The Englishman by Nina Lewis Page A

advice to a graduate student at a top-tier research university would always be to strive to be remembered for her work, not for her looks, but Irene calls this the German Protestant infiltration of my cultural heritage.
    I hope and trust the Almighty is not among the aging males dazzled by visions of female fabulousness, but Nick Hornberger evidently is. There is a subtle but distinct difference in the way Hornberger bear-hugged me and the way he reaches past America’s Next Top Model to take some glasses from Ted the barman. Not sure if I can put my finger on it. Familiarity coupled with a sense of reverence.
    “This is Tessa Shephard,” Versace Girl says, inviting a copiously freckled girl with dark red locks into our small circle. “Tessa’s in her third year of grad school, so—”
    “So if there’s anything you need, ma’am, don’t hesitate to ask,” says Tessa, not visibly galled by her colleague’s patronizing manner. She gives me a broad smile. “I’m in your class on parody, and Professor Cleveland said you’ll be coming to the Early Modern Studies graduate seminar, so we’ll meet there, too.”
    “And this is my friend Selena O’Neal.” Versace Girl steps aside and pushes a third girl toward me. Selena is tall and very well-endowed, too, but two thick mouse-colored braids hang on either side of her pale face down to her waist, her face has a pasty sheen, and she manages to look almost dowdy in a pleated skirt and a white blouse. If it was Hornberger who recommended these girls as graduate assistants to the Academic Affairs Office, he is only partially guilty of selecting them with his loins. Maybe he makes deals with the AAO: one stunner for one nerd.
    “Hello, Dr. Lieberman.” Selena has a soft, strained voice, and I have to read her lips to hear her above the music. “I was sorry to see that your class on Paradise Lost was canceled. I was…I was looking forward to that.”
    “Oh, thanks! How nice of you to say that, Selena. Yes, I was sorry, too, but curriculum requirements made the change necessary. Maybe next semester!”
    She smiles and bobs her head in a manner reminiscent of the late Princess Diana.
    “That would be wonderful, because I’m actually working on—”
    “Yeah, leave that for the grad sem, Selena,” her frenemy butts in. “I’m Natalie Greco, Professor Lieberman. I’m in my first year of grad school and it’s my first year as a grad assistant, so you can imagine how excited I am! Welcome to Ardrossan University, again, ma’am, and to The Old Dominion!”
    I’m the new girl in class, and the popular girls are noticing me. That is definitely a new experience, only it comes fifteen years too late to be anything but awkward.
    “Tessa, Selena and Natalie—thanks for coming to say hello.” I give them my best teacher’s smile. “I guess we’ll be seeing a lot of each other, if we’re…on the same floor.”
    In the same dorm , I almost said. Knee-jerk reflex.
    Hornberger hands me my wine, and my eyes focus on the glittering drops of water that are running down the outside of the glass, gather at the bottom, fall onto his wrist and run down the underside of his arm. This is what stimulus overload does to me; I latch on to a tiny detail and close in on it. Then the still life of the drops of water on Nick Hornberger’s hairy footballer’s arm turns dramatic. Natalie Greco reaches out, and with the backs of her four fingers, slightly bent, she brushes the drops away. She is talking to him about something college-related—I catch the words “scanning” and “PDF”—but her eyes find the detail that mine had also found, and she lifts her hand and brushes the water away. Neither of them comments on her action or stops the conversation, and it is this that tells me that they are sleeping together.
    I look up and around to see whether anyone else has seen what I just saw, and I catch Yvonne Roberts’s pleading stare, urging me over to join her and Elizabeth