Adoring Her Starfish: A Lesbian Romance Collection

by Nico At Night

  “I don’t know,” mused Meghan. “I imagine Sacco is teaching a class or something. I don’t see her around Leopold very much.”

  “Have you ever stopped into the office?” I asked.

  “Not yet,” she said. “I suppose I still need to pay for my spot for the trip as well!”

  “Okay,” I said. “I’ll meet you in the caf’ in just a few.”

  “Cool!” said Meghan. She grinned and gave me a theatric wave. It made me happy to feel included.

  I walked down the stairwell of the dorm and slinked through the narrow hallway. The walls were stucco and beige, like they hadn’t been redone in my lifetime. I ran my fingers along the bumpy stucco as I made my way toward the end of the hall where I knew the office was. As I neared, I saw that the office door was open and I saw the vagueness of a person sitting behind the desk.

  “Hello?” I said softly, giving a gentle knock on the wooden door. The person, a young woman, looked up from the desk. At first she was surprised but then her visage melted into friendliness. She didn’t look much older than me. Her long hair, framing her face, was very dark brown, almost black, her face was pale with a light smattering of freckles near her eyes though she certainly wasn’t as freckled as me, and her eyes were a murky blue.

  “Come in,” she said, beckoning me with her hand. She pushed her keyboard away from her, moved some paperwork around, and generally tidied up her desk to make me feel welcome. “Have a seat,” she said.

  “My name’s Natasha Blake,” I said, moving into the small office and lowering myself in the seat in front of the desk. “I’m a freshman.”

  “I’m Hosannah,” she said with a bright smile. “I’m — uh — a junior!”

  Hosannah. I meditated on her name for a moment. It was so beautiful and it fit her perfectly. I could already tell that her personality was luminous, her eyes and lips telling that story. There was something special about Hosannah and I was eager to find out more.

  “I like your name,” I blurted out and then felt embarrassed. I felt my face redden and I looked down. Hosannah just laughed.

  “You can thank my grandmother,” she said. “Or, rather, my great-grandmother who named my grandmother.”

  “It’s lovely,” I remarked.

  “Thanks Natasha,” she said. “So what can I do for you?”

  “Do you work for ALOHA?” I asked, looking around the office. It wasn’t much of an office really. There were a couple of small windows near the ceiling, as we were in a basement after all. Two wicker chairs hung off in the corner opposite Hosannah’s desk. There was a framed poster that outlined all the degree paths in the Arts & Letters department on one wall, and a poster advertising an ALOHA end of year party from a few years prior, also framed, on another. An overstuffed bookshelf sat behind Hosannah.

  “Yep,” said Hosannah. “I’ve been in ALOHA since I was a freshman. But I work for the office part time and I’m also Anna Sacco’s assistant.”

  “Wow,” I said. “That’s pretty cool. I didn’t know that was a thing.”

  “It’s a thing,” said Hosannah with a knowing grin. I suddenly felt quite anxious in my seat. There was a weird quality to Hosannah that I just couldn’t place. She made me feel excited.

  “How come I haven’t seen you at the ALOHA weekly class?” I asked. Every Monday at 8AM, the ALOHA freshmen met for an hour to discuss the program, to listen to various scheduled speakers, and to work on group projects. I’d only been at college for a couple weeks, but with Hosannah working for the program I figured I would have seen her around by now.

  “Dude,” said Hosannah, smiling, leveling with me. “I did my time. Monday at 8AM? Once you’re a junior — hell, once you’re a sophomore — you learn to not take any classes before 10:20.” She laughed, which inspired me to laugh softly with her.

  “I mean, you’re the ALOHA assistant though,” I said. “You don’t have to go?”

  “No,” she said frankly. “They know I did my time as well.”

  “I see,” I said quietly.

  “Not to keep beating the same drum…” said Hosannah trailing off and widening her eyes with a hint of sarcasm.

  “Oh!” I said. “Yeah, I’m sorry, I’m here to pay my dues for the Shakespeare trip.”

  “Terrific,” said Hosannah, pulling the keyboard back out. She looked into the computer monitor and clicked around a bit with the mouse. “So it’s $180 for the tickets and the hotel. Do you know which shows you want to see?”

  “I have my slip right here,” I said, reaching down into my jeans and pulling out a folded piece of paper. Between the paper was also my check for the cost. I slid them together across the desk toward Hosannah.

  “Thanks,” she said, looking down at the slip on which I marked which plays I wanted to see. “King Lear and West Side Story,” said Hosannah, raising her eyes to me and offering up a glint of joy. “That’s what I’m seeing, too.” In Stratford for the Shakespeare festival, between a handful of theaters, they not only did actual Shakespeare shows but also various musicals and other productions. ALOHA advised us to see one of the Shakespeare plays, which were always high quality, as well as something lighter because those shows were always fun.

  “Really?” I said. “I love both plays. I’m excited.”

  “Likewise, Natasha,” said Hosannah, typing my information into a spreadsheet on her computer. She affixed my slip and check with a paperclip and slid them into her desk drawer. “Have you ever been to Stratford before?”

  “No,” I said.

  “It’s awesome,” said Hosannah. “We’re going during the Dragon Boat Festival, which is super cool, and there’s this really neat toy store there. Like, even if you don’t care about toys, it’s just a really fun experience.”

  “Do all the juniors like you go?” I asked.

  “Nah,” said Hosannah. “It’s usually mostly freshmen. But I’ve gone the last two years with the program. I love theater and Shakespeare. I’m an English major.”

  “I’m an English major, too,” I beamed. I was thrilled that I was connecting with Hosannah though I still couldn’t tell what she thought of me yet.

  “We have a lot in common,” smiled Hosannah.

  “Do we?” I said, letting my excitement show. Hosannah let out an amused giggle.

  “What English class are you in right now?” she asked with interest.

  “I’m in 201H,” I said.

  “Honors,” she said, putting on an impressed face. “Is that taught by McGregor?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I’m enjoying it so far.”

  “I was in that very same class,” said Hosannah.

  “Wow,” I said. “That’s really cool. If I have questions, can I ask you about them?”

  “Totally,” she said, her smile warm and inviting. I could tell she was a good person.

  “Maybe we could hang out in Stratford, too,” I said, not sure if I was overstepping my bounds but too excited about meeting Hosannah that I couldn’t help myself.

  “Maybe,” she said, grinning with a hint of mystery.

  “Oh, that reminds me,” I said. “I had another question about the trip.”

  “Shoot,” she said.

  “What’s the hotel situation like?” I said. “I mean, who do we share rooms with?”

  “The rooms we get are all two full beds,” she said. “You can share a room with whomever you like, though not with the opposite sex,” said Hosannah. “I mean, we’re all technically adults here but some of the parents might flip if we allowed coed sleeping arrangements.” She rolled her eyes.

  “So just, like, my roommate?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” said Hosannah. “Most people just share with their current roommate.”

  “All right,” I said.

  “Is there anything else I can help you with?” asked Hosannah. Her face revealed a charming glow, like she was there to serve me, like I wasn’t an annoying freshman asking silly questions.

  “No,” I said, pushing my chair ba
ck and beginning to stand.

  “It’s was really great meeting you, Natasha,” she said, sticking out her head toward me. I took it in my own and we shook.

  “It was nice meeting you, too,” I said.

  “I’m in room 326 upstairs if you want to stop by sometime,” she said. “I don’t hang out in the lobby much anymore.”

  “Is that just a freshmen thing?” I asked sheepishly.

  “Yeah, kinda,” said Hosannah, grinning.

  “Room 326,” I reiterated. “Thanks Hosannah. I’ll talk to you soon!”

  “Bye Natasha,” she said with a single wave.

  I smiled at her and turned from her desk, walking out of the ALOHA office and trying to steady my frantically beating heart. I was anxious and excited, ecstatic to have met Hosannah and the possibility of making a friend that seemed so much like me.

  CLICK HERE TO SEE IT ON AMAZON

  AN EXCERPT FROM: THE SEXY LIBRARIAN

  *

  I LOVE BOOKS. I love the feel of books, lazily flipping through the pages. I love the smell of them, both new and old. And I love how they transport me into a world I never knew before, allowing the author to take me on a journey into their own imagination. So is it really a wonder that I love going to the library? I mean, of course I have my own curated collection of books at home, but the library is such a wonderful place for me to explore books. Whenever I travel to a new major city, whether it’s at home in the United States, or abroad in a place like London or Paris, one of my first stops is always the library. I just like to take it all in, be surrounded by all those amazing tomes, and melt into inebriation that books bring me.

  My name is Amelia. And I’m a total bookworm.

  I’ve always been like this for as long as I can remember. I think it was, perhaps, when I was 8 years old that I first discovered my love of reading. And now at 24 it’s still my favorite preoccupation. I don’t really get into television or movies — which, don’t get me wrong, can be amazing mediums to convey a great story — but I love the printed page because I get to picture the world myself. A book can be different for everyone who reads it and I love being able to interpret an author’s world on my own. When you read as much as I do, you naturally find yourself gravitating towards becoming a writer as well. And that’s what I do. I write. Not professionally yet, but I know that one day I will become that writer that so many people like me love reading.

  One of my favorite writers of all time is the author Marie Beauchamp. A Frenchwoman who moved to the States in the 70s, settled in as a professor at a liberal arts college in the Northeast, and wrote some of the greatest literary masterpieces in English (in my opinion, anyway). I guess she’s not very well-known, although some of her works have been pulled out from her publishing company’s stacks and reprinted by the New York Book Consortium. That gave her a bit of a wider release, though I think she’s still largely ignored. Beauchamp recently passed away and with her death came the trickles of interesting information that a bookworm like myself can’t help but eat up.

  You see, Beauchamp serialized a novella in a literary journal in the 70s that has been since lost to time. It was a small journal and no copy of it exists anymore. Oh, perhaps somebody has the magazines stuffed away somewhere, rotting in their basement, but because of its very limited release all those decades ago, not even libraries have it in their collections.

  That is until Beauchamp passed.

  In her will, Marie Beauchamp bequeathed a copy of this novella, called The Parisian in America, to the university that gave her her start as a teacher before she moved on to the Northeast. That university was the University of Chicago, in my own hometown of Chicago. Once I heard the news I just about collapsed. I had to go to the university library and read it. One of the stipulations of her donation was that the novella could not be released to general public or republished in anyway until 30 years after her death. This was to ensure that the library at the University of Chicago would have a draw of visitors to read the novella at the library itself, under librarian supervision of course. A librarian would watch you read the novella so that you wouldn’t be tempted to make a copy of it and thus take Beauchamp’s novella outside of the library walls.

  If we’re being honest, this particular policy was aimed at super-fans and completists like me. If I was able to go to the library, check out the novella by myself for use in the library only, you can bet your ass that I’d scurry over to the copy machine and make my own private copy. I mean, I wouldn’t share it with anyone or let it get out into the wild. I’d just keep it for myself at home, in my own collection. But under the watch of a stern librarian, this desire could never become a reality for me. I would only be able to read the novella at the library. I suppose I could handle that.

  *

  I wasted no time in making my trip to the university library after I read about the news online. Dressed in my thick winter tights, my furry snow boots, a big and well-insulated wool coat, and my hat, I made the trek by the train down from the city to Hyde Park to visit the library and read this story by one of my favorite authors. It was a beautiful snowy winter day in January, the snow freshly fallen and fluffy, and it really wasn’t all that cold for a Chicago winter. It was nice to commute in the late morning, with all the normal commuters already at work. One of the benefits of working from home for myself as a video transcriber. I got to make my own hours.

  I pushed through the front door of the library and smiled to myself, quickly removing my gloves and stuffing them into my pockets. The library was beautiful. Harper Memorial Library. It was something straight out of Hogwarts, at risk of showing my nerdiness. Gothic architecture, huge ceilings, amazingly large windows. As I looked around, I mused to myself that it was simply a travesty that I didn’t make it down to Hyde Park more often to frequent the library. It was magnificent. I felt like I could almost cry it was such a sight.

  Breaking from my geeky reverie, I meandered up to the information desk and waited for a crotchety-looking man to finish what he was doing on the computer screen in front of him. After a moment, he looked up and noticed me.

  “Can I help you?” he asked in a droll voice.

  “Yes,” I said eagerly. “I’m here to read the novella A Parisian in America by Marie Beauchamp that was recently released to the library.”

  “Huh?” he said, furrowing an eyebrow and looking me over. “Oh yes,” he intoned, my request sparking something in his memory. “Go to the other side of the library. You’ll see another information desk. There’s a librarian there, Esme Strong, who can help you with your special collections request.”

  “Thank you!” I beamed, swiftly turning from him and scooting my boots across the tightly woven carpet below. My heart raced with excitement, my usually pale face rosy from the cold outside.

  As I approached the second information desk, as the old librarian up front had instructed, I slowly pulled my winter cap off and stared in a dumbstruck wonderment. Sitting behind the desk was one of the most beautiful women I’d ever seen. She had curled and twisted deep red hair, quite natural in color, twirled around and held up in back by a bun. Dark black plastic eyeglasses rested on her nose. Her face was pale like mine, though lightly speckled with vague freckles under her eyes. This woman was lithe and fair, delicate in her mannerisms, with lips colored a deep red and pursed tightly as she deliberated over whatever paperwork was laid before her on her desk. I could tell she was older than me, but how much older I could not say. For a moment, I completely forgot why I was there as I admired this fresh-looking beauty of a woman.

  “Excuse me,” I said to her, feeling totally embarrassed. I pushed my hand through my slightly messy brown locks, fluffing them out and trying to look presentable to this total knockout sitting in front of me. She was even more beautiful up close. She wore a tight white button-down shirt with the top few buttons undone, showing off her ample cleavage. I even spotted some light freckles on top of her chest before she looked up at me and smiled. Her green eyes pe
ered at me over top her black frames. She was playful and happy.

  “Good morning,” she said. “How can I help you?”

  “I’m looking for a special collections librarian,” I said. “Esme Strong.”

  “You’re talking to her,” said Esme with a joyful grin. “What can I do for you today?”

  “Oh,” I said softly, still taking her in. What a perfect turn of events. How lucky was I that this gorgeous woman would be the one who was to help me find the novella. My heart fluttered with a hint of nervousness, trying not to say something silly or stutter or otherwise make a fool of myself in front of Esme.

  “Yes?” she said, nodding at me, still smiling patiently as I tried to find my words.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, giving myself a light smack on the cheek. “I’m here looking for a novella,” I went on. “Um, A Parisian in America by Marie Beauchamp,” I said, watching Esme as she watched me. “I heard it was recently released and only available here.”

  “You heard correctly,” said Esme. “It’s a wonderful story.”

  “You’ve read it?” I asked with pleasant surprise, quickly feeling embarrassed by my eagerness.

  “Of course,” said Esme. “Beauchamp is one of my favorite authors.”

  “I love her,” I said. “I’ve read everything she ever wrote. Well, apart from this novella,” I said. “I’m so excited to finally read it.”

  “What’s your name?” asked Esme, pulling her glasses off her face and setting them down in front of her. A hint of fire danced in her eyes, a keenness, an alertness.

  “Me?” I said. “My name’s Amelia.” Esme stuck her slender hand out to me and I took it almost automatically, the two of us gently shaking.

  “Esme,” she said. “It’s lovely to meet another Beauchamp fan. Honestly, I don’t meet very many,” she said with a soft laugh.

  “I feel like she’s a writer I can truly relate to,” I said, looking down slightly, feeling a bit awkward. “Her themes really resonate with me.”

  “Sometimes it’s difficult being…” said Esme, mulling it over, looking off slightly as she searched for her words. “Who we are,” she said finally, giving me a knowing smile. “I mean, in Beauchamp’s time it was even more so. We’re very fortunate today.”