by Claire Adams
So, I refolded my section of the newspaper and studied the articles. Some journalists used creative leads, while most stuck to single-item or summary leads.
The newsprint blurred, and I was back on campus under the full moon. Ford's gray eyes caught the silvery light and twinkled. The air was chilly, and dried leaves crumpled underneath our feet. I felt safe, the ramrod straight set of his back telling me I was his responsibility. Except when he looked my way and a wildly charged current leapt between us.
"Just imagining things," I muttered.
"What was that, darling?" My father looked up from the Arts & Style section again.
"Did you want one of those pears? They're ripe; I checked earlier," I said.
He gave me a quizzical smile, then shook his head and returned to his reading. I forced my eyes back over the headlines and tried to find the trick I needed to write my own grabbers.
Not touching, but aware of every breath, shift, and accelerating heartbeat.
I jumped up from the table and went to butter my piece of toast. On the way back to the table, I slipped a blank grocery list page under my plate along with a pen. There had to be some way to express the distance and absorption I felt all at the same time when I was near Ford.
"Working on an article?" My father asked. "I remember when you used to sit here and write fairy tales. I was forever helping you spell words like 'enchantment' and 'dastardly.' Bet you don't use those words enough now that you're all grown up."
"No one uses the word 'dastardly' anymore. Unless, for some reason, you're describing pirates," I pointed out.
My father chuckled. "If anyone could, it'd be you. You're so much more creative than you're letting yourself be, Clarity."
I groaned. "I thought you were supposed to save the lectures for after coffee."
"No lecture, just an observation," he said.
I folded up the scrap of paper and shoved it in my back pocket. "Well, here's an observation: I've got a great opportunity for an internship at Wire Communications, and you promised to help me with the application, but you haven't even picked it up yet." I pointed to the neat folder I had placed on the edge of the kitchen island.
My father glanced at it and gave me a pained look. "Why do you want to work there?"
"First off, it's just an internship. And, secondly, it's just an internship at one of the largest media outlets in the Midwest." I dropped my hands to the table in exasperation.
"You don't have to worry about internships yet, Clarity. It's not even Thanksgiving break. Actually, though, we need to talk about Thanksgiving," he said. My father folded his paper smoothly and laid it aside.
I held up a hand. "No. No talking about the holiday until you promise you will help me with this application. I need to pick the perfect cover letter, the best examples of my writing, and recommendations. And I don't want to wait until after break because everyone else will. I want to stand out and show them I'm dedicated. Besides, we never do anything for Thanksgiving."
"That's what I want to talk to you about," my father reached for my hands. "We've been remiss with our holidays the last few years."
"I don't mind. I'm not a child anymore," I reminded him.
He squeezed my fingers. "Even more reason for us to take the time to celebrate. You need to let yourself be a kid again, even if it's just during the holidays. You're much too serious, Clarity."
I narrowed my eyes, but knew I would never win this fight. We had it almost every day. My father thought I was too serious, too focused, and that I was going to miss out on my life. I thought he was sentimental and pinning his abandoned desire to paint on me. We'd go ten rounds about what we each thought the other should do, and then let it blow over until the next day.
"How about we make a deal?" I asked.
My father let go of my fingers and steepled his hands together. "Ah, a deal. Does it include you finding a creative outlet and letting a little more balance into your life?"
I swatted at him even as I thought about the scrap of paper in my back pocket. "Nice try, but we're skipping the lecture today and going straight to negotiations."
He laughed and sat back to cross his arms and give me a regal stare. It didn't quite work with the remainder of his red hair still fuzzy from sleep and his bathrobe tight over his belly. "Fine, I'm listening."
I grinned. "I will help you cook a full Thanksgiving meal, decorate the house from autumn leaf garlands down to a cornucopia centerpiece if you help me complete my entire application for Wire Communications."
"Turkey, stuffing, gravy, the whole works?" he asked.
"Even acorn squash with nutmeg," I promised.
My father's eyes twinkled. "Throw in one original poem, and it's a deal."
"No poem, no short story, just the entire Thanksgiving experience."
"Fine. Deal." My father stuck out his hand and we shook on it. "Now what's this about a short story?"
"Dad!" I laughed but shifted so I could feel the folded paper in my back pocket again.
#
The armchair was half-hidden behind the archive stacks in the basement of the library. Above it was a porthole window, a trace of the old building before the new addition. That was why the tiny alcove was an anomaly in the architecture and the perfect place to curl up and work on my secret project.
The scrap of paper was now taped on the inside of a spiral bound notebook. Page after page was crossed with a slashing X as I had written and rewritten the beginning about eighteen times. I wanted it to be perfect.
Each word felt like a tiny puzzle piece that had to be turned and fitted precisely. I loved agonizing over them and watching beautiful sentences form.
The best feeling, though, came from the moments when the pen took off, and I filled half a dozen pages with inspiration. My mind soared, and I felt the smile on my lips even though I was all alone.
Every time my phone beeped to remind me of the time, I felt like I was coming down from a great height. Gravity was heavier as I trudged up the stairs and crossed the courtyard that joined the library with Thompson Hall. It was my new routine to work on my secret project until it was time for Ford's class. If it had been any other class, I would have skipped it and stayed in my little library alcove, scribbling away forever.
No one knew where I disappeared to, and that was part of the thrill. I hadn't told anyone, not even Jasmine or Lexi, and I certainly was not going to please my father with news of my creative endeavor. If he knew I was writing a short story, he would yell it from the rooftops.
"Did you find that link I sent you about traditional story structures?" Ford asked as I walked into the lecture hall.
"Yes, thank you! Kurt Vonnegut sums it up so well. I loved how he described the shape of stories. Especially Cinderella," I said.
Ford smiled, and for a moment I forgot about the multiple levels of students behind me. There was only his stubbled grin and the crinkled lines of it around his smoky gray eyes. The man had black lashes that could ensnare me.
"Are you going to tell me what you're working on?" he asked.
I turned to walk up to my seat. "Who says I'm working on anything? Maybe if you didn't give us so much homework..."
The students nearest me snickered and called out their agreement. I felt a tug in my chest. It always felt awful to separate us back into our roles. He was a professor, and I was a student, except when he smiled and the outside world receded.
I missed most of his lecture that day, but I knew it wouldn't bother me to watch him again on the recording my laptop made. My notes were a jumble of attempted phrases and minute descriptions—a mess of writing that had nothing to do with journalism.
As long as no one noticed, I was recklessly following my own instincts. If anyone saw me acting so free-spirited and irresponsible, I knew the unsaid comparison to my mother would drive it all away. Writing a creative short story felt wild, impractical, and wonderful as long as I had it all to myself.
With that thought in mind, I scooped up
all my things and crammed them into my book bag. The other upside of my secret project was it helped me to avoid thinking about Ford. Sure, one of the characters resembled him in flattering ways, but writing about him was safer than flirting with the real thing.
"Hey, Clarity!" Thomas jogged to catch up to me in the foyer of Thompson Hall. "How about a coffee? Unless you're heading out to get some fresh air. Want some company?"
It was a beautiful, November day, with bright sunshine that held the last dregs of summer's warmth. Everyone was flooding out of the building and onto the lawns to feel the sun on their faces. All I wanted to do was scramble back down to the library basement and be left in peace.
"Sorry, Thomas, I've got to study. See you around," I called as I headed across the courtyard to the library.
I took a different route just to make sure Thomas didn't follow me. He was shy, but persistent, and I wasn't sure how far he would pursue me. I was just translating that thought into a memory for my main character when I came around the corner of the archive stacks and almost screamed.
"What are you doing here?" I hissed instead.
Ford leaned his head back on the hidden armchair and smiled. "Isn't it obvious? I'm waiting for you."
"How did you know I was coming here?" my whisper cracked with irritation.
Ford stood up and motioned for me to take the arm chair. When I shook my head and crossed my arms tight across my chest, he sighed and explained, "I questioned your friend, Thomas. I'm sorry to say, but he's the best kind of source: anxious to talk if he likes the subject. You do know he likes you, right?"
"Leave poor Thomas out of this. Why are you here, Ford?" My breath caught. I always called him by his first name in my head. That's how we first met, and I felt I had some claim to his given name as long as I didn't say it aloud.
Ford paused at the sound of it too. A smile played around his lips, only to be swallowed away. "I'm just curious. Thomas, on the other hand, is worried. He thinks you're working too hard. But, if the smile I saw as you came down those steps is any indication, you like whatever you've been working on."
I ground my teeth and scowled. "I did until you came along and interrupted me."
Ford gestured to the open armchair. "Please, don't let me get in your way. Like I said, I was just curious."
I inched past him, refusing to inhale the intoxicating scent of his soap. The last time I caught a whiff of sandalwood in a candle store, I had gotten weak in the knees. I stopped, and we were caught, the backs of my knees hard against the seat of the armchair and Ford pressed against the wall. We were inches apart.
"Yes?" he asked and the word was barely more than a whisper.
This was what I had wanted all along. I wanted someone to find me, someone to be curious enough to check on me. I wanted someone to discover my secret project, and Ford was the exact person I had wished it would be. Not just because being near him felt like a fast car ride with all the windows down, but because he could give me an honest opinion.
I flopped into the armchair and surrendered. "It's a short story."
Ford's eyes brightened, and he dropped down to squat comfortably next to the arm of my chair. "And you're hiding it from your father because it would make him too happy?"
"He'll never give me an honest opinion," I said. "All he'll do is gush about the joys of creativity and how he wished he had pursued his art."
"So you're looking for an honest opinion?" Ford laid a hand on the armchair, and I had the insane desire to rest my cheek against it.
"Yes." I distracted myself from his proximity by reaching into my book bag and dragging out the spiral-bound notebook. "I haven't even typed it up yet, but there's a clean copy in the back of this."
He didn't laugh in my face; he just studied it with a disconcerting level of interest. "Just a general opinion or actual feedback? How specific? Like down to word choice, or just my overall impression?"
My hand shook as I shoved the notebook at him, and it was hard to tell what was sparking my nerves. Our fingers brushed, and the lightning sensation of his skin along mine shot right to the balls of my feet.
I cleared my throat. "Be specific," I squeaked. "Tell me what I need to improve on."
Ford stood up and flipped open the spiral notebook. Then he leaned against the wall, and his eyes flashed across the page.
I dropped my book bag and leapt up out of the armchair. "Not now!"
"Why? No time like the present, right?" Ford asked with a wicked smile.
I flapped my hands at him. "Not in front of me. I'll die. Just take it and read it when you have the time. Maybe you can give it to me next class."
Ford chuckled and used the notebook to fend off my buffeting attack. "Next class is after Thanksgiving."
I raked both hands through my hair. "Oh my god, I have to go buy a turkey!"
"Wait, now?"
"Yes, now, before the store runs out of the right size." I gathered up my book bag. "My father's gotten it into his head that he wants a real Thanksgiving gathering this year. I spent half of last night trying to figure out what fruit looked best in a cornucopia. How insane does that sound?"
Ford laughed, then stopped on a long, barely audible sigh. "Actually, that's sounds wonderful."
I watched his face and saw the shift from amused to wistful. "Why? What are you doing for Thanksgiving?" I asked.
"Nothing," Ford shook his head. "It's no big deal. Liz is volunteering in the city and doesn't want to be away from school long enough to drive up here for the weekend, which I totally understand. Still, the microwave dinner selections for Thanksgiving were pretty bleak."
My pulse jumped into a riotous jig, but I managed to speak calmly. "My father is determined to have a big Thanksgiving meal. And he still wants to thank you for braving the frat party check with him the other night. I'll have him call you, but you should plan on coming to our house for Thanksgiving."
"Are you sure?"
I rolled my eyes, "My father will be happy you're there."
"Will you be?" Ford bit his lip as if the question had escaped.
I couldn't breathe, so I nodded until I could manage to say, "Just don't say anything about my short story."
Chapter Six
Ford
I folded the title page of every article so that I couldn't see the student names. It helped me judge the writing and check if my journalism students had mastered a neutral tone. Jackson taught me the trick he had learned from tackling hundreds of creative writing essays and stories.
Clarity's short story rose to the surface of my mind again, and I leaned back in my office chair to avoid it. The characters were clear in my mind, the overlapping paths they took a common knot that tied my thoughts to them.
I shook it off and groaned at the stack of grading. "I have to stop giving my students homework that gives me homework."
I snatched up the next article and knew by the first sentence it was Clarity's. Her open curiosity was contagious, and her leads were getting better. She needed to work on simplifying her language, but her enthusiasm kept me reading for three paragraphs before I realized I hadn't written a single comment.
What could I say to her?
It was impossible to erase all the thoughts that had popped into my head the night I met her. If only I didn't need my job so much.
My mind drifted back to the cocktail dress she was wearing when the door to my office crashed open. "Sleeping on the job?" Jackson asked.
"You know, for a bookish, lit professor, you’re loud enough to wake the dead." I settled back in my office chair and unclenched my fists.
"And you're a little too jumpy. What's on your mind?" Jackson strolled around my narrow office, hands in pockets, studying the bookshelves.
"What's on my mind? You came to my office, remember? Unless your entire plan was to give me a heart attack."
Jackson chuckled then turned back to point at the bookshelves. "A little Spartan, don't you think? I thought you were finally settling in and re
solving to be a Landsman man."
I swallowed the instant distaste that thought brought up. "Maybe I just have something against crowded bookshelves. Maybe I'm Feng Shui."
"Feng full of shit," Jackson said. "I'd take it personally if I didn't know how much you miss journalism. But you really should get rid of the temporary vibe in here if you want your department head to stop sharpening her axe."
"She can't fire me before the holidays." I grinned.
"Speaking of the holidays, what are you doing for Thanksgiving?" Jackson leaned on the corner of my desk.
"Apparently I'm grading articles." I gestured to the slipping stack on my desk, then caught it before it toppled. "Any more tricks of the trade that could speed this up?"
"So you don't have any plans for Thanksgiving? I know Liz is staying in the city."
I sighed and stacked the papers back into a neat pile. "Liz could probably use the break, but she won't give herself one. She thinks just because I'm helping her out a little here and there that she has to work like a dog."
Jackson crossed his arms. "I wouldn't call covering her rent and paying for her car a little, but stop trying to change the subject. We're not going to let you starve alone on Thanksgiving."
"Sorry, but I have plans." I swallowed hard and hoped he didn't ask for details.
Jackson studied my face for a moment with a curious smile. "So, Alice and I are going to Dean Dunkirk's for Thanksgiving. He's invited a small group and told me you were on the list."
"Oh, good, that'll be great. I wasn't sure I was going to go, but now it sounds good," I said.
"You weren’t going to go before I told you we were invited? What's with the secrecy?" Jackson stood up and tapped his chin as he studied me again.
I held up both hands in surrender. "I'm not a big fan of turkey, alright? You caught me."
"This wouldn't have anything to do with the dean's daughter being your student, would it?"
