by M. J. O'Shea
ON THAT blustery late fall Friday, when everything about my life seemed like it would never change, I struggled the door of my building open, book bag slung over my shoulder, and trudged the ten blocks to campus and the first of three long, tedious classes. Actually, I had four, but the fourth class, the one that fell in the dreaded after-dinner slot, never felt long at all. I loved it. Hawthorne, the professor, was as hardass as they came, flaying students alive for producing lame work and putting people on the spot constantly, but he was a legend. I figured if anyone could turn me into the writer I wanted to be, it would be him.
We spent our classes talking about elements of fiction—characterization, plot, symbolism—all the same things we discussed in the dry Lit classes I couldn’t wait to escape from, but so different when presented in the context of writing, of what we could do with these abstract ideas to make them come to life. Even with the terrible possibility of being singled out, the class was fascinating, and I was writing better than I ever had before. It was only every once in a while, after I’d written something I was actually kind of proud of, that I thought maybe coming to New York really had been the best thing for me to do after all.
I had to admit there was one more thing I liked about my writing class, and it wasn’t very scholarly of me… the professor’s assistant. Sigh. He was a first year student like me, supposedly one of the professor’s neighbors or something, and literally one of the nicest people I’d come across in New York. He had to spend at least half his time building the students back up when Professor Hawthorne had torn us to shreds.
Of course, his genuine niceness wasn’t exactly the first thing I noticed about him. I mean, I wasn’t the type to drool over guys, but this one I’d happily spend hours looking at. He had this pale luminous skin and night-black hair and an infectious grin that made my knees weak. I was lucky enough to be in his critique group instead of the professor’s, and I hung on to every single word the guy said. He was never overt about it, but I got the distinct feeling he was into guys too. Every once in a while I thought I might get up the nerve to ask him to coffee or something, but of course I never did. I just looked forward to Wednesday and Friday evenings like no other part of my week and drooled in silence.
When I got to class Friday night, after three stultifying hours of literature and a long nap in my favorite corner of the campus library, the gorgeous TA was passing out our most recent attempts at fiction writing with Hawthorne’s (probably) scathing remarks plastered all over them in intense red ink. I cringed inwardly as I sat and waited for the latest bloodbath. It was never pleasant to read what the professor had to say―always right, but usually slicing and painful as well.
My thick, stapled story landed on the desk in front of me, with what I imagined to be a deafening slap against the wood. I had to force myself not to close my eyes. The story was my latest high dive into a world of fantasy filled with demons and witches, vampires and evil princes: things that were impossible in the boring everyday life I desperately wished I could escape from. The work I did wasn’t the type of writing that tended to make anyone a favorite among the academic types, but I didn’t care because I loved it anyway. Problem was, I could never tell what Hawthorne was going to say, and I was kind of afraid to look.
The shadow, which hadn’t moved from over my desk, distracted me from my usual inner battle between curiosity and self-preservation. I looked up, shocked to find the TA still standing there. He gave me one of his big open smiles. I tried not to stare too obviously, but his smile was pretty amazing, and that dark, dark hair swept over his eyes making them seem huge, and, oh Lord, I loved how his jeans hung off of his ass in the most perfect of ways…. I ducked my face into my chest before he could see the pink flush on my cheeks. Such a moron.
“I loved the story, Miles. You did a really good job with the setting this time.”
He knows my name? We’d been in the class for close to two months, but I’d never said a word to him. I was too shy and dorky and…. Oh great, what do I say now? I didn’t even know where to start with a reply. My mouth opened to say something, anything to keep him from walking away, but I had nothing. I felt like kicking myself in the ass. It was then that I noticed the glint of silver on his left ring finger. Crap. My gaydar sucked. Even though I’d never gotten up the nerve to answer any of the questions he posed to our writing group, let alone actually talk to him, I was still disappointed.
“Thanks, Zack,” I mumbled and slouched into my seat.
“Of course. Can’t wait to read the next one.” He touched my shoulder and continued around the room, passing out stories to the waiting students. Why can’t I find a guy like him with no ring?
As soon as he walked away, I felt a poke on my side. The girl next to me, who I’d exchanged smiles with a few times, made a fanning motion with her hand and mouthed the word “hot.”
Then the professor started talking, outlining the journaling assignment we would discuss in our critique groups later. My cheeks calmed down, and I halfway forgot about my little exchange with the girl next to me. After a few minutes, though, a sheet of paper landed on my desk.
He’s the reason I never ditch this class—check out that butt!
I grinned and ducked my head. I didn’t want to catch the attention of Hawthorne the Horrible. I hastily wrote a reply under hers.
I know, huh? He’s got a ring tho—sad.
The girl looked up questioningly, and I tapped on my left ring finger. She rolled her eyes and started scribbling again. I couldn’t believe I was writing notes in class. It was like middle school all over again but fun all the same. The paper slid back onto my desk.
Figures. All the cute ones are taken—or gay.
I looked up at her and she winked. I blushed again. She took back the paper before I had the chance to reply.
I’m Lisa. Let’s be friends :) we can drool at Hottie Pants together.
At that one I nearly chuckled out loud.
Miles. Nice to meet you.
What are you doing tonight? We should hang out. I don’t have any plans and I hate to be bored on a Friday night.
I wish I could. I’ve got to work right after class. I work at Village Books.
No way! I’ve passed by there a million times. I’ll walk you over.
Ok! I’ll buy you a free coffee :)
LOL. Sounds perfect.
She grinned at me. It felt good to finally have the potential of a friend.
After the professor dismissed us, there was the usual shuffle when everyone stood and started putting their stuff away. I put my own books into my messenger bag and was juggling my coat and my bag to go when I noticed Lisa standing by my desk.
“You don’t strike me as a New Yorker.” She held her book bag and stood waiting for me.
I smiled up at her and stood as well, slinging my messenger bag over my shoulders.
“Good guess. San Diego. I just moved here in August. You local?”
“Connecticut. I grew up in the suburbs, but I try to hide it.”
I chuckled and surveyed her tough streetwise appearance, complete with the requisite head to toe black and tons of attitude. Her badass black anime gear clashed with the swingy strawberry-blonde ponytail, innocent blue eyes, and perpetually sunny smile, but I kept that part to myself.
“I’d buy you as a city girl.”
“Thanks, sweetie!” She grinned at me. “Ready to go to work?”
Our conversation on the way to the bookstore flowed easily. Of course, we started with Zack the hot TA and our continuing obsession with him, ring or not, but then we moved on to favorite authors, movies, music. We had surprisingly a lot in common for two people from such different places.
I told her I’d moved out from the west coast to be a writer but I wasn’t sure if I liked New York just yet. I zipped my coat as I said that.
“Miss the sun?” She smirked.
“Yeah, I do. The sun, the beaches, the palm trees… the surfer boys.” Lisa grinned at that one. “
Of course, it was still really hot when I got here, and September was nice. But now….” I shivered. “Anyway, I hope this was all worth it and my writing career goes somewhere, or else I’ll be working at the bookstore for the rest of my life. I like my job, but not that much!”
“You’ll get published someday. You’re only eighteen! I love your stories, at least from what I’ve heard in critique group.”
“Thanks. They’re just silly, vampires and ghosts and stuff. It’s not like I write serious fiction.”
She rolled her eyes. “Hawthorne can take his serious fiction and shove it up his butt. Isn’t the whole point of reading to be entertained? It’s hard to be entertained by something if it puts you to sleep!”
I laughed, sputtering with surprise that anyone would dare to say the venerated Professor Hawthorne could shove anything anywhere. I’d always agreed, though―well, about the serious fiction thing, not, well, the rest. It was my main complaint with most creative writing programs. They never seemed to have room for the people like me who wanted to write horror, or romance, or something fun. It was always so heavy. The students who were applauded wrote about people with damaged souls and holocausts and wars, and half the time I felt like slitting my wrists after I read it.
Besides,” Lisa teased. “Zaaaack.”
My cheeks heated instantly. “Oh God.” I laughed and shoved at her lightly, already comfortable enough with my new friend to joke around. Then I held open the door to the shop and ushered her in.
“Oh, this place is adorable! I should have come in a long time ago!”
I smiled at Lisa’s enthusiasm. She was exactly the kind of person a quiet soul like me needed—bright and exuberant.
“I love it too. It’s kind of home to me. My apartment pretty much sucks, so I spend most of my free time here.”
“Don’t blame you. So, do I get that free coffee you promised?”
I stashed my bag behind the front register and walked to the café area. “Of course. How do you like it?”
“Peppermint white mocha?”
“No problem.” I turned to Megan, who was sitting on her stool and reading from a thick biology textbook. “Can I have my regular and a peppermint white mocha, Megan?”
“Whatever, Miles. In a minute.” Her voice was as sharp as always. I was used to her by then, so I didn’t even react.
“What’s up her ass?” Lisa whispered.
I just shrugged and whispered back, “She’s always like that. I just ignore it. Her coffee’s worth the attitude.”
Lisa replied to that with a big grin. A good barista was worth his or her weight in chocolate and very hard to find.
I didn’t have any customers. The late night student rush hadn’t started. So I sat with Lisa, drank delicious mochas, and traded stories of our various nonadventures. It was comforting to find another person who felt like nothing ever happened to them. I supposed most people thought nothing ever happened to them, but the two of us were dying for adventure.
It was a little embarrassing, but I even lifted up my shirt—after making sure no customers were coming, of course—and showed her the tree I’d had tattooed up my side in a misguided attempt to do something edgy. I could see Megan rolling her eyes from across the shop, but Lisa seemed to love it. She oohed and ahhed and traced the branches with her finger, which tickled and made me laugh. Minus major badass points for being ticklish….
“I think the tattoo is hot, Miles. Definitely gives you street cred.” We both laughed at that idea. Street cred was the last thing I’d ever have. “Does it mean anything?”
“Not really. It’s a rowan tree. My middle name is Rowan because my mother thought it sounded aristocratic.”
“Miles Rowan…?”
“Hunter. Miles Rowan Hunter.” I rolled my eyes.
“Your mother was right. It’s very ‘I’m on a fox hunt with the gentry.’ I’m jealous. Lisa Anne Rice isn’t quite the same.” She gave me a slightly wary look, like she was waiting for me to laugh. She didn’t have to wait very long.
“Your middle name is really Anne?” I sputtered, disbelieving. I grinned for a few seconds but then gave in to a chuckle. She was probably used to it anyway.
“Yeah. I can thank my mom for that. I guess she was reading Interview with the Vampire.”
I laughed again and held up my coffee cup. “Here’s to names that are impossible to live up to.”
Lisa clinked her paper coffee cup with mine but raised her eyebrows challengingly and tossed her long strawberry-blonde ponytail.
“Here’s to finally doing something to live up to them.”
IN WHAT seemed like minutes, the bookstore got ridiculously busy. I hadn’t ever seen it so crazy in the month or so I’d been working there. It had gone from empty to actually having people bumping into each other in the already narrow aisles. There couldn’t have been a worse time for two very popular authors to come out with new releases people had been waiting for. I supposed it was just the universe messing with me on a day when I’d had four classes and no time for dinner. The coffee I’d downed with Lisa two hours earlier was rumbling in my stomach. I couldn’t wait for the moment when I could lock out the people and collapse on one of the deliciously squishy armchairs with a muffin and some book I’d read a million times.
My line reached back at least ten deep, and I was frantically trying to ring up each customer as fast as possible without looking like I was rushing them out the door… which I was. It would have been a great night for Ralph to decide he wanted to hang around and help out, but his wife had made meatloaf for dinner, so he’d booked out of the store the second I’d gotten there—and I was left all alone on what should have been a dull, slow night, fending off the ravenous hordes of book buyers.
“Hey, you’re kinda pretty.”
I barely registered the voice next to me. Assuming it was a customer talking to another customer, I tuned it out and continued ringing up my current customer’s huge stack of regency romances.
“I said, I think you’re cute.”
I looked up. There was a guy standing at the end of the counter, a big rugby type in a preppy polo and cargo khakis. Way too frat boy for me, not my kind of guy at all, and honestly a little too aggressive-looking for comfort. Unfortunately, he was staring right at me. I smiled, noncommittal, and went back to my work. I didn’t want to be a jerk, but I was one of those people who knew right away if I was attracted to someone and with him, I wasn’t.
“Hey, book boy, what are you up to?”
I gave him a look that I hoped said “You can’t be serious”; then I replied, “I’m ringing up a customer. If you have a question, please wait your turn.”
“I do have a question. You got a phone number?”
I had to try really hard not to roll my eyes. The woman I was helping gave me a sympathetic look. I smiled back at her and silently bagged her books.
“I asked if you had a phone number.”
“Listen―” I paused.
“Jeff, my name is Jeff.” He gave me a cocky smile, like he thought he was finally getting somewhere with me.
“Listen, Jeff. I’m working right now, and truthfully I’m not interested in giving out my phone number. So if you don’t have a book-related question that I can answer, I can’t help you.”
He didn’t leave, but thankfully he at least stood there silently while I finished bagging the sympathetic lady’s books. I still had a huge line and it only seemed to be growing. I was flustered by the long line and Jeff’s stare, which I could still feel burning into the side of my face. I was starting to get annoyed, but I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of looking at him. Eyes on the register, I rang my customers through one at a time, trying to keep my cool and just get my job done. I kept ignoring rugby guy, Jeff, hoping again that he’d get the hint and take off.
No such luck. Why would he disappear? That would have been way too easy. When the line had finally dwindled and there were only browsing customers left in the store, h
e was still standing there, watching me intently.
“Okay, I waited my turn. If you won’t give me your number, then how ’bout you let me take you out or something?”
Was he really asking me again? I didn’t want to be rude, but the guy wasn’t getting it. I had to say something.
“Jeff. I’m sorry I can’t give you my number. I have a boyfriend, okay?” Apparently that was the best I could come up with. I felt like a moron using the oldest excuse in the book, but I hoped it was convincing.
“What’s his name?”
Oh… damn.
“Zack,” I answered, shoving the name out as quickly as I could. I’d hesitated, though. I knew it and he would as well.
Damn, damn, damn.
Rugby Jeff’s eyes narrowed. “Whatever. You’re not even a good liar. All you twinkie boys are exactly the same. Such picky little bitches.”
He gave me one last dirty glare, then he stomped off and slammed the glass door open on his way out, making sure the bells shook jarringly, even over the buzz of the busy store.
What was that supposed to mean, “All you twinkie boys are the same?” I knew I should probably be offended, at being called a twink if nothing else, but I was so happy to see the jerk go that I chose not to worry about it. He’d probably just had his pride bruised and said the first thing he could think of. I was glad he’d gone, though. He’d given me the major creeps.
Lisa showed up again right after that, as I was starting to close my register and get the store cleared out. She asked if I wanted to go for a late dinner and maybe see a movie. I was happy to say yes and get the long and weird night out of my head. Truthfully, I was also glad I wouldn’t be leaving the store alone. I wouldn’t have put it past that pushy jerk to be waiting outside for me. When she asked why I looked so stressed, I told her about my long night with two new releases and a million customers. I didn’t mention my erstwhile suitor, though. As far as I was concerned, it would be better if that officially had never happened.
