herself not to blush. It wasn't working-her face already felt hot. The rest of the class was shuffling through their papers, locating the story. “So, who wants to start?”
“The sex was wicked hot!” Connor remarked. The room tittered, and Maya could feel his thigh brushing against hers, back and forth. “What? I'm serious.”
“All right, the sex was hot.” Professor Reardon shook his head at Connor. “It's a start. Anyone else?”
“It was kind of formulaic,” Betsy remarked. “I mean, I liked it, don't get me wrong. What girl doesn't like a good romance, right? But it didn't break any new ground or take any chances.”
“It was really well-written.” A small, dark haired girl who wore huge glasses spoke up. Maya didn't know her name. “I mean, it could've been something that was published. It was that good.”
“You're right,” Professor Reardon agreed. Maya felt an immediate flush of pride. “The quality of the writing itself is easily publishable, as is, for the genre. This author has a great deal of talent and natural ability.”
Maya sat staring at the words on the page-the words that she'd written-trying not to get all glowy and starry- eyed. She thrived on praise like no one else she'd ever known, and his approval was like vital sustenance to her.
“But it's just a little romance.” The voice that spoke up belonged to Joseph Kramer. He was on the staff of the school paper, a freshman with his own column already called “My View.”
“What's wrong with that?” Professor Reardon asked the class again.
“Nothing, I guess.” Joe shrugged. “But if I'm writing something, I want it to be different. I don't want my stuff to be like everything else out there.”
“Do you realize what kind of market is out there for romance writing?” Betsy tossed in. “It's huge! Women eat this stuff up.”
“Yeah, it's like porn for women,” Connor agreed.
Maya winced. “I don't know if I agree with that analogy.”
“Why not?” Professor Reardon looked over at her. His eyes clearly stated that of course he knew who wrote it, and of course, he was talking directly to her.
“I guess I just feel a difference,” Maya said with a shrug. “Romance is about love, and porn is just… just sex.”
“So, what's wrong with writing romance?” Professor Reardon asked again.
“Nothing, if you want to be mediocre,” Joseph replied with a snort.
“And make a million dollars,” Betsy retorted. “Look at Danielle Steele.”
“Yeah, well,” Joseph went on. “No matter how good you are in the genre, you'll never win a Pulitzer Prize, will you?”
“No,” Professor Reardon replied. “That's very true.”
“It just seems like a waste of talent to me,” Joseph replied.
Maya's face was on fire and she felt tears stinging her eyes. She blinked them back, biting at the inside of her cheek.
“So what about the story itself, then?” Professor Reardon went on. Under the table, Maya felt a hand on hers, a brief squeeze, and then it was gone. She was so used to Connor touching her, that at first it didn't register that it had come from her other side. She stared at Professor Reardon for a moment, incredulous. The discussion was still going on.
“Ok, but this is about a pirate abducting some young girl,” Joseph was saying. “Shouldn't he be dangerous? He sounds like a big pussy to me.”
“Girls like bad boys,” Connor agreed.
Maya tuned them out. For the rest of the discussion, all she could think about was the brief touch of Professor Reardon's hand on hers. It stayed with her, like a brand.
After class, she stayed and asked him if she could have her story. They were supposed to pick them up at his office (to keep the air of anonymity.) He handed it over to her, though, and she saw through the cover page that it was full of red marks.
“You said it was good!” She sighed, flipping to the end to see the grade. “B-'. She had never earned less than an “A” on any piece of writing in her life. At least it was better than the “C” she got last time.
“It is.” He packed up his briefcase. The class had departed, and they were alone.
“I don't understand.” She shook her head. “What do you have against romance stories?”
“Nothing, per se.” He snapped his briefcase shut, his eyes on hers. “But I do agree with Joseph. You have an incredible talent, and you're wasting it writing fairy stories.”
“But you don't understand-this is what I want to write!” she cried, smacking the table with her story.
He shrugged. “That's up to you. I just want you to know what you're capable of.” He started toward the door and Maya felt tears stinging her eyes again, but she refused to let them fall. “Maya,” he said from the doorway. His voice was soft. She turned to look at him, but his back was still to her, his hand on the door. “Would you come to my office tomorrow at two? I'd like to talk to you about something.”
She frowned, but said, “Okay.”
He nodded, opening the door and walking out, leaving her alone.
“Oh come on! Skip it just this once!” Jen nudged Maya with her foot from where she was lying on her bed.
Maya looked back from the mirror, pulling her auburn ponytail tighter. “I can't, Jen. Work-study means I have to work in order to get to the study part.”
Jen sighed. “Well, who really wants to study, right?” She flashed Maya a grin and wiggled her eyebrows. “I know you'd rather come into Boston with us and see a movie.”
Maya shook her head. Of course, she was right. Jen had been her roommate since freshman year, and they had become fast friends, but she clearly still didn't quite understand what it meant to be going to a small, private New England college entirely on grants and the work-study program. Jen's parents paid her tuition, among other things.
“Sorry, sweetie, I really do have to work.” Maya glanced at the clock. Dinner shift started in an hour, and she was doing “run and set” tonight, meaning she was in charge of filling everything that was depleted on the school's huge salad bar.
“Hey, your mom called this afternoon.” Jen flipped over onto her belly with her book.
Maya turned slowly away from the mirror. “Did she leave a message?”
“Just to call her.” Jen took a swig of her diet Coke. They had two cases of it stacked in the corner. It was Jen's version of coffee.
“Thanks.” Maya went out into the hallway and headed toward the front desk. There was a dorm phone out there. They had a phone in their room, but it was Jen's and Jen's parents paid the bill.
Up until recently, this year in fact, they had someone called a “Den Mother” at the front desk. She answered the phone and left messages for the girls, and she also made sure that no boys entered the dorms. Like any good girls’ school, boys weren't allowed anywhere but downstairs in the group room.
Now the dorm phone was left unmanned (or un-womaned in this case) and the dorms were a basic free-for-all. Maya picked up the phone and dialed the operator. It wasn't long before she heard her mother say, “Yes,” to the question, “Will you accept the charges?”
“Mom? Jen said you called, what's up?”
“Your father.” Her mother's voice turned immediately cold and angry. “He won't send the check, and he knows damned well your brother is still here freeloading off me.”
Maya sighed, resting her forehead against her palm. “Mom, was there something important?”
“This is important,” her mother retorted. “If you want any help with that ticket for your flight home over spring break, you might want to call your father and remind him to send a check!”
She realized that going home to Detroit was the last thing she wanted to do. She remembered her freshman spring break at Wheaton. It had been perfect.
Jennifer had invited her to her home and they had spent the time chatting with her parents in their BMW all the way to Hartford. She had spent a week playing tennis (Tennis! She'd never even picked up a racket before!) and swimming in their huge in-ground pool. They had a housekeeper named Sal, who was always bringing them more to
