The real reason she kept me around was because I knew how to make myself useful. Three years into being her assistant and I pretty much knew how she liked things run. I would head back to her office in a few moments and begin organizing her returning student files for when the upperclassmen returning next week, but for just a minute I was content to soak up another form of education.
I knew many wealthy individuals and many more smart people and in all of that, I’d never seen a person who commanded a room more completely than my mentor. I had no shame in admitting I aspired to be like her. I caught snatches of her conversation as she moved from student to student and spun her magic. She had the uncanny ability to remember details from previous conversations and would never forget ask about your mother’s fiftieth birthday celebration or sick relative.
In the classroom, she was all business all the time, but in small settings like this, she was more relaxed and made us students feel more comfortable too.
Dr. Gwinn once told me the most important gift you could give a person was to make them feel valued. She’d mastered doing just that as she worked her way around the small gathering.
When she got to me, I was all prepared to discuss my own summer knowing she wasn’t above prodding for details about the gossip she’d heard about me or my close friends.
Therefore, I was surprised when she placed her hand on my shoulder, her bright smile dropped, and she said, “Meet me in my office after this.”
But then her public face was back and she drifted away, on to other students.
An hour later, I was nearly done organizing her returning student files, and was about to move on to skimming a 200-level course syllabus for grammar and typos. Although, mercifully, I was not taking any of her classes this semester, she still wouldn’t let me see any of the 300- or 400-level materials.
I chuckled and remembered her chiding me when I’d asked about it.
“I know that I’m younger than most of the professors, but it is apparent that you believe I was born yesterday.”
When I’d objected she continued, “I know that students, even you honors students who are smart and who are good and who are noble, think it’s better to ‘cheat than repeat.’ You’re not getting anywhere near my tests, so get that out of your head now.”
I wouldn’t have stolen a test or cheated, but there was a reason that Dr. Gwinn’s tests never ever got out. She changed them every semester and sometimes between classes. She wasn’t playing around. You couldn’t fake your way through her class.
She’d been in and out of the office since the gathering ended but hadn’t said more than two or three words to me, and I was beginning to feel more uneasy by the minute.
I honestly couldn’t imagine what I could’ve done—over the summer, no less—to earn her censure.
Maybe one of my bosses down in Charlotte called her.
The door opened and she walked in looking a bit more tired than usual. She took a seat in her chair, slid her feet out of her high heels and wiggled her toes around for a second before placing them back on.
I was shocked. I’d never seen her do something so informal.
“Pick your jaw up off my carpet, Trevor.”
I immediately snapped my mouth shut.
“Now, how was your summer?” she said, looking down at the notepad on her desk.
“It was—Dr. Gwinn?”
“Yes, Trevor?”
“Are you—upset with me?”
Her eyes flew from the paper she’d been skimming.
“Why on earth would you think that?”
I don’t know, maybe because you called me to the side and said ominously that you needed to speak to me and then you’ve been kind of ignoring me for the last hour.
“You said you wanted to speak to me privately but you’ve been on the move since I got here. I didn’t know . . .”
“Oh no.” She flinched, and added softly, “Oh, I am so sorry, Trevor. I wasn’t ignoring you. I took for granted that you didn’t need anything because you’re so self-sufficient.”
Relief washed through me.
Huh. So her leaving me to my own devices was actually a compliment.
“I’ve been so busy with my added duties now that I’m acting dean, I didn’t make time for you and that is my primary job. Forgive me. I know your internship went well. I got a glowing letter from your supervisor down at First Union,” she added.
It was my turn to be surprised. I didn’t know Dr. Gwinn had been in touch with my boss.
“Don’t look so shocked. Of course I checked up on one of my favorite students during the summer.” I laughed loudly at her non-concession that I was her favorite student.
“Speaking of favorite students—or should I say, favorite non-students—please pass on a message—” I grinned and ducked my head. I knew who she referred to before she even said his name.
“To that rapscallion friend of yours, Julian P. Marshall. You tell him I said the time is nigh. No more running.” She pointed her finger at me imperiously. “He may take my class first semester or he will take it second semester, but all roads to graduation lead through my classroom.”
I burst into shocked laughter.
Julian had no idea she knew he was avoiding her.
Jules was going to be devastated.
I, admittedly, was not devastated for him. It was about time he took a class that challenged him instead of skating through American Literature: The Past as Prologue or whatever they had him taking for an English major.
English courses were not a challenge for Julian; he could teach most of the courses by now. Hell, he was an English TA this year, so he probably would teach a class at some point.
“Where is that layabout anyway?” she continued jokingly. Jules was a hard worker; proof of that was how hard he’d worked to avoid taking Dr. Gwinn’s classes. “I don’t recall seeing him helping out during freshman move in this weekend.”
I feigned a look of confusion. “Jules? Manual labor?” Dr. Gwinn laughed.
“He’s at his cousin’s wedding in Kentucky.” I looked down at my watch. “He oughta be back here in about two hours.”
“Well, speaking of freshman, I have a favor to ask of you.”
I raised my eyebrows in surprise but continued listening.
“There’s a freshman that has somehow convinced me, against my better sense, to allow her to double major.”
A shocked laugh escaped before I could stop myself. “How on earth did she get you to agree to that?”
When I’d gotten approved it had been like pulling teeth. I shook my head thinking of the argument that had almost led to me choosing another school.
“She was quite dogged. Sound familiar?”
I smiled despite myself. Whoever this person was, she already had my admiration. I knew just how big a hill she’d had to climb to get that approval.
“And I’m a sucker for a good argument. She made a good case for herself. She told me she shouldn’t be held accountable for the failures of other students.”
I nodded in appreciation for this very valid argument, as it was an echo of my own.
Dr. Gwinn continued, “I’d usually supervise her myself, but since you’re wrapping up a very successful run here as a double major, I thought she might glean a little more insight on balancing the workload from someone that’s actually done it. I’d like you to act as her mentor.”
Her request surprised me. I knew just how seriously Dr. Gwinn took mentorship. She’d been a lifeline to me. She challenged me when I needed it, listened when I was struggling, and gave valuable advice on how to further my goals.
I must’ve paused a bit too long because she added, “It would only be for this semester, Trevor. By next semester, Dean Dixon should be back and I’ll be able to mentor her myself.”
“Of course,” I replied as I recovered from my shock. “I was just surprised. I’d love to do it.”
“Excellent. You and I can work out the details about when you’ll
meet and how you’ll be reporting back to me, but for now here’s what you need to know.”
Just as she began to write, one of the economics professors poked his head in and said, “Dean Gwinn, staff meeting in two.”
She nodded in acknowledgement, sighed a bit wearily, and hastily handed the paper to me as she stood and walked to the door. She called over her shoulder, “You’ll need to get going. I told her you’d meet today.” I heard the sound of her heels clicking as she strode down the hall and I unfolded the paper in my hand.
Harris Music Building.
11:30 AM.
The Harris Music Building was the small house that belonged to first African American Trustee of Fisk. These days it held classrooms and practice space used by the Music Department, with beautiful pianos dotting the corners and walls.
The building was one of the few places I’d spent little time, since, ashamedly, I was not musical.
I’d peeked through a few rooms before I heard the notes of a piano floating from the other wing of the building. I drifted toward the familiar soft melody of “Someone to Watch Over Me.” As I moved closer, I heard a voice, low, but under the notes it struck me like a bell all the same.
I knew.
Without having seen her, without even having heard the voice clearly, I knew it was Daisy.
Daisy.
I stood near the threshold of the room where she played, not yet ready to enter, not yet ready to see her again. I listened to her voice. I closed my eyes and let it wash over me.
My body reacted in the same odd way it had all the other times I’d seen her. My heart raced, I couldn’t catch my breath, and my palm ached as if it was punishing me for keeping it from its mate.
I took a deep breath and braced for the moment she would fill my vision. I stepped into the space.
And there she sat.
Daisy played with her whole body, not just her fingers. Her voice was velvet, melodic, and clear as a bell. She sang the refrain and I wished more than anything that I could be the one to watch over her.
She was in blue today. I could see hints of her shirt peeking from beneath that gorgeous fluffy hair that reached down past her shoulders. Hair that I wanted to twist around my finger so I could feel its deep texture. Hair that I wanted to play in and separate coil by coil, wave by wave, curl by curl. Hair that I want to fist and tug as I . . .
I stopped my brain from going down that lethal track. This was the girl I was supposed to mentor? A girl so goddamn beautiful I could barely think straight?
How the hell was I supposed to do that? For a second I was almost angry with Dr. Gwinn.
I allowed myself another moment to drink her in, her voice, her body, her spirit . . . hoping to draw a bit of strength before facing her.
I would be careful today. I wouldn’t shake her hand and I wouldn’t tease or flirt.
I’d . . .
I didn’t know what I’d do. The danger of Daisy was that all the things I shouldn’t want to do felt like the most natural things in the world around her. She was dangerous for another reason too: Daisy made me weak. Or rather, to put the blame on myself where it belonged: Daisy was my weakness. She made my resolve crumble. I hadn’t meant to spend the day with her yesterday and I could already feel my mind whirling, trying to think of ways to extend what should only be a brief meeting between a mentor and mentee to set up future dates.
Future dates. Good God, I was going to have to see her all semester long. How on earth was I going to do that?
I reminded myself that I was in a position where I was supposed to guide her for Pete’s sake. I reminded myself that Dr. Gwinn would have my head and every other part of me if she got so much of a whiff that I had taken advantage of Daisy.
Besides, there were plenty of other reasons that being anything other than completely platonic with Daisy was a very bad idea.
She was a freshman and I was a senior, for starters. She was too young for me. I needed to concentrate—she needed to concentrate—if she was going to double-major successfully. And then there was the commitment I’d made to Elodie; the relationship may have been fake, but that didn’t matter. The commitment was real.
Longing, strong and sure, pierced me. The combination of Daisy’s beautiful, wistful notes and my own frustration at the futility of wanting anything more with Daisy created palpable pain.
Lost in thought, I shifted my feet and Daisy must have heard because she stopped singing and playing abruptly.
I expected her to turn around, but instead she just froze.
A few uncomfortable seconds ticked by and she didn’t move.
“Daisy?” I asked in concern, sounding a bit raspier as I crossed the room, a sixth sense telling me something was wrong. I wanted and needed to provide her comfort if she was upset, caution and keeping my distance be damned.
“Trevor?” she said, but her voice was too watery, as if she’d been crying.
I slid next to her on the piano bench, and threaded my fingers through her hair, gently nudging the riot of hair behind her ears. I needed to see her face. I needed to see if I could help fix whatever had made her cry.
“Hey. What’s wrong?” I said by way of greeting.
She released a shuddering breath and I wanted to ball my fist. Whatever was wrong—I would fix it. And then I would annihilate whoever was responsible for making her feel such melancholy.
When those deep brown eyes met my own, they were clear. She hadn’t been crying but she was definitely feeling something sad and strong. She gave me a weak smile, looked down, and her hair spilled over her shoulder and curtained her face from me.
None of that. This girl hiding that face from me felt criminal.
“Daisy, whatever is wrong, you know you can tell me.”
She looked up at me again and offered a halfhearted shrug. I suspected it was meant to look casual before she replied, “Oh, nothing. I'm just being overly emotional. I haven’t played since . . . I haven’t played the piano in over a year.” She paused and continued softly, like a confession. “I missed it.”
The question Why did you stop playing? pressed at my throat, but I got the feeling that Daisy wouldn’t tell me. She didn’t seem to want me to know how strongly this was impacting her so I reckoned she wouldn’t want to talk about why she stopped playing either.
“I hadn’t realized just how much until I came in here and I saw all these beautiful . . . and I hadn’t missed it until just now.”
“That was beautiful,” I said because it was.
She smiled up at me ruefully. “You are too kind. That was quite rusty. But . . . it’s my mother’s favorite song,” she added the last part so quietly I almost didn’t hear it.
I was definitely not going to ask Daisy, who’d arrived parentless, about her parents. If playing her mother’s favorite song brought a bout of sadness this palpable then the story couldn’t be good.
I wanted to reach over to hug her, give her some comfort and then encourage her to get back to playing full time if she missed it, but before I could she jumped up from the bench.
“Oh!” She looked around like she’d just remembered where she was. “Oh! I was supposed to meet someone. And I saw the pianos and . . . I have to go.” She grabbed her bag and was ghosting away from me before I could get a word out. As if I was going to let that happen.
“Daisy!” I shouted and she halted with one foot out the door. Something about that image—Daisy with one foot out the door—had me rushing to speak.
“I’m the one you’ve been looking for.” I cringed at the unintentional double meaning. “I mean, I’m your mentor. That’s who you were going to meet in the foyer, right? Your mentor?” I clarified.
She walked back toward me slowly. Her big brown eyes blinked rapidly, making connections.
She stood in front of me, almost eye to eye since I still sat on the bench, her eyebrows raised in delight. “You’re my mentor?”
I was so caught by those lovely eyes it took me a second to answ
er. When I finally did, I had to look away. “Yes I am, I—” I stopped short because I’d made the mistake of looking down.
Now that she stood, I could clearly see her outfit, and it became clear Daisy has a sadistic streak.
Her shirt . . . well, it was really a sorry excuse for a shirt. It was cropped off above her belly button and showed off a tantalizing sliver of her taut belly. The sleeves of the shirt were little arm bands, leaving her shoulders completely bare. The way the light blue color of the shirt contrasted with the rich brown of her skin, the way her collarbones dipped and curved, the way those bell-bottom jeans hugged her figure . . . it was all too much.
My eyes snapped shut.
I fought the feeling that this girl—only this girl—made me feel. Something akin to flying and fear and hope and lust, stronger than I’d ever experienced. When I opened them again, her magnetic eyes were right there, inches from my own.
I want to kiss her.
I fought against the thought. Of course I wouldn’t kiss Daisy. But I did stare right into those the big oval eyes. I memorized their shape and the vibrant nut-brown color. I noticed for the first time the flecks of black within her irises.
The tension between us felt so thick it was like another presence in the room. Then Daisy—blessed, beautiful, innocent Daisy—broke it. She looked away shyly and that was enough to snap me from my stupor and I stood.
I had to get out of there before I got myself into trouble.
I looked toward the door as I plotted my escape but Daisy’s sweet voice pulled my focus back to her. “This will be fantastic! Teach me everything you know.”
I looked back down at her with those magnetic eyes staring at up me waiting and—
Lust, white hot and burning, slammed through me once again and I felt my spine crackling as my body began to change. I prayed it wasn’t noticeable. I closed my eyes to get a reprieve from all of Daisy’s . . . Daisiness. When I opened them again, I sighed in defeat. “I intend to do just that, mentee.”
She smiled and scrunched her nose in response and then dug into her purse and produced a pen and small scheduler. “So when do we want to meet?”
Upsy Daisy: A First Love College Romance Page 10
