Love Story(9)
Author: Jennifer Echols

“It’s a big deal to go first,” Gabe addressed the whole table, “and I think all these authors deserve a round of applause.”

There was applause, and cheering, and somebody shouted, “Nipple!”

“Write hard,” Gabe said, “and I’ll see you Thursday.”

Chair legs raked back on the hardwood floor. Everyone burst into the conversations they’d been too repressed to have with each other on their way into class—before Hunter had arrived to loosen them up. Amid this bustle of leaving, Gabe inhaled deeply through his nose, portly chest expanding. He fished a tie-dyed bandanna out of his pocket and touched it to his forehead.

“Aw”—I was about to say “Gabe” but stopped myself since I still wasn’t sure what to call him—“is that because of me? I’m very sorry to make you mop your brow.”

He chuckled. “The first critique session is always the hardest. And some semesters are harder than others. I’ll make it. Don’t worry about me.” He was still smiling as he slid me his copy of “Almost a Lady,” rolled out of his chair, and left the room. But I wondered: did he mean I should be worried instead about myself, my writing, my grade, my career?

As people passed behind me to escape the room, they dropped their copies of my story in front of me. Normally I would have paged through them immediately to read the comments, even though I’d be late for work. But I needed to speak with Hunter. And he was flirting with Isabelle. I strained to hear them over the babble of other voices.

“Calculus is kicking my ass,” he told her.

“Going too fast for you?” she teased him.

“No, it looks vaguely familiar from high school. This TA, I don’t know where he’s from, but

”

“He has a very interesting accent in English?”

“Was he speaking English? I honestly do not know.”

Isabelle laughed. “Complain. He shouldn’t have been put in front of a class if his students can’t understand him.”

“I don’t want to be the one who strips this guy of his fellowship.”

Yeah, right, play the empathy card. Hunter was good at making people think he cared, until he stabbed them in the back.

“Get one of those computer programs that teaches you a foreign language,” Isabelle suggested.

“That would be a really good idea if I knew what language he was speaking.”

Hunter was funny. This was a funny conversation I should have been having with him instead of this bitch, and who did she think she was?

Standing, I forced the copies of “Almost a Lady” into my book bag along with my thirty-pound calculus book and my fifty-pound book for early American literature survey (not my favorite period, lots of puritanical preaching about virtue, bleh!) and my laptop. Manohar was standing next to his chair, too, watching me and still smirking at me.

I dropped my book bag in my chair and leaned across the table so swiftly that he stepped back. I managed not to laugh that I’d spooked him. I extended my hand. “No hard feelings,” I told him. “I don’t agree with your critique, but I do appreciate it.”

I think he took my hand only because he was so surprised. “No problem,” he said. Then he seemed to recover, and he grasped my hand hard enough to hurt. “I’m sorry if I was out of line.”

I pulled my hand out of his grip. “Don’t be. I carry a grudge. If you write some macho ultraviolent action-adventure crap for your first story, your ass is mine.”

I had thought Summer was deep in discussion with the guy next to her, but when I said this she shrieked with laughter, then giggled a quiet “Sorry” and turned back to the other guy.

“Game on, Kentucky,” Manohar told me. Grinning as if he really did look forward to the game (that made one of us), he shrugged one strap of his backpack over his shoulder and walked out.

Isabelle had finally left Hunter’s side. I hefted my bulging book bag and walked the length of the table. Hunter sat in his mighty chair like the head of the table rather than the foot, writing on his copy of my story. As I approached, he looked up and offered it to me. He didn’t smile as he said, “Hullo, Miss Blackwell.”

Taking the story from him, I noticed for the first time that his five-o’clock stubble glinted golden on his hard chin. I croaked, “Hullo, Hunter.”

He smiled then, the charismatic smile I recognized from school. “Thanks for not blowing my cover about being from Louisville. I told my roommates I’m from Long Island.”

“Why?” I asked. ’Cause that is kind of strange, considering that you have stolen my Louisville horse farm, I wanted to add. I traced the S from INTERNSHIP with my fingertip on the thigh of my jeans and kept my mouth shut.

“Because people here think that the South is stupid,” he said. “Besides, I really am from Long Island.”

I frowned at him and turned around to make sure everyone else in the room had left. Only Summer waited for me outside the door, leaning against the frame and talking to Brian. I faced Hunter again and said softly, “You moved from Long Island to Kentucky before the seventh grade.”

“I never felt like I belonged there.”

Until now. There was so much irony in the unspoken words between us. Somehow I had to step past it and connect with him.

“I overheard you complaining about your calculus instructor,” I said. “As long as you’re rearranging your schedule, maybe you could transfer into my class. I have to go to work now, so I can’t stay and tell you about it—”

This was a flimsy excuse. It would have taken me an additional thirty seconds to give him my instructor’s name and class time.

“—but I take a break at nine. If you want to come by, I’d be glad to talk with you. I’m at the coffee shop on the corner of—”

He nodded. “I know the one. I’ve seen you there. I’ll come by at nine.”

He’d seen me there? I hadn’t seen him since graduation night, when he and my grandmother delivered the blow.

I wanted so badly to slap him. Or kiss him. But there was no physical show of the emotion passing between us, layer upon layer, the upper strata putting the lower ones under enormous pressure. I simply turned and left the classroom, “Almost a Lady” flopping about in front of me.

But I would need to mine those layers when I met him alone. I had to shut him up before he said anything about me and my stable boy to Gabe. I could not let Hunter Allen ruin my life.

Again.

3

“I can’t believe you!” Summer exclaimed.

“Really?” I gave her a wary glance as I passed her in the hallway outside the classroom. I hoped she would follow me down the stairs. Brian had disappeared, but Hunter, sitting at the foot of the table, could still hear us.

“Yes, really!” She followed me down the stairs. “You are an attack dog. I’ve seen you in action. I’ll never forget how you barked at that cabdriver the other day.”

“You have to bark at cabdrivers or they’ll take advantage of you.” Actually, I had never talked to a cabdriver before, because I’d never had the money to take a cab. But right after I’d met Summer four days ago, I’d agreed to splurge and share a cab to MoMA with her, and ended up arguing with the cabbie about the expensive fare. Ever since, I had wished for that money back.