The rest of my afternoon proceeded rather uneventfully, but productively, and I was glad to have lost myself in my homework and my piano practice until an Instagram notification from Carmen popped up on my screen, confirming our dinner for that night. It was too late to back out—not that I had other dinner plans. Now that I had my wits about me and was out of the moment, I browsed her Instagram profile: a few thousand followers, a far smaller amount she followed back; this included me, and I felt honored. I had seen it all by then, and she offered nothing new: a few swimsuit photos, her with a mint julep wearing a funny hat at the Kentucky Derby, a selfie from the ramparts of a castle in Seville. Well-traveled, but somehow still cultureless. Not that anyone would post themselves reading on Instagram.
My hopes dashed, I packed up my belongings and walked to the dining hall, enjoying the evening air. I remembered that when I was on my way to meet Cassandra, I could think of no weightier question than how her two-dimensional self would transfer to real life. I felt nothing like that today. Only a hint of intellectual curiosity, and a burgeoning sense that after Cassandra, everyone else would be "Cassandra, but..." or "Cassandra, except...". I wondered how she was doing. It had only been a few days since I had last seen her, but I had entered a new chapter of my life, and it was in my best interest to treat everything that had passed and would never pass again as prologue.
I had arrived early, and for lack of anything better to do abandoned my nonchalant temperament and began pacing back and forth, before ultimately deciding that seemed undignified. I chose instead to stand by the lockers and engage in some dignified people-watching. All sorts entered and left the dining hall—couples, single people, some who looked too old to be students. I checked my phone and realized Carmen was veering on being "fashionably late." I figured I could wait a bit longer before messaging her—there was no need to be petty about small details. People like her and Lucy were constantly busy: their time was precious because so many people craved it, so it was basic supply-and-demand that let them get away with minor acts of impoliteness.
And there she was: she had changed outfits, and her hair had not fully dried from the shower. She still wore that jade pendant that drew my eyes—it swung slightly as she walked, like a pendulum, and I realized it was unbecoming to stare at her chest and not her face.
"So nice to see you again!" she said. "I'm so sorry for being late, I'm sure you're really busy, jet skiing and taming tigers and all. How was your day?"
"Not too bad. Business as usual." She was unfazed, though I'm sure she was hoping for something juicier.
"Did you hang out with any celebrities? I bet you've met so many, you'll have to tell me about them."
"Not today. Let's go in," I said, and I held the door open for her as we walked in.
"You're so chivalrous. No wonder why everyone likes you," she laughed at my common courtesy.
"Do they really?"
"All my friends rave about you: they say you're elegant, eloquent... uh..."
"Exquisite?" I said, sensing my tone soften—what was I doing? All of Valdez's jocular barbs had wormed their way into my tongue, and it was developing a life of its own.
"Exactly. What's your major?"
"English."
"Do English majors make a lot of money?" she asked, reserving our seats with napkins.
"Uhh..."
"It's an honest question. So, like, I saw Avenue Q in New York—I'm a huge Broadway fan—and there's this song asking what you can do with a BA in English. So is it true?"
"I was considering getting a doctorate and becoming a professor. I feel like I have so much love for literature, poetry, and critical analysis that it would be a waste to keep it all for myself, and I don't know, I've always thought professors were morally respectable."
"And do they make money?"
Carmen must have sensed I was perturbed, and lightly tapped my shoulder. "I'm just teasing. Anyone as smart as you will make millions."
"If not that, there's always my parents' couch—in that case, sucks to be me."
I went to get my food, Carmen grabbing the same things I did, and we sat down at the corner table away from prying eyes she had picked. Cassandra had rounded features I once thought of as elfin, but Carmen's were sharper—sculpted, hardened. I had to stop thinking of her, when there was someone else demanding my attention. It wasn't my fault their names were so similar. I needed to find someone with a softer name that glided off the tongue.
I stopped chewing and broke the silence:
"So tell me a bit about yourself," I said. "What's your story?"
"So formal—is this an interview? I'm kidding, I'm an open book."
"That's a good question. Read any interesting books lately?"
Carmen laughed, like birdsong. She did have a nice laugh, and a face that looked classical. She would make for a great portrait—if I weren't sore over the insult to my chosen career path, I'd have had Project Narcissus paint her.
"I don't read much. English class in high school really killed my interest. It was hard to, like, relate to the characters. Like The Great Gatsby: Nick talked too much, and Daisy, ugh, she was such a pick-me."
"I loved that book."
"Agree to disagree," she said firmly enough to assert confidence, but with just enough frivolity that I could have ignored her disagreement. It was hard to blame her for anything. My standards were high, and something about her demanded tolerance of her faults.
"I'm going to guess you're aren't a humanities major then," I chuckled.
"I'm an economics major, likely going into consulting—I'm hoping for McKinsey, but I'll settle for EY or KPMG. They hire humanities majors, too—it's not too late for you to switch paths."
No wonder she was soulless.
"Anyway," she continued, "I don't really like books. I like parties. Everyone likes parties though—ooh, what's your favorite alcohol? I like soju."
"I don't have a favorite," I said truthfully.
"You just like getting drunk? I feel that. That's a mood."
"Let me get some more water," I said, excusing myself. In the past I would take caffeine at all hours, but Prof. Rubinowitz's reminder of in aqua sanitas had stuck with me.
As I refilled my cup, I felt a familiar brush against my side, like a shark smelling blood.
"Look who's getting dinner with Carmen Szeto!" Lucy exclaimed. "She has bewitching eyes."
"I hadn't noticed."
"Of course you noticed, you and everyone else who wants her. Be careful: I heard that once she stabbed a girl with scissors. They were at a party, had too much to drink, someone made a pass at a guy Carmen had her eye on, and—"
"Why are you telling me this?"
"Oh, I'm just helping a friend out," she said innocently. "But watch out... if you cross her, snip-snip," she laughed, looking at my groin. "So how did you meet her? Eros?"
"It was the weirdest thing: I was walking to the music school and she stopped me. She asked me to dinner, I had no choice."
"You've become a pickup artist! Valdez would be proud. I'll let you two lovebirds have fun. Maybe she'll last longer than Cassandra."
"You two are obsessed with her!"
"You said it, not me. Hope you have protection—and I don't mean Kevlar." Lucy walked away haughtily with her head held high. I still didn't know why she and Valdez were so invested in my life. Brunch after a breakup was a reasonable concession, but after that, I was content to see them as a roommate and a colleague, nothing more. I checked Lucy's Instagram—she had a lot more followers than I remembered. But all of us had a lot. The price of fame.
Carmen quickly put away her phone when I returned, and looked at my water glass and then at me, undoubtedly searching for another witticism. Lucy was right: she did have nice eyes, eyes that glimmered slightly in the light as they rose to face mine.
"So what do you look for in a girl?" she asked, and laughed again. "You must be sick of us."
I thought back to Cassandra, in that green shirt, and us sitting not too far from where I was the previous week—it had only been a week, and I was already retracing my steps. The only green here was the jade pendant, a focus for my envy of those who had it all without the sacrifice.
"I want someone I feel I can do anything with. With whom I can explore the world. Someone who's down-to-earth and focused on what really matters in life, who isn't superficial."
"What about looks?"
Her questions did herself a disservice, I thought, and from anyone else would be humiliating. Cassandra would never—there I was, again.
"Looks are important, of course. I like someone with good eyes. They're windows to the soul."
"What do you see in mine?" she asked, and I looked again. I was generally clueless, but even I saw temptation on a silver platter: I saw the green light across the water again. Valdez would say easy prey, but I hated that, and I hated that my mind was going there—well, if Valdez weren't into Lucy, he'd say again she wasn't his type, his go-to defense. Looks were important, certainly, but I could never understand why Valdez let them get the best of him.
"They're the color of burnt almonds," I said, not knowing for certain what burnt almonds looked like but thinking the phrase sounded poetic. Of course I wasn't going to say all of what I was actually thinking. White lies, again. Lies by omission.
"That's pretty! No guy's ever said that to me before—and trust me, I've heard a lot of compliments."
"What do you look for in a guy?" I asked. I hoped she wasn't into English majors.
"Athletic, brave, courageous, dashing..." she said.
"What's next in the alphabet, exquisite again?"
"You are such a tease! I like you already. I like how you act so humbly even though we all know you've done these miraculous things. The chancellor praised you by name! You played foosball with Harry Styles! You've done all these things, and yet you're still here, right in front of me. I can't believe it."
I liked it when she complimented me. There was a hint of restraint in her voice that made me want to dig for more—her tone was mellifluous, and I silently chastised myself for again breaking out the fancy vocab to describe people I had just met.
"I'm amazed too. You're so well-known around campus, you must have your pick of the crop. And yet you're here."
"I'm famous? What have you heard about me?"
I supposed I couldn't mention the scissors anecdote, or anything else too cutting.
"Nothing much, just snippets—bits and pieces. One of my friends, she—"
"She's probably jealous. Who's this friend? Oh, don't tell me, she's that TikToker you were on stage with. Lucy Wang, right?"
"She's the one."
"She and her boyfriend make good content. Their stunts and everything are so amazing, you'd swear they were CGI."
Valdez would scream if he heard that first comment—both of them would. "Actually, Valdez isn't her boyfriend. He says she's not his type," I clarified, ignoring the prescience of the second.
"She must have rejected him. Or maybe he's racist. Kinda awkward," Carmen said, wincing. "Wait, who else do you have gossip on? I love gossip."
"I try not to gossip. Lies spread too easily that way, and I don't like lying to people."
"You're too good for me," she laughed. "Want to get dessert? The devil's food cake looks scrumptious, or we could go out and get something—boba, drinks?"
"I try to drink only water. In aqua sanitas—it's healthier."
Carmen rolled her eyes.
"And that aside, I'm pretty full," I corrected myself, and I bussed my plates; she followed.
"What do you want to do then?" she asked determinedly.
She was persistent, I'd give her that. It would have been easy enough to confess all my lies and blame Valdez and Lucy for everything, or to ask frankly if she was interested in me as a person or simply wanted to be the person who'd stolen the Golden Fleece. I was well within my rights to say no, and to leave it at that. But I also knew that Lucy was titillating at the chance to share her new intel with Valdez—"oh my God, guess who Chris was getting dinner with!". It probably wasn't the best time to pull a Darcy and dismiss her as tolerable. I came up with a test:
"A piano professor friend of mine has invited me to dinner and a recital tomorrow night. I'm sure he'd love an extra guest."
"And tonight?"
"I have homework."
"I'll see you tomorrow. What time?"
"5:30 at the fountain, then we can walk there together."
"Old people eat too early," she quipped. I agreed with her on that at least.
"See ya tomorrow, Carmen."
"See you, Chris," she said back. She paused, close to me, like she expected something more. Just one moment, that was all it took for most, I imagined—if I were being honest, she made a good case for impulsivity in the moment. I smelled cassia—I smelled a walk down a flower-lined lane "where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree." And my imagination could go as far as any dream could take anyone in a moment. But then I imagined Cassandra in the afternoon, standing where Carmen did, and I stopped.
Macho Chris would have said something more, but instead I walked slowly, but deliberately into the night. For he on honey-dew hath fed, and drunk the milk of Paradise.
When I returned to my dorm, Valdez spun around in his chair to face me with steepled fingers.
"Lucy told me you've found another one. And so soon after Cassandra, too. Atta boy!" He took a sip from his thermos, then exhaled satisfiedly.
"She told you?"
"She's so tight-lipped about her own affairs, yet so eager to share others'. I don't know and don't want to know what she tells Joanna about me when I'm not in earshot. About Carmen... her reputation precedes her. Very popular, but—"
"She's not my type," we said in unison.
"How did you know I was going to say that?"
"I'm psychic, what can I say?" I couldn't tell if Valdez was actually surprised. And he always said that with the same dismissive intonation—of course we could imitate him.
"Is she cute?"
"She's OK, but, uh... I don't know..." I said, reserving the Darcy quote for a more appreciative audience.
"You don't have to lie. She has the face that's sunk a thousand relationships. You see, Chris, this is the great thing about Project Narcissus: because she knows you as this heroic fellow, she's willing to overlook that you were probably a huge dork with her, just like you were with Cassandra. Pretty people have privileges, Chris, and there's nothing prettier than being a knight in shining armor."
"Are you sure she isn't your type?"
"Look, I think John Krasinski is the sexiest man alive, but that doesn't mean I want to go out with the guy. If you've really moved on from last week's debacle, you'd be willing to let things go and move on."
"Believe it or not, I'm a bit emotionally unavailable right now. Unavailable's the wrong word: I'm drained."
"A mosquito's bit you and you've caught the love-bug, Chris. So when are you seeing her next? Why aren't you at her dorm right now?"
"I've invited her to dinner with Prof. Rubinowitz tomorrow. She was really interested, I was surprised—I had pegged her as someone shallow, only interested in knowing a celebrity, but first impressions can be misleading."
Valdez chuckled, then cut himself off in a breath. "Let me give you two pieces of advice. One, when Carmen Szeto wants something or somebody, she gets it. You think you're above it all now, but give it a few hours, and you'll feel the symptoms. Fever, chills, headache, you name it. I predict the backache and muscle ache will come on by tomorrow evening."
"And what's the second?"
"Make sure she stays away from scissors. I have a midterm to study for, but let me know how it goes tomorrow." Valdez put on his headphones, and I could see on his laptop he was using Project Narcissus for background noise. I texted Prof. Rubinowitz quickly, confirming my coming the following day and asking if I could bring a guest. He responded surprisingly quickly, in the affirmative and promising to make extra food (as if he needed more leftovers).
I had my own work to do, and chose to copy Valdez and rely on Project Narcissus for my study music. There was certainly a broad corpus of existing work I hadn't yet heard, and the old classics were always solid options, but background music was background music no matter the source. In another timeline where I had nothing better to do with Project Narcissus, I would start a lucrative business selling music for elevators and hotel lobbies, or anywhere where music passed through one ear and out the other without leaving a lasting impression.
"Play me original, Romantic-style piano nocturnes," I told Project Narcissus, and enchanting melodies swept me away through imagined expanses of clouds and seas, with nobody else but the wind for company.