thought as she glanced out the window of her bedroom to the sunny day. Her mom would be happy. Since the divorce her mom had come to believe in grabbing pleasure. Now she was doing it with tennis lessons, yoga classes, book clubs. They lived together more like roommates than mother and daughter, but her mom still played the mom three nights a week, making supper for Molly, good-mom suppers like baked chicken and fried pork chops. Sometimes Molly felt she was the luckiest girl in the world.
Then she saw him, with that dog. Coming back down the sidewalk. She thought, You don’t even live on this street. If she could get the double-paned windows open, she’d lean out and give him the finger. But instead she moved back from the window, stood to the side so he couldn’t see her. He paused in front of her house, looked at her car. Lots of guys liked to look at her car—that was one reason she’d picked it. She knew she looked good in it, her red hair flying all around when she drove with the top down. He bent and spoke to his dog while he looked at the house, and Molly had a sudden urge to duck away from the window. She thought she really ought to listen more to her mother sometimes. Lock the door. Park the car inside the garage. Be a little more careful.
He gave the dog some quick, hard pats, then stood, walked on. Molly watched until he disappeared down the street. Geez, she thought, lighten
