Thunder rumbled in the distance, and Jessica Sweet scrambled to mount her horse, hopping up and swinging her long leg over his back. She leaned in close as she urged him toward home, knowing she was racing against the coming storm. She always rode him bareback, the wind whipping through both her long auburn mane and the horse's chestnut one.
She whooped and dug her heels in, sensing that they weren't going to make it. The rain came down in sudden, slashing sheets, soaking them both to the skin. The horse broke into a full out run, heading toward the shelter of the big barn, neighing and nickering and shaking his big head from side to side as he entered it.
"Good boy,” Jessica murmured, patting his neck. She got him settled in a stall and made a run for the house, bursting into the front door and slamming it behind her with a sigh.
She stood there catching her breath, her breasts heaving in the white blouse now plastered to her wet skin. When she opened her eyes, she saw him, a big hulk of a man looking even larger in the small rocking chair next to her fireplace.
"Jake!” she gasped, her eyes narrowing. “Get out of my house."
The man advanced toward her, grabbing her around her tiny waist and pulling her hard against his chest. “Not until I claim what's mine!"
His kiss burned her mouth, her throat, and even as she struggled against him, she could feel herself giving into him, as she always did…
“Maya!”
The voice startled her and she knocked the ladle into the steaming vat, splashing her apron with tomato soup. She sighed at the mess, glanced over at Alex and shrugged, looking sheepish.
“Sorry,” she mumbled to her boss, continuing to dish out soup, smiling an apology to the girl over the counter. She grabbed some napkins out of the receptacle behind her and wiped at her apron.
“You need to stop daydreaming.” Alex came to stand behind her. Maya glanced over her shoulder at the woman, who was frowning, her arms crossed over her chest.
“I'm sorry,” Maya apologized again, grabbing another bowl and filling it, handing it across the counter to the next student in line.
“That's what I keep telling her.” The voice made Maya drop the ladle yet again as she looked up and saw her creative writing professor standing in line. She sighed, grabbing the napkin and dabbing at her apron once more.
“'Out, damned spot.'” He handed her a napkin from the top of the counter. She looked up at him when he referenced Macbeth and saw a familiar sarcastic smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “No crime in spilled soup, but daydreaming romantic fantasies? Perhaps…”
“How do you know what I was daydreaming about?” She had an urge to stick her tongue out at him.
“Write what you know, Maya.” His eyes were full of knowing.
Maya flushed. “I doubt Shakespeare was ever a power-hungry woman. Soup, Professor Reardon?” She picked up the ladle and filled a bowl. She held it out to him and his hand brushed hers as he took it. She was startled by the electricity in that moment. Maya met his dark eyes and they were smiling at her, but his mouth wasn't.
“Touche!” He winked. “See you in class.” He moved up to the front of the line. Teachers didn't have to queue like the rest.
“What was that all about?” The older woman handed her a new apron, and Maya took off the dirty one, tossing it under the counter.
“Nothing. He just…” Maya looked after him, seeing his tweed coat through the myriad of bright splashes of student color. There was the man who'd dashed all her hopes with the stroke of a red pen. “He doesn't like my writing, I guess.”
Alex raised her eyebrows. “Not doing well in his class?”
“No.” Maya sighed. She'd always done well in writing classes, and she'd won award after award in high school. She'd been sure she would shine in college, and here she was a sophomore, finally in her first writing class, and she was finding out what it was like to be a little fish in a very big pond. She didn't like it at all.
“Why don't you go swipe cards up front?” Alex's eyes were kind. “You're awfully distracted today. I'll take over here.”
Maya gave her a grateful smile. “Thanks.” She liked swiping cards. It was easy, and much less messy when she was caught daydreaming about her next story.
She hated the big, round table where the students sat together as they rifled through the pages of each other's work. She would've preferred to hide at the back of the classroom, tucked away in a little boxy desk.
“Hey, Maya.” Connor sat next to her-again. This was the other reason she hated the big table. Personal space was becoming an issue. Somehow his knees and feet and hands kept getting all tangled with hers under cover of the table, and she wasn't quite sure how to stop it without making a scene.
“Hi.” She pretended to be engrossed in the story they were discussing today.
It was a long, depressing piece about a girl whose father had sexually abused her, told entirely from the point of view of the girl soaking in a bathtub. At the end, she slit her wrists. Maya hated it, but she was already famous among the group for loathing unhappy endings. She was just thankful that no one put their names on their pieces, especially after her epic WWII tale of a soldier falling in love with the nurse who took care of him was ripped to shreds last month by the entire group of Salinger-wanna-be's.
“Great story, isn't it?” Connor leaned over her shoulder, and she could smell the tuna they'd served in the cafeteria this afternoon on his breath.
“Is it yours?” She glanced at him. He was what her roommate, Jen, called a “hottie"-blonde, blue-eyed, strong jaw, great cheekbones. Male model material, really. He could pose for romance novel covers, she mused. Still, in spite of everyone else's enthusiasm about Wheaton College going co-ed this year, Maya still couldn't get used to having boys in her class. All the boys her age seemed so immature.
“I wish!” He nudged her with his knee under the table. “Hey, what are you doing tonight?”
Maya looked up in surprise. She knew she should have been attracted to Connor, all things considered, and she thought she was supposed to be grateful for the attention, but she just wasn't.
“Studying.” She pulled her limbs in and made herself as compact as possible.
“Connor!” It was Betsy Monroe. Bouncy and blonde, she was the perfect feminine bookend for the boy sitting next to Maya.
Maya turned away from their conversation, trying to decide what to say about this story when it came around to her. Poignant was a good word. She'd try that one. She wrote her comments at the end, in her rounded, girlish handwriting. By the time she finished, Professor Reardon had come in and was looking for a place to wedge in. There were only about fifteen of them around the table.
Maya looked up when he set his briefcase next to her, popping it open and pulling out a stack of papers. She noticed what a mess it was, how unorganized, and smiled. So Mr. Reardon wasn't Mr. Perfect, was he?
“All right.” He snapped the attendance book closed and slipped it back into his briefcase. “We're going to have to go on to the next story in the queue. The author of the story we're intending to do isn't here today.”
They all looked around, trying to figure out who was missing. The stories were anonymous, but they could usually tell who wrote what.
“Which one is next?” Betsy asked.
“The Captive Bride.” Professor Reardon held up Maya's story and she shrank even further in her seat, willing herself not to blush. It wasn't working-her face already felt hot. The rest of the class was shuffling through their papers, locating the story. “So, who wants to start?”
“The sex was wicked hot!” Connor remarked. The room tittered, and Maya could feel his thigh brushing against hers, back and forth. “What? I'm serious.”
“All right, the sex was hot.” Professor Reardon shook his head at Connor. “It's a start. Anyone else?”
“It was kind of formulaic,” Betsy remarked. “I mean, I liked it, don't get me wrong. What girl doesn't like a good romance, right? But it didn't break any new ground or take any chances.”
“It was really well-written.” A small, dark haired girl who wore huge glasses spoke up. Maya didn't know her name. “I mean, it could've been something that was published. It was that good.”
“You're right,” Professor Reardon agreed. Maya felt an immediate flush of pride. “The quality of the writing itself is easily publishable, as is, for the genre. This author has a great deal of talent and natural ability.”
Maya sat staring at the words on the page-the words that she'd written-trying not to get all glowy and starry-eyed. She thrived on praise like no one else she'd ever known, and his approval was like vital sustenance to her.
“But it's just a little romance.” The voice that spoke up belonged to Joseph Kramer. He was on the staff of the school paper, a freshman with his own column already called “My View.”
“What's wrong with that?” Professor Reardon asked the class again.
“Nothing, I guess.” Joe shrugged. “But if I'm writing something, I want it to be different. I don't want my stuff to be like everything else out there.”
“Do you realize what kind of market is out there for romance writing?” Betsy tossed in. “It's huge! Women eat this stuff up.”
“Yeah, it's like porn for women,” Connor agreed.
Maya winced. “I don't know if I agree with that analogy.”
“Why not?” Professor Reardon looked over at her. His eyes clearly stated that of course he knew who wrote it, and of course, he was talking directly to her.
“I guess I just feel a difference,” Maya said with a shrug. “Romance is about love, and porn is just… just sex.”
“So, what's wrong with writing romance?” Professor Reardon asked again.
“Nothing, if you want to be mediocre,” Joseph replied with a snort.
“And make a million dollars,” Betsy retorted. “Look at Danielle Steele.”
“Yeah, well,” Joseph went on. “No matter how good you are in the genre, you'll never win a Pulitzer Prize, will you?”
“No,” Professor Reardon replied. “That's very true.”
“It just seems like a waste of talent to me,” Joseph replied.
Maya's face was on fire and she felt tears stinging her eyes. She blinked them back, biting at the inside of her cheek.
“So what about the story itself, then?” Professor Reardon went on. Under the table, Maya felt a hand on hers, a brief squeeze, and then it was gone. She was so used to Connor touching her, that at first it didn't register that it had come from her other side. She stared at Professor Reardon for a moment, incredulous. The discussion was still going on.
“Ok, but this is about a pirate abducting some young girl,” Joseph was saying. “Shouldn't he be dangerous? He sounds like a big pussy to me.”
“Girls like bad boys,” Connor agreed.
Maya tuned them out. For the rest of the discussion, all she could think about was the brief touch of Professor Reardon's hand on hers. It stayed with her, like a brand.
After class, she stayed and asked him if she could have her story. They were supposed to pick them up at his office (to keep the air of anonymity.) He handed it over to her, though, and she saw through the cover page that it was full of red marks.
“You said it was good!” She sighed, flipping to the end to see the grade. “B-". She had never earned less than an “A” on any piece of writing in her life. At least it was better than the “C” she got last time.
“It is.” He packed up his briefcase. The class had departed, and they were alone.
“I don't understand.” She shook her head. “What do you have against romance stories?”
“Nothing, per se.” He snapped his briefcase shut, his eyes on hers. “But I do agree with Joseph. You have an incredible talent, and you're wasting it writing fairy stories.”
“But you don't understand-this is what I want to write!” she cried, smacking the table with her story.
He shrugged. “That's up to you. I just want you to know what you're capable of.” He started toward the door and Maya felt tears stinging her eyes again, but she refused to let them fall. “Maya,” he said from the doorway. His voice was soft. She turned to look at him, but his back was still to her, his hand on the door. “Would you come to my office tomorrow at two? I'd like to talk to you about something.”
She frowned, but said, “Okay.”
He nodded, opening the door and walking out, leaving her alone.
“Oh come on! Skip it just this once!” Jen nudged Maya with her foot from where she was lying on her bed.
Maya looked back from the mirror, pulling her auburn ponytail tighter. “I can't, Jen. Work-study means I have to work in order to get to the study part.”
Jen sighed. “Well, who really wants to study, right?” She flashed Maya a grin and wiggled her eyebrows. “I know you'd rather come into Boston with us and see a movie.”
Maya shook her head. Of course, she was right. Jen had been her roommate since freshman year, and they had become fast friends, but she clearly still didn't quite understand what it meant to be going to a small, private New England college entirely on grants and the work-study program. Jen's parents paid her tuition, among other things.
“Sorry, sweetie, I really do have to work.” Maya glanced at the clock. Dinner shift started in an hour, and she was doing “run and set” tonight, meaning she was in charge of filling everything that was depleted on the school's huge salad bar.
“Hey, your mom called this afternoon.” Jen flipped over onto her belly with her book.
Maya turned slowly away from the mirror. “Did she leave a message?”
“Just to call her.” Jen took a swig of her diet Coke. They had two cases of it stacked in the corner. It was Jen's version of coffee.
“Thanks.” Maya went out into the hallway and headed toward the front desk. There was a dorm phone out there. They had a phone in their room, but it was Jen's and Jen's parents paid the bill.
Up until recently, this year in fact, they had someone called a “Den Mother” at the front desk. She answered the phone and left messages for the girls, and she also made sure that no boys entered the dorms. Like any good girls’ school, boys weren't allowed anywhere but downstairs in the group room.
Now the dorm phone was left unmanned (or un-womaned in this case) and the dorms were a basic free-for-all. Maya picked up the phone and dialed the operator. It wasn't long before she heard her mother say, “Yes,” to the question, “Will you accept the charges?”
“Mom? Jen said you called, what's up?”
“Your father.” Her mother's voice turned immediately cold and angry. “He won't send the check, and he knows damned well your brother is still here freeloading off me.”
Maya sighed, resting her forehead against her palm. “Mom, was there something important?”
“This is important,” her mother retorted. “If you want any help with that ticket for your flight home over spring break, you might want to call your father and remind him to send a check!”
She realized that going home to Detroit was the last thing she wanted to do. She remembered her freshman spring break at Wheaton. It had been perfect.
Jennifer had invited her to her home and they had spent the time chatting with her parents in their BMW all the way to Hartford. She had spent a week playing tennis (Tennis! She'd never even picked up a racket before!) and swimming in their huge in-ground pool. They had a housekeeper named Sal, who was always bringing them more to eat and drink, every time she turned around. It was like a whole other world.
“I can call him if you want me to, Mom,” Maya agreed, just wanting to end the conversation.
“Good.” She sounded satisfied. “So how's school? Are you working hard? Getting good grades?”
Maya closed her eyes and her smile was grim. “Yep. Always do. I have to go, ok?”
“Don't you forget to call your father!”
“I won't,” Maya replied. “Bye.” She replaced the receiver and sat there for a moment, staring at it. She could look out the dorm room windows and see the cafeteria from here. She was going to be late for work.
She stared off into the distance, over the pond, where the ducks swam year round because everyone fed them and made them fat and lazy. Now, in the spring, they were in their prime, quacking loudly whenever anyone walked past, demanding attention. She could see someone feeding them now, squatting down by the edge.
Her mind wandered back to Jessica Sweet and Jake, and she longed to sit down at Jen's laptop and write the rest of the story. She wanted to escape into their world for a little while. Just a little while. Her mind drifted…
Jake pulled Jessica closer, his mouth slanting against hers, forcing her to open to him. She moaned as he pressed his thigh between hers, pinning her against the door. She lost herself in his embrace, as she always did, but finally came to her senses.
“Jake!” she gasped, shoving at his shoulders, but not feeling him move at all. “Your brother is going to be home in less than an hour. Do you want him to find you here?”
Maya sighed, shaking her head to clear it. Maybe Professor Reardon was right. Maybe she did just write “fairy stories” so she could escape the realities of her own life. She remembered that she had promised him that she would go by his office tomorrow.
She dreaded it, but she was also curious. What could he want? Probably to tell me I should forget about writing, drop out of college and just become a waitress like my mother. Maya shuddered at the thought, looking back out the window, realizing that the figure by the edge of the pond was her creative writing professor.
On a whim, she decided to go down there. Maybe he would tell her what he wanted.
“Hi.” Maya's voice made him jump and he turned to look at her, startled.
“Oh, hi, Maya.” He stood and pocketed something, brushing his hands off. “I come down here to think,” he said, as if she required some explanation.
“Oh, me, too.” She watched the ducks squabble in the water for the bread that he had been throwing in. “All the time. Great thinking spot.”
They stood there for a moment, and it should have been an awkward silence, but it wasn't. The pond was like glass, and the sun was just beginning to set, giving a fiery, orange tinge to it all. Maya found herself wanting to touch his hand again, and when he looked over at her, she wondered what he was thinking about.
“I saw you from my dorm.” Maya squatted down and held her hand out to one of the ducks. It came toward her, but edged away when it realized she didn't have food. “I wanted to talk to you.”
“Oh?” His voice didn't reveal anything. He was still in his professor role, a little distant.
“About fairy stories…” Maya stood and faced him. He was waiting, his eyes on hers. “When I was a little girl, my dad used to tell me a fairy story. It was about a little ugly duckling, who grew up to be the most beautiful swan.”
He smiled. “I'm familiar with that one.”
“Yeah.” She smiled back. “Most people are. Anyway… my dad left us when I was twelve and my brother was six, and life pretty much completely sucked after that. Nothing was ever the same. I hardly saw him when I was growing up. He was traveling a lot.”
“I'm sorry, Maya.” His voice was sad, full of sympathy, and when she looked at him, she saw that it was genuine.
“No, it's ok…” She put her hands in her jeans pockets and looked across the pond, watching a couple walking on the other side. “But what I wanted to tell you… I always remembered that story. How the little duckling grew up into something really spectacular.”
He touched her shoulder. It was a brief thing, but it held the same heat, the same connection, she had felt before. She didn't look at him. She was afraid to. “Sometimes I think we need fairy stories-romance, love, happy endings. Just to have something to hold onto, when our own lives seem so dark.”
They were quiet for a moment, both of them staring off into the distance.
“Anyway, that's all,” Maya said. “I have to get to work. I'm already late.” She turned to go, and she felt his hand again, this time on her wrist. She looked down at it, and then up at him, her breath caught.
He was smiling, his eyes full of something she didn't quite understand. “Thank you, Maya.”
She shrugged. “I'll see you tomorrow. Your office at two?”
“Yes.” He nodded, letting her go.
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