The Jonathan Safran Foer Saga: Part II

I know, two posts in one day! But really, Liz has been asking for this for the better part of a year, and who am I but to oblige? Enjoy it Marshmallow.

II.

Jonathan Safran Foer lets me into his class and Jennie has officially dubbed me “baller.” He was very nice about it even though I think I was very annoying, following him to his car like I did and speaking much too quickly and taking too few breaths. I go to the dean’s office to rearrange my schedule because now that I’m fake-taking Intermediate Fiction Writing, I cannot really-take Women, Food, and Culture, since the class times overlap. When I go to see Mary, who is Dean Silverman’s assistant, she tells me I have three hours to pick a new class or else she’s going to fine me for not finalizing my schedule on time. I blindly pick African-American Culture in the 20^th Century from the bluebook thinking it cannot be that difficult because I am an African-American who is fairly familiar with the 20^th century, having lived through a solid decade of it—even if most of that ten years was spent developing fine motor skills and learning how to read. What I do not realize, however, as I hand in my schedule with twenty minutes to spare, is that this also conflicts with Intermediate Fiction Writing. But, I do stop by the book store and buy Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close and then call my friend Ritchell, who is a very big fan of Jonathan and Nicole, and tell him the good news. Actually, I ask him if he’d like to hear another reason Harvard (where he goes to school) blows, and then I tell him the good news. He is sufficiently jealous and I enjoy my gloating.

But it ends up being OK for the most part. African-American Culture in the 20^th Century is easy, so I skip out on half of the Wednesday lecture and walk over to the Saybrook Lyceum Room. Intermediate Fiction Writing is funny because no one asks who I am or what I’m doing in their class, and I don’t volunteer the information.

One Tuesday (like most Tuesdays) Jennie forgets to forward me the pieces. She forwards them to me because I’m not on the panlist, even though I sent Jonathan Safran Foer an email politely asking him to add me because Jennie is incredibly forgetful, and in this proverbial way, not like an elephant at all. But it’s not a big deal because I don’t have time to read them anyway on account that I have a paper to finish for African-American Culture in the 20^th Century that’s due that evening. In lecture, however, the professor gives us a twenty-four hour extension. As I leave class, I realize I could go to fiction but decide against it because I would be very late and subsequently, the actual elephant in the room. And besides, I wouldn’t know what they were talking about. Instead I go grocery shopping because I’m making dinner for my suitemates on Friday. I buy pasta and cheese, and sunscreen because I am going to Hawaii during spring break with one of my other real-classes. I am carrying the groceries, listening to the This American Life, crossing York Street when I see him: Jonathan Safran Foer. I freak out. He will know I skipped class after all that begging I did. He will know by the bags in my arms that I skipped class to go grocery shopping. He will be insulted, infuriated, disappointed in these so-called dedicated Yalies. In revenge, he will blacklist me in the English department, and then I will have to major in anthropology like I said I intended to on my application. He is walking with an older woman, I think he sees me. I lift my chin to say hello, in hopes my Midwestern friendliness will offset his impending rage.

He turns his head. Away from me.

Sweet baby Jesus, I think, I just got snubbed by Jonathan Safran Foer.

I tell this to Trinh when I get back to the suite. In short, she says, I’m fucked.

I email Jennie. She says not to worry about it. I don’t believe her; trouble is always afoot.

For the next few classes I am convinced that Jonathan Safran Foer hates me. I take his lack of eye contact for despise, neglecting to remember that he rarely makes eye contact with me 1) because I am not his student, and 2) because I am usually attempting to un-obviously stare at Alex Borinsky (it is because of him that Jennie and I have been considering the merits of polygamy, and later, the difficulty of being polygamist beards, and later, why we didn’t go to a school with more straight boys).

It is the last class of the semester and I wait to talk to Jonathan Safran Foer and give him the card I wrote with my orange sharpie, because orange seemed like a memorable color.

I thank him for taking me and this is what he says in reply:

“I’m glad you could make it to all of the classes.”

I am staggered, flabbergasted, dumbfounded, as if someone had just told me Stephen Hawking’s favorite game was Dance Dance Revolution.

I am also beginning to feel increasingly stupid. I start to explain the story, then stop when he looks disinterested. I hand him the card and tell him that I’ll be in New York for the summer, and if he ever wants to hang out with a dorky freshman, I’m likely available. (I feel stupid saying this, because it is the exact same think that is written on the card. But it’s all I can come up with in my taken-aback state).

And then he says the thing that redeems any negative feeling I ever had toward him, mostly garnered from not answering my emails:

“No one’s more dorky than me.”

He says this, and I think I might have a chance.