One Hot Fall Term (Yardley College Chronicles Book1) (11 page)

The two professors are waiting for me to defend myself. I start to explain about my form, trying desperately to remember what I was trying to achieve. Then I make a killer mistake—I admit I had made a mistake. It seems like the best thing to do. Be honest.

“My process didn’t work like I’d hoped,” I explain. “I got behind in my work and I started the model too late. I didn’t get the result I wanted.”

The two professors start conferring with each other as if I’m not even in the room.

“I’d fail her outright,” says the guest prof.

Anton Brut is considering. “Do you have anything else to say in your defense?”

What can I say? I misunderstood and screwed up. Do I admit that? No one said I had to use negative space a certain way. This was supposed to be about exploring form. I still don’t understand how there can be a wrong answer.

I should say something. But anything I can think of sounds like whining. I don’t have any defence.

Just like my past—my messed up past. Sure, I can make excuses for being young. But I knew those things were wrong and I didn’t say no. I didn’t fight to make it stop.

I haven’t changed. I haven’t grown. I’m making the same mistakes again—assuming things, being too scared, and not confronting stuff.

This time it’s going to make me fail.

They’re still waiting. I have to be honest. “I can’t say anything in my defense. The model didn’t work. I didn’t do it right.”

There’s a gasp. I guess I was supposed to talk my way out of this. But I can’t do that. I’m not glib and confident.

“Are you certain, Miss Reynolds?”

“I—I guess.”

Then he launches into a general speech about people who don’t belong in the program, people who aren’t creative enough, who aren’t going to cut it.

I stand there, listening. They haven’t told me I can sit down and I won’t walk away until they do. It would look like I was fleeing. Even though I really want to run.

I’m sitting there thinking:
I’ve failed.
Already.

They finally tell me I can sit—after all, my humiliation is over and they need to bring the next person up. I stay, listening to every other presentation, but I don’t hear a word.

I’m done.

At the end of class, Anton Brut asks me into his office. He leaves the door open. “I don’t like to be in my office alone with a female student. Never with the door closed.”

It’s a repeat of his warning during my presentation. Some people aren’t good enough. He means me.

“It’s a crowded profession,” he says. “Only the best succeed. There are other things you can do that don’t involve design work. You could be a technologist and do drafting if you have those skills. You could be an administrator. You could—”

“Brew the coffee,” I mutter. It’s only the first project. He isn’t giving me a chance.

As if he reads my mind, he answers the question. “Chances are for high school. Here, you should be ready to perform. If you aren’t, there is no place for you.”

I’ve been judged. Executed.

He suggests I consider leaving.

“No,” I say. I won’t leave; they will have to throw me out. But I don’t say that to him. For some reason, I’m can’t make my mouth say anything beyond one syllable.

He stands. “Then do better. I’ll give you two weeks to redo the project.”

For a moment, my heart soars. Then it sinks. I have
other
work due. He tells me to go.

I’m shaking when I leave the building. I know what abuse is all about. My entire puberty was haunted by it. But I’ve never had this.

I’ve never had anyone tell me I’m a piece of garbage to my face. While I listened to it—in the studio and in Brut’s office—I was damned and determined not to cry. I suspected that was the point of the exercise: to break me and drive me away. Some kind of Darwinian game where only the toughest should make it through first year.

I know that is garbage. I know I should stand up for myself.

But I’ve
never
stood up for myself.

The women’s bathroom is two steps away, and I retreat into one of the stalls. Sticking my thumb knuckle between my teeth, I bite hard.

The finger-biting doesn’t stop my tears. When I come out of the bathroom, I can feel them brimming in my eyes. I brush them away. Then slam into a tall, male body.

“Mia.” It’s Jonathon and he stares down at me in shock. “What happened?”

Chapter Six

“Say the word,” Jonathon says, after I’ve told him everything about my presentation and the meeting with my prof afterward. “I can have his career destroyed in days.”

I don’t know what to do. Cry? Laugh? Say yes? Laughing wins. “No, I don’t want that. I want to win fair and square. On my own merits. I want to make Anton Brut eat his words.”

From across the table, his gaze holds mine. “A warning. Guys like that do not eat their words. The only message they understand is when you grind them into the ground.”

He says it coldly, but I can feel the restrained anger inside him.

We’re sitting in an Irish pub that is on Westingham’s main street. There’s a huge bar of dark, polished wood with a gleaming brass rail and panels of stained glass. Scarves from British football teams hang on the walls, and a set of bagpipes is mounted above a huge stone fireplace. In the middle of the afternoon, it’s almost empty. Jonathon and I share a booth. Sunlight spills in on us, making dust motes sparkle. We have coffees in front of us. Since I’m half groggy from lack of sleep and half-wired on panic and hurt, I need something to keep me from collapsing.

I’ve barely emailed or spoken to Ryan since I started to cram on this project. Since mid-September, I’ve been so busy I’ve been only sleeping four hours a night and I forget to eat. I’d love to be able to be with Ryan. Wrap my arms around him and hold him tight. Use sex and loving to forget all this pain.

But I can’t do that with Ryan so far away.

I just want to be able to talk to him. For a day. An hour. Even just a minute.

Jonathon’s been really good to me. He’s made me feel so much better about the disaster of today. He’s made me laugh. He’s made me believe one screwed-up presentation is not the end of my life.

He told me about a prof at Yardley who singled him out because of his wealth and tried to take him down a few notches. What Jonathon describes sounds like abusive behavior on the part of the professor, but Jonathon doesn’t seem to care. He aced the course, then switched his major.

I can’t understand why he’s being so nice, why he spends so much time with me, why he lets me talk and rant to him. He knows it’s not going to lead to sex, because of Ryan.

But we’ve gotten together for coffee a few times a week—when I can spare some time from work—and he just listens to me.

Ryan hasn’t texted or called me much either. He’s just as busy as me. I worry about how he’s handling all the studying, but he keeps telling me everything is fine. His roommate, Philip, is helping and tutoring him, he says. In returns, he trains with Philip and is pushing his roomie to meet the physical tests.

The waitress comes to our table.

“More coffee, Mia?” Jonathon asks.

I have a weird buzzy feeling in my head. I’m starting to get juiced on caffeine, but am still exhausted. “Yeah,” I say. “That would be great.”

I draw out my phone. Should I tell Ryan about today? Probably not. He has enough worries.

Looking at my phone reminds me about the weird emails. I decide to tackle it bluntly. I wait while the waitress sets down more coffee, then ask him, “Did you send me a couple of pictures of Lara and I?”

He looks surprised. It has to be genuine.

I tell him about the photos. The email addy has been different for each one. The first was YCStudent1002. The second came from YCStudent2002. Uber generic, which makes it disturbing.

Jonathon’s green eyes narrow. “What kind of pictures?”

That I didn’t fully explain to him. “Nothing racy,” I say quickly. “Nothing of us naked, or topless, or anything. I’ve received four. One of Lara and I talking at your party, and one when she and I were walking to the res commons for dinner. One when I was leaving the School of Architecture building in the middle of the day to meet you for coffee. And one in the morning, when I was leaving the dorm. Since you know both of us, I thought you might have taken our pictures.”

My reasoning sounds lame. What I’ve described sounds creepy and strange. And I realize that it sounds like I’m accusing Jonathon of being a stalker.

His hand is tight around his coffee mug. “No, I didn’t.” Then, “If you get anymore, tell me about them. Okay?”

“Yeah, sure. You look stressed about this,” I point out. His reaction is making me stressed. “Do you know something about this?”

“No, I don’t know anything about it. If someone is sending you pictures anonymously, I don’t like it.”

I feel bad. Jonathon has been a good friend. Looking at him, at the steely, determined look on his face, I suddenly get it. “You don’t have to protect me, you know. Oh—are you protecting Lara?”

He jerks his head a bit, looking surprised. “Both of you. If someone’s stalking you, I want to know about it. I can have it taken care of.”

“What are you—the mob?”

He grins. “Something better. Son of the CEO of Amalgamated Potter Industries.”

“I should get back to class.”

“Mia, you’re taking the afternoon off. With me.” He waves his hand. As if summoned by his magic, the waitress darts over. He asks her for menus. “Have you eaten anything today?” he asks me.

“No,” I admit. With two coffees on top of my empty, upset stomach, I feel sick.

“My treat,” Jonathon says.

I scan down the menu, ordering French onion soup, a side Caesar, and butter chicken. Jonathon’s lips twitch in a smile. “I have eclectic tastes,” I say, a bit defensively.

“That’s what makes you unique and fascinating.” He orders a sirloin burger.

This is incredibly decadent—cutting class to sit in this quaint Irish style pub. But there’s a tug deep in my heart. Decadence is something I want to be doing with Ryan.

***

That night, I text Ryan from my dorm room. Lara’s out. One of the fraternity’s is throwing a party in their frat house. She invited me, but I have way too much work to do. Lara has been invited to a lot of parties, but she hasn’t found a new boyfriend yet.

I stay away from the party to work, but I can’t settle down and do it. Deep inside, I keep thinking,
What’s the point. I’m going to screw up anyway
.

Then I think of Jonathon, promising to defend me. It makes me realize I have to fight.

How are things?
I text to Ryan.
Had a crappy presentation today. They keep questioning why I think I should be here.


He texts back:
You belong there. You’re smart and talented. I think I did the wrong thing when I came here.


Oh no, I didn’t mean to make him start doubting. I hurriedly send a text telling him not to think that way. He’s smart, tough, noble, strong.

He responds:
Dad went on a bender. I got a call from the cops. His friend Jimmy bailed him out. I need to be looking after him.


Jimmy owns the country bar where Ryan gets free drinks. My heart thunders.
No. Your father is an adult. He makes his own choices. You are not his keeper. The best thing you can do for him is to make a future for you.


You’re very smart, Mia.


I wish I was. I write:
I miss you. Every time I take a shower…I wish you were here. I really want to take a shower with you.


He writes:
God, I miss you so much it hurts.


I’m awfully tempted to send him a naughty picture. A snapshot of my bare breasts, for example. But I hesitate. Not that I don’t trust Ryan, but I know almost nothing about his roommate, Philip. What if he saw it and sent it around? What if Ryan’s dad uses his phone some time? What if I accidentally send it to the wrong person?

Okay, no nudity. I squint—damn, my eyes are tired—and I think.

Do you remember the night on the dock?
I type.

I won’t ever forget it
, he answers.

I need to think of something hot to send to him. I can think of something hot—a dozen sexual fantasies are slamming into me all at once. I just feel really awkward typing them into my phone.

I loved sucking your cock
, I write. I go flaming red—I can see my blush in Lara’s mirror. Oh God, what if Philip’s in the room with him and is reading over his shoulder? Gah.

Mia, I’m gonna go crazy if you do this.


Okay, I didn’t expect that. I thought Ryan would like it. But I guess it will make him frustrated too. But he can just jerk off, like I can play with myself—

Ryan sends another text.
GTG. Philip’s back and he’s working to get me through calculus. Going to be impossible to study. Can’t concentrate now. Aching for you.


***

By mid-October, I’m exhausted. I’ve stayed up until 3:00 a.m. most nights. Not to party, but to write my report for my History of Western Architecture course and work on the drawings. I’m doing a study of the Parthenon.

I had to scramble money together to buy more drawing equipment. There’s a store in the main School of Architecture building, and I had barely enough money to buy ink pens, markers, high quality pencils and good sketching paper. I didn’t want to ask my stepfather for more. Some of the students have drafting and drawing programs on their Apple computers. I don’t have anything like that on my ancient laptop.

I have to work by hand or try to find time in the computer lab. I’ve discovered the best time to use it is at six in the morning. Everyone works late, no one comes in early. I just push a sleeping student out of the way and get to work.