Right, like I was going to take lessons from a guy whose neck had been swallowed by his shoulders.
“Leave her alone, Paulie,” Noah demanded. He had returned from the locker room. “Let’s go,” he directed to me.
“Bo?” I asked.
“He’s got his own ride,” Noah ushered me to his truck. His hair was wet from the shower and laid flat against his head, like a silky brown cap.
“Bo mentioned you had a photo shoot? What’s that all about?” I asked when we got into the car.
“I’ve been offered an undercard fight on Halloween,” Noah said.
“My God, is that why you were all at the apartment the other night?”
He nodded. “Yeah, I came up to tell you the news. Lana was making spaghetti, and we just dumbly invited a bunch of people over.”
“God, I feel like an idiot. I ruined your big news.”
“Nah, it’s all good, Grace,” He turned his head slightly, and I could see a smirk on his face. “The evening ended just right.”
“What happens now?” I asked, slapping him lightly on the arm.
“It would be great if you could just get into the Octagon and fight. But there is a ton of BS involved. The publicity you’re required to do. The constant monitoring of your diet. The working out constantly. They make me wear my cowboy boots to public appearances,” Noah’s voice started to take on a whiny quality.
I stifled a laugh at his side.
“I can feel you laughing,” Noah accused me.
“I’m sorry,” I giggled a bit. “Cowboy boots? I’ve never seen you wear those!”
“Yeaaahhh,” he drawled. “And they want me to talk with a twang and use loooong vowels.”
This time I couldn’t contain my laughter.
“Being successful in the UFC isn’t just about being the best fighter; it’s about being a personality. Making people want to either cheer for you or against you,” Noah complained.
“How do you get chosen for the fight?” I asked.
“Money,” Noah said flatly. “It’s all about how much money I can generate. I’ve got a perfect record, but there are a lot of low level guys with perfect records. We all earned them against gym chum.”
“Gym chum?”
“Yeah, for smaller gyms, they drag in guys off the street, promise them money fights, and then throw them up against more experienced fighters so that those fighters can build their records.”
“You aren’t making this sound very savory.”
Noah shrugged. “Anything where there is a lot of money contains unsavory things.”
Sleep came easily each night with Noah’s attentiveness, but each day I awoke with a sense of dread. Noah needed to spend more and more time training. And I felt like I was just marking time. Mike asked me to cover for a classmate who was struggling with midterms and I said yes. I had nothing better to do. I hadn’t picked up my camera since the debacle with Dr. Rossum, and other than the one time at the gym when Bo and Noah were fighting, I hadn’t had the urge.
Ironically, it wasn’t the money that killed off my hobby. Getting paid for it was exciting. Instead, it was knowing that what I was doing was fake, a trick, no more worth gracing the cover of a magazine than a bowl of fruit. I wished I had the nerve to tell Dr. Rossum how much State was paying me, but money probably didn’t matter to him. Noah said that real criticism came in the form of dollars exchanged and if someone thought my work was worth paying for, then it didn’t matter what a million Smithsonian artists had to say. I wanted to believe that was true more than anything, but I was having trouble convincing myself, or at least of getting the courage to return to Dr. Rossum. One visit to the firing squad was enough for me.
“Have you thought about coming to Vegas with me?” Noah asked during one of the rare moments it seemed like we saw each other.
“I can’t,” I told him, twisting my face up in disappointment. “I thought I told you I was going to cover someone’s shift who was studying for midterms.”
“I thought you were going to turn down the trade?” Noah asked.
“I was, but this person was really desperate.”
“Why are you taking all these hours on at the library? It’s hard enough for us to see each other.”
“You’re so busy, and I’m just trying to keep myself occupied,” I explained.
“With Mike? I thought you said your insecurity wouldn’t manifest itself by making me jealous.” He wasn’t looking at me at all. Instead he just tapped his pen against the desk, fast and hard. I wondered if he would break the pen or gouge the desk first.