If It Smells Like a Rat, Give It Cheese." It was so close to my own experience, in fact, that I couldn't help but laugh. After I returned to the table and our conversation went back to being centered on the event, I was able to tell him I'd just spent a long weekend studying in Ann Arbor, so I was very interested in the panel. This time, however, I just smiled and hoped he'd change the subject. "You don't think it's a little much?" he persisted. "What? That I want to meet with them? I'm not sure. It just doesn't seem right that something that seems like a total waste of time to everyone else here would be so interesting to me. I can't imagine anything more boring, which I know is a judgmental thing, but . . ." I trailed off, because he was still eyeing me. He said, "But you would want to go? To one of these?" I shook my head. "No. I don't see why I would." "I do," he said. "I'll even go with you." I started to laugh again, but he looked so sincere that I stopped. "I don't see how you could be persuaded, even if I were so foolish as to want to go. It would be too awkward. I'd have to sit between you and my father, and I doubt I could be convinced to sit with anybody except my uncle." "Well, then," he said, grinning, "it's settled." I just shook my head, amazed. For years I had been begging for a little interest, a little acknowledgment, anything, in any way, and here he was, offering it on a silver platter. It was ridiculous. How in the world was I supposed to answer that? "You don't like cheese?" he asked, to my great embarrassment, and I had to laugh a little. He seemed to be as amused by my confusion as I was. "No, I don't. I mean, I like cheese, but not so much that I'm willing to get into a conversation about it with you or anyone else. That would just be so pretentious." "Pretentious," he said, and just as I was going to ask him how he defined the word, he said, "So how much cheese have you ever eaten?" "In all my life?" I asked, thinking of the little bit of cheese in my sandwich the day before. "I would say a smidge of butter and a small slab of American cheese." He laughed. "The world's changed since I was a kid." He studied me for a moment, as if judging whether I had the capacity for genuine ignorance. I waited. "All right, I guess you're telling the truth. You really don't like cheese. And you're not embarrassed by not knowing more about it." "I just don't like it," I said. "I don't need to know all about it, or pretend to like it more than I do, or talk about it all the time. I like my sandwiches, my hot chocolate, and my books, and if I want a cheese sandwich I can go down the street to the diner." "I like my pogs, my slugs, my slobberworms, and my Transformers," he said. "When I was a kid I didn't have a father and I sure as hell didn't have a mother. Every time we did something nice for me or did something that seemed like fun, my friends made a fuss about it. Like this was a special event or something, so as not to disappoint me. The adults just rolled their eyes, but it was still like having a friend there. And I'm okay with that. We'd just sit on the floor in the basement playing pogs, slugs, slobberworms, and Transformers, even though the big kids all knew I was getting all of the wrong ones. Maybe that's what it means to know you're in a place where you belong. A place where no one expects you to pretend to be something you're not. And your real father and mother are always with you." I laughed at him then, not from amusement but from the fear of how his words would sound if he were to say them to anyone else. I wished I were brave enough to take him up on the offer of going to an event like this. If he wanted to go so badly, why shouldn't he go? I was thinking about it when his dad came up to our table, and I excused myself to go to the ladies' room. I was afraid he would wait for me outside, but when I came out, he was still at the bar. When I came back to our table he was gone. I sat down, looking up at the screen and wondering how anyone could ever find the time in his or her life for stuff like this. I had my father, but I didn't feel any kinship with him, certainly not the way his work colleagues seemed to. I guess I always had imagined myself with children of my own, so if I was thinking about stuff like this, it was more as something to talk about than an interest of my own. I felt embarrassed, then—by how pathetic that sounded—but for some reason, it was hard for me to feel shameful in that moment. I was happy and proud of who I was—an adult, with things to worry about. I thought of how easily I could be manipulated by just about anyone who didn't know who or what I was. My father, though, was a different story. I doubted that he wanted anything from me other than my honest opinion about him—that I would be honest, at least, and even if he didn't care for what I said, at least he would know it was the truth. And that was enough for me. I got my sandwich and a strawberry drink, then left the library to go to the café. I needed to have a moment alone to myself, I told myself, so I could think about the things that I had learned in the library. But when I got back to my office I couldn't stop thinking about the young man who had sat beside me. It was ridiculous. In fact, I was certain it was just that. It was just that he sat next to me and I got into a conversation about cheese. It wasn't even really the conversation that was ridiculous; it was the situation. I wasn't a teenager anymore, and neither was he. What if I had been alone with him? I never would have talked to him that way. I would have been much too nervous, I was sure. I was pretty sure I'd have just tried to ignore him if he had shown any interest in me, any real interest. I wasn't that interested in him, though, or even in eating cheese. He didn't interest me—he repulsed me. It was no wonder I had stopped reading romance novels. It wasn't about romance; it was about the desire for connection that couldn't exist between people because there was nothing there to begin with. Why did I want to look at him? Why did I want to imagine kissing him? Why did I want to know what would happen next? I think I had to push myself past all of these thoughts, though, because, after a while, I found myself thinking about him again. It was a sort of curiosity, really. If he wasn't so beautiful—or at least I thought he was at first—why would I want him to think he had any appeal for me? But then I knew. It was nothing as important as that. It was just that he looked so much like a lost child. It was sad and pathetic. In that, I felt pity. Not real pity for him, but a kind of pitying of myself for the fact that I could have ever felt attraction for him in the first place, and I had been only a small bit uncomfortable with the idea of meeting him. It had nothing to do with him, of course. I was only interested in the notion of the thing itself, as abstract as that sounds. Still, I found it hard to deny the feeling of disappointment I had in myself. Was there some point where that feeling had been lost? I hadn't even looked at the paper since coming back to my office. It was in a corner behind my desk and it smelled like it had been left out in the sun for a week. I had to stand at my desk and turn it around and upside down a few times before I could read the date. This was a Friday. On Thursday morning, I had been surprised to find in the paper that on the very next day—two days later—they would be having a conference in Michigan, which I had known for sure that I wanted to attend. We had decided that weekend that I should go and get in as much of the event as possible before it ended. I wondered if I would have time to make it back in time to work tomorrow. I took my sandwich out to eat in the kitchen and left the paper in the bottom drawer of my desk, where it would not be disturbed, and I decided to call home and see if my father had spoken to my mother yet about our trip. She was home, but her answer was short, to the point, and only about my father. "He said he was sure you're coming." I was surprised by her lack of enthusiasm. "Well, he can't be too upset