When It's Love (2 page)

I’m so stunned that I actually pinch myself to make sure I’m not dreaming. My life story is dark, and I’m a decent writer, but … extraordinary? I never imagined I’d get a response like this. It’s incredible! I have to tell Henry, but then he’ll ask to read the essay, and I can’t let him read it. Henry knows me better than anyone, but he doesn’t know me completely. Part of me aches to tell him the whole truth about myself. But the selfish part of me fears that if he knew, he would see me in a different light. I love our friendship. I don’t want to risk changing it in any way. And most of all, I don’t want him to pity me.

I send Henry a quick text: Class is over.
P.S. loves my essay, but not my body!

Henry replies:
Did you expect him to grab you and kiss you in front of the whole class?

Well, I suppose I didn’t. Anyway, none of it matters now. The semester has ended, and my chances of being with Professor Sparling are finished.
I’m such a loser
, I text. I shove my phone and my essay into my bag and head for the door. I really can’t believe this class is over. Looking forward to Professor Sparling’s class every week has been the one thing that’s kept me going through this grueling semester.

Professor Sparling is standing near the classroom door wishing students good luck as they file out of the room. Melanie in her too-sexy-for-campus boots is right at his side. I look down at my own feet – worn, old hiking boots. What could be less attractive? Of course men don’t notice me: gray clothes, hiking boots, an ugly parka that’s two sizes too big. I should either have a total makeover or give up. Give up. That’s what I did almost four years ago, the night I found out who I really am. Professor Sparling is the first man since then who’s made my insides stir. My crush on him has made me feel alive again, sparked my interest in sex and love that lay dormant for years. But now the semester is over, and unless I’m lucky enough to bump into Professor Sparling on campus, I’ll probably never see him again. Too dejected to take a last glance at Professor Sparling, I pass by him quickly without making eye contact. I walk slowly down the hall, dragging my feet like a sulking child. I’m thinking about all the ways I’m not sexy, and about how fucked up it is that college is almost over and I haven’t had a single boyfriend at Addison.

It’s strange and confusing that my first love interest since high school is a man who is nearly twice my age. Why? There are so many hot guys on campus. So many! Maybe it’s because Professor Sparling is brilliant, and his writing is honest and beautiful. I suppose it’s stupid that Henry and I haven’t hooked up. He is plenty hot, with his sandy blonde hair, sparkling blue eyes, high cheekbones and sculpted shoulders. Girls throw themselves at Henry left and right. It doesn’t hurt that he comes from an old Addison family. The Harts are as close to aristocracy as it gets in central Michigan. Their home is a gated mansion about a mile off campus. It even has a name – Ottawa Estate. The manicured lawns at Ottawa Estate could compete with Versailles. Inside, the home has marble floors and antique furniture. Every time I’ve met Dr. Hart, a renowned surgeon, and Mrs. Hart, whose family owns practically all of the land in our county, I’ve felt like I should be kneeling before the king and queen.

Henry has been a deeply loyal friend to me since freshman year, but he’s never tried anything with me, at least not since the day we met in the library and he asked me if I wanted to go out later that evening. “As long as it’s not a date,” I’d said. “Because I don’t date.”

“Of course,” Henry answered. “It’s not a date. I’ll hang out with you like you’re just one of the guys. Meet me in front of the gym at eight o’clock and wear sneakers.”

“Sure thing,” I said.

When I arrived at the gym, right on time, Henry was waiting for me. He wore high top basketball shoes and was dribbling a basketball. “Ready to shoot some hoops?” he asked, raising his eyebrows as if he were challenging me.

I giggled. “Well, I haven’t played basketball since 7th grade,” I said. “But why not?”

Henry held the gym’s door open for me and as I stepped in I got a lungful of musty air that made me think of sweaty socks. I was surprised to see that the basketball court was completely empty. Henry ran in dribbling. “The court’s all ours,” he said and he threw the ball at me. Instinctively I thrust my arms out and caught it. I dribbled toward the basket and shot. The ball teetered on the rim and then fell through the net. “Two points!” I shrieked with joy.

“Not bad for someone who hasn’t played since she was twelve,” Henry chortled.

We spent two hours dribbling, shooting hoops, and playing Horse. By the end of the evening, I’d beaten my new pal in three games of Horse. He was impressed, and I was happier than I’d been in months.

And that was the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

As I reach Union Hall’s exit, I vow to start my life over the moment I step out into the rain and my feet hit the wet pavement. Nothing is ever going to happen with Professor Sparling, and I might as well get on with things. I need to get my shit together. What’s the point of wasting time and energy wishing for something you can’t ever have? There isn’t one, and I have to face the truth. I take a deep breath, brace for the cold rain outside, and reach for the door. As the freezing air hits my face and makes me shiver, I hear someone call, “Sydney, wait.”

I turn around to see Professor Sparling trotting to meet me at the exit. His brown jacket is slung over his shoulder, so casual and cool. He’s put his olive green sweater back on, and as he gets closer I notice the way the color of the sweater picks up the flecks of deep green in his eyes. I take a step away from the exit doors to avoid the cold, wet air. My heart is beating too fast, and I’m sure my cheeks are pink again. What on earth could he want from me?

“I don’t want to hold you up,” Professor Sparling says. “Do you have a minute?”

I have forever.

“Sure,” I say. I notice Melanie lurking at the other end of the hall. She is looking in my direction, and though I’m too far away to read her expression, I’m fairly sure she’s glaring.

“I just wanted to tell you that your personal essay is incredible,” Professor Sparling says with a wide smile.

I can’t believe this is happening
.

“I’ve never read a family story like yours,” Professor Sparling says. “We all have skeletons in the closet, but your story is a whole graveyard.”

How does one respond to such a statement? I have no idea, so I stare at the floor while my stomach flits, and sensations I barely recognize course through my body. Had I known the way to get Professor Sparling’s attention was to write about my dark past, I’d have done it sooner. But, then again, maybe I wouldn’t have. Until I began to read the essays Professor Sparling introduced me to, I believed family lies and secrets should stay secret. I’ve learned, though, through his guidance, that writing is a way to get to the truth. And right now the truth is that Professor Sparling, man of my fantasies, loved my essay, and he is talking to me about it – alone.

“Your strength is remarkable, Sydney,” he says. “I hope you keep writing.”

I’m about to thank him for what he’s said when his phone dings. He checks a text message. I glance down the hall and see Melanie looking at her phone, too.

“I’ve got to run,” Professor Sparling says. “Thanks for a great semester.” With that, he’s out the door. He didn’t even stop to put on his coat. I zip up my parka and open the door, but before I leave, I look back to see if Melanie is still behind me. She sure is, heading my way with her arms crossed over her bouncy chest.

I’m too ecstatic to stress about Melanie. She can chew me out for interrupting her in class. I really don’t care. I text Henry:

P.S. just stopped me in the hall to talk. Loves my writing!

Henry replies:

And you got so hot you came on the spot, right?

This is the shit you get when your best friend is a guy. Henry knows it’s OK to tease me, though, and he knows how huge this moment is for me; it’s the most exciting thing that’s happened to me. However, despite my sheer exhilaration, for a split second I wonder if Professor Sparling has said the same type of things to Melanie. I decide not to care. He talked to me, and that’s all that matters.

My cats, Tiny and Little, are waiting for me at the door of my apartment. They start a series of long mews that –if they were sentences- would end in question marks.
Where have you been? And why did you leave us home alone?

“I’m sorry, babies,” I say. “I had to go to class.” I feed them each a can of wet food, and they make nom-nom sounds while they eat. I need to eat, too. There’s nothing in my fridge but peanut butter and Diet Coke. I guess that’s dinner. I find stale rice cakes in the cupboard, spread the peanut butter on one, and turn on my laptop. I Google “how to be sexy.” One of the first things to appear is a Cosmo article:
New Ways to Feel Sexy
. I don’t need new ways. I need any old way that works! If I could just pull off sexy like Melanie does. I think back to the dates I had in high school. I definitely wasn’t the epitome of sexy, but guys used to like me. And I liked guys. But now it’s pointless to think about all of this. The only man I’ve wanted since high school is Professor Sparling, and class is over. All of my chances are gone. What’s left is the thrilling memory of hearing him call my name less than an hour ago. It all comes back to me as I relive it in my mind, the way my heart raced and my throat tightened making it hard to swallow, and the rush of arousal that was so intense I didn’t recognize it. My knees went weak, and it had taken all of my willpower to play it cool. But, the half smile and knowing look Professor Sparling gave me before he raced off lead me to think I might not have played it cool at all.

Tiny jumps onto the table and starts to rub his cheek on my computer. Although he’s a full-grown cat, he’s only the size of a six-month-old kitten. Little is slightly larger. I found them in an abandoned trailer out near Lake Pleasant the summer I was seventeen. They were all skin and bones, wild and scared. I gave them each a can of tuna – the only cat-friendly food I had with me. They were hesitant to approach me at first, but when they smelled the tuna, their fear abated. That summer, just after my high school graduation, my boyfriend Jake and I drove an hour out to Lake Pleasant a few times a week to put food out for the cats. I’d put out piles of dry food and hope the raccoons didn’t get to it before the cats.

I begged my grandfather to let me bring the cats home. He was a cold and distant man, but surprisingly, he had a soft spot for animals. “I don’t mind, ask your grandmother,” he said. My grandmother, of course, couldn’t stand the idea of cats. They’re no different than rodents,” she said. She was just recuperating from chemotherapy, and I felt uncomfortable asking her to agree to something I knew she didn’t want. But the more time I spent feeding those cats out by the lake, the more difficult it was to restrain myself from pleading. Finally, my grandmother said they could come home, so long as she never saw them in the kitchen or her bedroom. And when I headed off to Addison College, they’d have to go with me.

The Addison dorms don’t allow pets, so I’ve been living alone in a second floor studio apartment since freshman year. I’ve got a kitchenette with a mini fridge, toaster oven, and hot plate. There’s a little round table between the kitchenette and the living space with two mauve colored wooden chairs. My living space has a futon that I usually keep open as a bed, but if need be I can turn it into a sofa. I’ve got a brown dresser and an old TV sitting on top of it. Behind the living area is a bathroom with just enough space for my needs and a litter box for the cats. I chose this apartment because although the living space is minimal, there’s a glass door off the kitchenette that leads to a large balcony – perfect for Tiny and Little to pounce around on and get some fresh air.

My grandparents, both of whom passed away to cancer over the last three years, left me a fund that covers my Addison tuition, and I’m tremendously grateful for that. Without it, I might have had to drop out of school. My mother gives me some money for expenses to help me get by. She’s a realtor and has made a decent living over the years. She even seems to be doing fine in the horrible recession while homes are foreclosing by the dozen and no one is buying, so I assume my grandparents left her a decent inheritance, too. I know they left her their Clarksville home, because my mother has been living there for nearly three years. She moved in when my grandmother’s cancer returned, and cared for her tenderly until the very end. Until then, I’d had no idea there was an ounce of compassion in my mother. And then my mother stayed on to care for my grandfather, who was diagnosed with prostate cancer just after my grandmother’s passing. By the time my grandfather was diagnosed, his cancer had already spread considerably. He chose not to fight it, and quickly deteriorated. Within six months, he was gone.