by Shayn Bloom
“I’m Ash.”
“I’m Annie.”
“I’m Dr. Arrowheart,” Adia said, taking center stage. “I will be your professor for Intro to Psychology, Social and Behavioral Sciences, during this summer session. We’ll be meeting on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays for the rest of July. My expertise is in clinical depression. Any questions?” As I watched Adia stare down her classroom, I realized something. I didn’t like her. “Wonderful!” Adia continued. “Let’s get started.” She turned back to the desk to deposit her clipboard.
She whirled around. “Sex!”
The blonde girl looked up with her mouth agape, her furious texting of a second ago forgotten. Another girl spluttered on her coffee and a third dropped her pen. I looked at Ash.
“Sex is the defining characteristic of our personalities,” Adia said. “Or that’s what some psychologists believed.” Adia smiled. “Who is considered the father of modern psychology?”
A boy raised his hand. “Freud?”
“Sigmund Freud.” Retrieving a piece of chalk, Adia walked to the blackboard.
Ash chuckled. “I think he had it right.”
“Freud is most famous for his thoughts on the subconscious mind,” Adia continued, her back turned to the class as she scribbled. “He said that sex and sexuality define our subconscious minds.”
“What do you think?”
Startled, I met Ash’s eyes. “Sorry, what?’
“Do you think we are defined by our subconscious minds?” His eyes were boring into mine, his muscular body tensed.
“Oh,” I said. “I’m not sure.”
His eyes left mine and wandered to Adia as though for help. His body relaxed but seemed to deflate simultaneously. My thoughts were racing and confused. Had he been serious?
Dusting the chalk from her hands, Adia turned back to the class. “What was Freud talking about when he referred to ‘the royal road to the subconscious’?” The room was silent. Ash twitched. “Dreams,” Adia murmured, leaning against her desk. “Freud said that dreams are the royal road to the subconscious mind. Dreams take place on a stage called the subconscious mind. Remember that.” She went back to the blackboard. “Take down these notes.” Adia freed the class two hours later. Students gathered their books before loading them into backpacks and large purses.
“Want to grab lunch?” Ash asked.
“Of course,” I said too quickly. “I mean, yes.” We left the room. The sun had risen to its highest point. Closing my eyes, I listened as the outside door to the building closed behind us, signaling freedom.
“Feeling better?” Ash asked.
“Yeah, I guess,” I said. “It’s just been a crazy day.”
“How about that Dr. Arrowheart, huh?”
“She’s interesting,” I said. “Definitely knows what she’s talking about.”
“I’d hope so!” Ash’s hazel eyes danced in the sunlight. “So about that bite,” he continued. “Dining hall?”
“Sure,” I answered. “But I don’t know where it is. This is my first day on campus, my first day of college actually.”
“Seriously?” Ash smiled. “Why psych?”
“I want to help people,” I replied. “Maybe be a social worker or something.”
“Why do you want to help people?” Ash asked, leading the way.
“It’s just the thing to do, isn’t it?” I asked, following him.
“Is it?” Ash said. “I bet there’s a reason you want to help people.”
“Maybe,” I allowed.
“Maybe as in maybe you’ll tell me why you want to help people,” he said.
I hid my smile. “Maybe as in maybe I’ll answer your question if you’ll answer a few of mine.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere,” Ash said.
“Of course,” I replied. “We’re here!”
The dining hall had more windows than the surrounding buildings. Apart from that distinction, however, it was painfully unadvertised. The blowing of the air conditioner greeted our steps as we walked inside. The cool air felt wonderful against the humidity of the day.
“I have a meal card,” Ash said. “I’ll swipe for both of us.” After swiping his card, Ash led me into the main cafeteria section. “What kind of food do you like?”
“I’m not picky,” I answered.
“How about salad?” Ash asked, leading me to the bar.
I nodded. “Salad’s alright.”
“I love Caesar salad,” he said, piling his plate full. “Have some.”
I followed his lead. “I’m being so good. Usually I go right for the pizza.”
Ash chuckled. “You can always hit up the pizza for seconds,” he said. Choosing a two person table, we sat down beside a large window. “Anything to drink?” Ash asked, setting his tray down. “I get coffee.”
“I like orange juice.” I began to rise but he stayed me with his hand. “You sit tight right there. I got it.”
My eyes followed him across the room to the beverage bar. I was attempting to wrench my gaze from his every movement but it was impossible. Instead, I smiled at him as he came back, drinks in hand.
“So ask me a question,” he said, throwing himself into his seat and flourishing his fork, already having speared a crouton.
Unfortunately, I had already started on my salad. As I opened my mouth to respond, a huge piece of lettuce covered in Caesar dressing clung to my lip. Horrified, I slurped it up too quickly, spraying dressing over my chin.
Ash was kind enough to distract me from myself. “You said that you would answer my question if I answered yours,” he reminded. “So go ahead, ask me!”
“Oh, right,” I said, wiping my chin with a napkin. I considered Ash, drinking in his fantastic body along with my pleasantly cold orange juice. His thick, muscular arms were veined and tanned. I had nothing. “How old are you?”
“Seriously?” Ash raised his eyebrows. My heart pinged off my chest. “That’s your question?”
“My first question,” I amended.
“Nineteen,” he answered.
“Are you a freshman?”
“I’m not really in college,” he said. “Just taking a class.”
“A class?”
“Just the one,” he said.
“Like me?”
“Like you,” he agreed.
“Any siblings?” I asked, turning a crouton to dust beneath my molars.
“An older sister and a younger brother.”
I nodded. “What do your parents do?”
His face fell but only for a second. “They were…” Ash paused. “Social workers.”
“Were social workers?”
“I’m an orphan.”
“Oh,” I murmured. “I’m sorry, Ash. How long –”
“Ago? Six years and counting,” he said. “So I’m only days away from finally figuring out the laundry. I know it!”
I smiled sadly. “That’s a useful skill to have.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“Who told you?”
“You, just now,” he said cheekily. “One last question and then it’s my turn.”
I scanned my brain and his body for another question. And then I saw it, what I had missed before. The tattoo curled downward to where it was revealed by his v-neck shirt. I felt silly for having ignored the tattoo so far, despite the rugged jaw line and sweetly cascading neck surrounding it. They exploded my concentration like landmines.
“Your tattoo, it’s a –”
“Dreamcatcher,” Ash finished for me, folding away his smile. “Yeah, but that’s not a question.” His eyes were averted as he spoke and I realized that something had happened to his posture. He had tensed. I was getting the impression that Ash didn’t want to discuss the dreamcatcher and nothing could have made me want to discuss it more.
“Here’s a question,” I said. “Why a dreamcatcher?”
He was a deer to my headlights. “I – I like dreamcatchers.”
“You like dreamcatchers?” I repeat
ed doubtfully. “Tell me the real reason.”
“That is the real reason,” he said, blinking.
I crossed my arms before placing them on the table. “Here’s another question,” I began boldly. “Why should I answer your question when you won’t answer mine?”
“Want to go out?”
My composure popped like a balloon hitting a stalactite. “What!”
“Do you want to go out?” Ash repeated.
“With you?” I asked.
“Yup.”
It was my turn to look awkward. The difference was that I had an honest answer. “Yeah,” I breathed. “I’d like that.” Something this wonderful couldn’t be happening. I had to check. “You mean like a date, right?”
His smile widened like my hyperventilating heart.
2. The Awkward Dinner
“We’re having company tonight,” Mom said. “Martin sent out invites.” She always referred to Dad by his first name, even when talking to me.
“Who’s coming?” I asked.
“It was supposed to be a surprise,” Mom added, not looking at me but continuing to read her psychology journal. “I shouldn’t tell you. Martin went to the store but you can ask him when he gets back.” A developmental psychologist, Mom diagnosed kids with disabilities and suggested treatments. She, like Dad, was a workaholic.
Back in my room, I stepped carefully over the debris on the floor. Oscar, my chocolate Labrador retriever, reached the bed first. Lying down, I let Oscar put his head on my stomach. The equilibrium of his breathing soothed my consciousness. Sleep was easy until I was interrupted some time later.
“Annie?” Dad’s voice carried up the stairs. “Can you help bring in the groceries?”
Grabbing the remaining groceries from the car, I went into the kitchen. Dad was putting the dairy away. Mom had disappeared. The psychology journal she had been perusing lay closed on the table, a bookmark jutting from its
