and biting, but I’m not quite capable of cutting down someone who looks so oddly vulnerable.
“Okay, but I’m here if you want to talk,” I say quietly.
He doesn’t respond. I shut the door.
These niceness lessons are going to be more work than I thought.
The next morning, I’m sitting at the breakfast table, munching on a bowl of strawberries, when Cohen comes out of his room.
I spare him one haughty glance before returning wordlessly to my strawberries.
He moves around in the kitchen, making an inordinate amount of noise, presumably to drown out my icy silence. It doesn’t work. I can make my silence really loud when I want to. Eventually, he sits down at the table with me, one chair closer than yesterday.
“This cheese you bought is decent,” he says after a minute.
I snort. Is that his idea of peace offering?
He struggles through a few more minutes of silence and then says, “There’s juice in the fridge.”
I ignore him.
Finally he explodes. “What do you want from me?”
“First rule of being nice: apologizing when you’ve been a jerk to someone.” I pop another strawberry into my mouth.
“You’re the one who broke into my bedroom in the middle of the night.”
Silence.
“I’m not going to apologize for telling you to get out. You had no right to be there.”
Silence.
“Somehow you manage to make your not speaking more annoying than your speaking. It’s incredible.”
Slow chewing.
“Fine,” he hisses. “I am sorry if I was a little bit harsh with you last night.”
“There! First lesson completed! C minus,” I say.
“You’re grading me?”
“Yes. You apologized, but you were very roundabout and you still managed to sound like a jerk while you were doing it. So, C minus. Strawberry?”
He sighs. I glance at him. He really looks terrible. His eyes are bloodshot and ringed by dark circles. I have a sneaking suspicion that he did not, in fact, go to bed after I left him last night.
“I should write this down!” I dig a notebook out of my purse, write Cohen’s Niceness Book on the cover, and embellish the top of the first page with a lovely, curly C minus. “I always thought I would make a good teacher.”
“Or boot camp instructor,” Cohen mutters.
“Lesson two of being nice: no snide comments under your breath. Or over your breath. Or anywhere near your breath, really.”
Cohen starts to say something, but stops.
I smile. “Good job.”
I want to ask him what his nightmare was about, but even I’m not stupid enough to expect an honest reply. Instead, I turn another page in the Niceness Book. “Today we’ll be doing some fieldwork.”
“Fieldwork?” Cohen’s eyebrow rises again. I’m going to tape that goddamn thing into place if he’s not careful. “Shouldn’t you…tell me things first? I know you didn’t go to college, but classes generally start with a lecture.”
My heart shoots into my mouth. “How do you know I didn’t go to college.”
He shrugs. “Girls in your line of work generally aren’t college graduates, I think it’s safe to assume.”
My heart settles back into place. Chill, Rae. “You’d be surprised. A few of my colleagues were Art majors. I think there was even an English major in there somewhere. Anyway.” I mark down some bullet points. “Tell me the things that annoy you the most.”
He sips his coffee. “Number one—being told to tell someone what annoys me the most.”
I shut the notebook. “Fine, if you’re not going to take this seriously—”
“I am! I am.” He lets out a breath. “This is hard for me.”
“There are worse things that are harder for a lot more people,” I say. “We’re going to do a kind of exposure therapy with you. My friend Gabby went through it. She had a spider phobia, so the therapist would show her pictures of spiders and stuff and eventually had her stand near live ones in a cage. You’re like that, except instead of spiders it’s everyone and instead of being
“Okay, but I’m here if you want to talk,” I say quietly.
He doesn’t respond. I shut the door.
These niceness lessons are going to be more work than I thought.
The next morning, I’m sitting at the breakfast table, munching on a bowl of strawberries, when Cohen comes out of his room.
I spare him one haughty glance before returning wordlessly to my strawberries.
He moves around in the kitchen, making an inordinate amount of noise, presumably to drown out my icy silence. It doesn’t work. I can make my silence really loud when I want to. Eventually, he sits down at the table with me, one chair closer than yesterday.
“This cheese you bought is decent,” he says after a minute.
I snort. Is that his idea of peace offering?
He struggles through a few more minutes of silence and then says, “There’s juice in the fridge.”
I ignore him.
Finally he explodes. “What do you want from me?”
“First rule of being nice: apologizing when you’ve been a jerk to someone.” I pop another strawberry into my mouth.
“You’re the one who broke into my bedroom in the middle of the night.”
Silence.
“I’m not going to apologize for telling you to get out. You had no right to be there.”
Silence.
“Somehow you manage to make your not speaking more annoying than your speaking. It’s incredible.”
Slow chewing.
“Fine,” he hisses. “I am sorry if I was a little bit harsh with you last night.”
“There! First lesson completed! C minus,” I say.
“You’re grading me?”
“Yes. You apologized, but you were very roundabout and you still managed to sound like a jerk while you were doing it. So, C minus. Strawberry?”
He sighs. I glance at him. He really looks terrible. His eyes are bloodshot and ringed by dark circles. I have a sneaking suspicion that he did not, in fact, go to bed after I left him last night.
“I should write this down!” I dig a notebook out of my purse, write Cohen’s Niceness Book on the cover, and embellish the top of the first page with a lovely, curly C minus. “I always thought I would make a good teacher.”
“Or boot camp instructor,” Cohen mutters.
“Lesson two of being nice: no snide comments under your breath. Or over your breath. Or anywhere near your breath, really.”
Cohen starts to say something, but stops.
I smile. “Good job.”
I want to ask him what his nightmare was about, but even I’m not stupid enough to expect an honest reply. Instead, I turn another page in the Niceness Book. “Today we’ll be doing some fieldwork.”
“Fieldwork?” Cohen’s eyebrow rises again. I’m going to tape that goddamn thing into place if he’s not careful. “Shouldn’t you…tell me things first? I know you didn’t go to college, but classes generally start with a lecture.”
My heart shoots into my mouth. “How do you know I didn’t go to college.”
He shrugs. “Girls in your line of work generally aren’t college graduates, I think it’s safe to assume.”
My heart settles back into place. Chill, Rae. “You’d be surprised. A few of my colleagues were Art majors. I think there was even an English major in there somewhere. Anyway.” I mark down some bullet points. “Tell me the things that annoy you the most.”
He sips his coffee. “Number one—being told to tell someone what annoys me the most.”
I shut the notebook. “Fine, if you’re not going to take this seriously—”
“I am! I am.” He lets out a breath. “This is hard for me.”
“There are worse things that are harder for a lot more people,” I say. “We’re going to do a kind of exposure therapy with you. My friend Gabby went through it. She had a spider phobia, so the therapist would show her pictures of spiders and stuff and eventually had her stand near live ones in a cage. You’re like that, except instead of spiders it’s everyone and instead of being
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