Read Online The Cranberry Hush: A Novel by Ben Monopoli - Free Book Online Page A

from me, almost so we were facing each other across the
empty middle. When he looked up I looked down at my hands, felt my face redden.
    I learned his name when the professor, a young woman named
Nicole, not yet jaded by experience and who still believed she could change her
students’ lives (and, via them, the world), took attendance the first time.
    “Ariel Dean,” she read from her roster, then looked up to
scan the circle.
    Griff raised his hand. That act of drawing attention to
himself permitted me to look at him full-on for the first time since he sat
down.
    “I go by Griffin,” he told her. “My middle name. Or Griff,
less formally. Uh.”
    “Griffin Dean it is, then.” The professor noted it on her
attendance roster and I began doodling a capital G on a sheet of loose-leaf paper.
    After attendance Nicole made us go around the circle telling
what our favorite book was, making an effort to remember our names but actually
only remembering Griffin’s. His favorite, he said, was The Positronic Man , by Isaac Asimov, which he added was turned into
a bad movie starring Robin Williams. I agreed aloud that it was bad.
    “I’m glad it’s not just me!” he said, and he pointed at me
and smiled. I perceived the flip of his finger as a mind-blowing and
unqualified show of affection and blushed, thinking it was obvious to everyone
else in the class that our souls were entwining before their very eyes.
    When I got back to my dorm room after that first class I
looked him up in the student directory and was heartbroken to find no Deans at
all, Griffin or otherwise. In the days before Facebook the thin booklet was all
I had, and apparently I had nothing. During the next class, though, I received
a consolation prize: a list of the whole class’s contact info, which the
well-intentioned young professor provided so we could get in touch with each
other outside of class. Griffin had written his name and his email address in
tiny, cramped letters. I ran my finger over his letters even though they were
only photocopies.
    For more than a month I lived and breathed for Mondays and
Wednesdays—for class days, Griffin days—and every other hour of the
week served only to anticipate, to prepare. I arranged my laundry schedule so
my best jeans would always be ready for Rebellion in Lit. I got up earlier on
those days so my hair could be carefully messed according to current style. All
in case that day was the day we were to speak.
    But no matter how I tried to align the planets or bribe
fate, each class was a bigger disappointment than the one before. There was no
conversation with Griffin, no chance encounters before or after class, or in
the dining hall, or on the sidewalk. Class after class my hopes were pummeled
and even though I was naturally optimistic it began to wear me out, made me
feel numb and indifferent and bitter. And sad.
    At the end of February, our earnest young professor
scheduled one-on-one meetings with her to discuss the progress of the course.
When I arrived at her office for my meeting Griffin Dean was sitting in a chair
outside her door. I took a deep breath. Six weeks into the semester, we would talk . My heart started to slam in my
chest even as my muscles quieted into a rehearsed steady-cool slowness.
    He had a U2 baseball cap on backward—above the strap
were the appropriate words Achtung Baby! —and
a paperback open on his lap. His right leg was crossed over his left, ankle to
knee. His jeans were torn up and dirty at the heels where they dragged on the
ground.
    I sat down beside him. “Hey,” I said, the simple word I’d
wanted to say to him for weeks.
    “Hey,” Griffin said. His voice, for the first time since
that first day, was for me. The sound as it entered my ears was as lovely as a
field of sunflowers, something to treasure like a mint copy of Action Comics #1. He jiggled his sneaker
and uncrossed his leg.
    What was he reading?, I wondered. It was hard to look at the
book without appearing