“I slept with one of them two weeks ago. He said he’d text, but he didn’t…”
Her eyes widen. “You didn’t know he’d be here?”
I shake my head. “No. I mean, he told me he was an English major, but I didn’t know he took this class.”
Oh God.
The mention of majors brings me back to our conversation at the party. As far as he’s concerned, I have no reason to be in a creative writing class. He doesn’t know that I’m having a second-life crisis and changing the narrative.
He just knows that the business major he slept with two weeks ago is suddenly in his creative writing class when one of the few significant pieces of information he gave her was that he’s an English major. Hell, for all he knows, I switched into five English department classes in the hopes of striking gold and finding him. But I really had no clue he’d be here.
Doubt creeps in.HadI known at some point that he’d taken a creative writing class with a professor named Travers? Was that information floating somewhere in the back of my mind, subconsciously driving me to add this course to my schedule?
No. No way. That’s ridiculous. It’s a total coincidence—the worst kind of coincidence.
“That sucks,” Helen whispers, then lets out a small, tinny giggle.
Despite my anxiety, I laugh along with her. “It really does, doesn’t it?”
“It’s not too late to drop it,” she says optimistically.
“That would look evenmorepathetic,” I counter, not bothering to tell her I considered that already.
She opens her mouth to reply but closes it when the classroom door shuts. I look up, and in walks a woman with a stern countenance. Dressed in a red power suit, she carries a thermos in one hand and clutches a binder to her chest with the other.
I looked her up, so I know this is Professor Travers, better known in the literary world as Jessica Travers. She’s a graduate of the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, and her short stories have been published in several national journals and magazines; one was featured in the 2007 edition ofThe Best American Short Stories.
It’s kind of shocking how similar she looks in person to her author photo. The same serious expression, her dishwater-blond hair in the same soft waves. Even the same red suit. Put a bookcase behind her, and I’d swear the photo had been snapped mere moments ago.
She takes a seat at the desk in the front of the class and starts to assemble her papers. I stare at her, my back straight, the epitome of a good student.
I willnotlook at Ellie.
Professor Travers begins the class, and I’m so focused on making it seem like I’m paying attention to her that I find it difficult to actually pay attention. If I were actually paying attention, I would probably allow my gaze to do what it naturally wants to do, which is to wander just a little bit over to—nope. Right now,lookinglike I’m paying attention is the more important task.
Helen gently nudges me in the side. Frowning, I turn to her. She darts a pointed look at Professor Travers.
Oh shit.
Professor Travers is staring atme. How the hell had I missed that while lookingdirectly at her?
She offers me a tight smile that doesn’t reach even the general ballpark of her eyes.
Off to a great start.
“Josephina Vasquez? Why don’t you stand and tell us a little about yourself. Where you’re from, your major, and your favorite novel is what we all shared on the first day.”
My face heats, and I take a deep breath, willing my nerves to calm down. I had to do this in Two-Dimensional Design earlier too, but I felt nowhere near as anxious—for one very obvious reason.
I stand, eager to get this over with, smile at the room, and say, “Hi, my name’s Joey. I’m from San Diego. Major is… to be determined. My favorite novel is—”
Every single novel I have ever read escapes my recollection.
I glance around the class, taking care to glide my eyes over Ellie without feeling, and I wonder what the others said. Not Ellie—he saidThe Catcher in the Rye, obviously—but everyone else. Did they flounder like me, or did their answers come easily? Do they know enough to know their answers will probably change? That years from now, they might barely recall the plot of their current favorite book.
That sometimes, you pick a favorite of something, and it becomes your automatic answer for years to come, but every once in a while, you pause and wonder,Is that my favorite still?But when the next time rolls around, you give the same answer again, because to have a favorite anything feels intrinsically tied to your identity. Yank at one thread, and the whole fabric unravels.
What would I have said at eighteen?
