Letting Loose. Joanne Skerrett

as our paranoid government requires all Arab men to. To Whitney, this added to Max’s allure; it made him so brave, and “passionate.” To me, that was a bit too out there. And I would know. My roommates have not missed a hell-raising protest since I’ve known them. They burned Bill Gates in effigy in Seattle, slashed tires on a Ford Denali in Detroit, laid in coffins in Times Square before the Iraq invasion. I was quite familiar with civil disobedience in the name of political passions, but Kelly and James were U.S. citizens; this Max guy was on a student visa. For crying out loud, he was a frigging scientist at MIT. From Tunisia! Profile, anyone? I’m sorry, I told Whitney, he fit the terrorist stereotype to a T. She glared at me.

      “He is not a terrorist! Just because he won’t surrender his civil rights to Bush’s authoritarian regime…”

      I decided to mess with her. “They’re gonna come looking for him some day. You don’t want Alberto Gonzales kicking down the door to your crib. Know what I’m saying?”

      She rolled her eyes. “They’re not going to come after him. And even if they do, so what? The research he’s doing…He’s working on a cure for diabetes…He knows a lot of powerful people….”

      This was the problem. I cannot say again how smart Whitney is. Matter of fact, if I asked her now she could tell me where St. Tropez is and probably its off-season population and GDP without even stopping to consider the question. But there was something that happened to her brain whenever a penis became involved. The same brain that could master a regression analysis would turn to mush and pretty soon she’d be spouting nonsense as in the above.

      “Whitney, seriously, I’d be careful with this guy.”

      “Oh, come on. You think he’s in Al Qaeda or something?”

      I couldn’t help but giggle at that. “If he were that devout, he wouldn’t be having sex with you, getting drunk with you…I’m just saying be careful of those passionate men. They always seem to get you in trouble.”

      She brightened up at this statement. “Oh, so it’s not him you’re worried about. You’re worried that I’ll fall too hard for him and then go off the deep end when things don’t work out?”

      Bingo, I wanted to say, but I just sipped my frosty drink.

      “I’m not that person anymore, Amelia. I mean, I worked out all my issues at McLean. That thing with Tosin…I was just lashing out at him because I was taking his rejection as an extension of those feelings of rejection I had as a foster kid.” She was reciting a therapy session, obviously. “I’m all over that. Max is just what I need now, just fun, sex, no strings. Besides, he’s only here for another six months; then he’s going to France to continue his research.”

      What a relief. How much damage could they do in six months?

      “But what about Duncan? Big D?” I asked. We ordered from a friendly waitress who looked like she could be a model. I tried not to stare at her skinny legs, but they inspired me to get grilled salmon with vegetables instead of something slathered in cheese or cream sauce.

      Whitney shrugged. “I think he wanted something serious. He kept wanting to have these deep conversations.” She made a face.

      “Like, what’s the meaning of it all?”

      She ignored the crack. “Did I tell you Max went to Palestine when Yasser Arafat died?”

      It was my turn to sigh. “So, what does he think of you being this independent, sassy woman about town if he’s such a traditional Muslim?”

      She was on her third glass of wine. Max loved wine, and of course, he’d introduced her to so many new ones since they’d been hanging out, she’d said.

      “That doesn’t really come up. We both know we’re just in it for the sex. Unless it turns into something more.”

      “Something more like what? Are you ready to convert?”

      “Calm down, okay. He finds me sexy and intellectually challenging,” she said, making quotes with her fingers. “It could turn into something.”

      “Right. But you didn’t answer me. Would you convert to Islam if it did?”

      “You mean like start wearing a burka and stuff?”

      “Whitney, I can’t stand it when you start talking like an airhead.”

      “What?” She brushed a dreadlock off her shoulder.

      “Why are you putting this guy on such a pedestal? You said he’s just in it for the sex….”

      She looked up at the ceiling as if seriously pondering my question. “Wellllll…He’s so angry and he wants to change the world…kinda like your Caribbean guy.”

      Can’t really compare the two, I thought. My so-called Caribbean guy did not wear a kaffiyeh and call America the Great Satan.

      “You mean, angry like Bakari?” Bakari was another of Whitney’s mistakes. He was an African-American studies major who was trying to revive the Black Panthers to its former prominence. Whitney had fallen hard for him. Unfortunately, his revolutionary leanings straightened out when he was accepted into Yale Law School. Whitney dumped him shortly thereafter, but not before she cursed him out in broad daylight at Downtown Crossing. I was there when she called him a “bitch-ass, spineless, corporate sellout.” This is the same Whitney who works for Microsoft. But in her defense, she at least didn’t pretend to be a revolutionary. I wondered what would happen if her little Muslim revolutionary came up with the cure for diabetes and sold out to Merck or Pfizer.

      “So when are you gonna go see him?” Whitney asked.

      I shook my head as I took a bite of my grilled salmon steak. I really wanted fries and a huge burger, but I’m doing so well. Even my spin class instructor had noticed the difference. “Wow,” she’d chirped, sidling up to me in her barely-there little workout outfit. “You’re looking great these days.” That had made my day. Big-time!

      “I don’t know. We’ve been e-mailing every day back and forth for the last two weeks, and it’s starting to feel so…so weird.”

      “You’ve talked, right?”

      “Yes, three or four times.”

      Did we talk? If only she knew. I didn’t tell her that my phone bill would probably be a week’s salary and that it had gotten to the point where I had to hear his voice every day else I’d get all crabby and depressed. I know that’s not a good thing, but addictive behavior is in my genes.

      Last night I’d barely gotten any sleep. The memory of the conversation still made me feel like I was living inside a kind of mocha frapuccino heaven, with swirly whipped cream on top.

      He’d called me late and immediately said, “This is getting out of control. We spoke this morning but I feel like it’s been days.”

      “It has,” I’d replied. “It’s been like eons.” If I’d heard anyone else speak those words I would’ve wanted to stab him or her repeatedly. This was me—unromantic Amelia, saying ooey gooey stuff to a guy. But it felt good.

      “I’ll have to mortgage my house to pay your phone bill.”

      “Oh, please. How was your day?”

      “I worked out, then I worked, and tried not think of you. Didn’t work.”

      “Same here. We’re so pathetic.”

      “I liked your new pictures,” he’d said. I tensed up. I’d let Kelly take some new pictures of me since I’d lost these last couple of pounds, just so he could see that I was on the way to being less, um, less ample.

      “Thank you.” At least he didn’t mention my weight.

      “Ever think of traveling to the tropics to get some sun on that beautiful skin?”

      “Are you saying that I look pale?”

      He