Page 11 of Director's Cut

One of the blond guys raises his hand. She calls him Trevor.

“Yeah,” he says, leaning his elbow on the desk. “Can we talk to Valeria—Professor Sullivan, like, one-on-one?”

I know this Trevor dude is my student, but my insides quiver a little when that’s the first question he asks. It just feels very straight-man-in-a-club from my own undergrad days.

Maeve still has that frown on her face as she glances at me. “She can be met with by appointment only, and given what I’m sure is her busy schedule, don’t expect for her to become your mentor. I’ll be holding regular office hours for any class-related questions.”

“But what if we have industry-specific questions?” Trevor asks. “I mean, aren’t we paying for the industry access as much as the theory?”

My stomach gets hot. By appointment only? What’s she going on about? I literally cleared my schedule so I’d have two whole days dedicated to this, and my life every other day of the week is pretty much going to be me hanging out with Charlie and reading potential scripts. I made time for stuff like office hours. In fact, I’d happily set this guy straight about the outsize expectations in the industry.

“I can—” I say.

Maeve puts a hand on my shoulder. The move is unexpected, her grip strangely firm, and I swear the impact of her bare hand on my clothed shoulder is akin to being pushed off a cliff. Stomach free fall and everything. “Any industry insight you need can be found through appointments.” She drops her hand. “We’re grateful that Professor Sullivan is doing this. There’s no need to be demanding.”

The class goes dead silent. I look to Ty, who nods along.

Is Maeve seriously going on this power trip right now? I can hold office hours and handle whatever stupid entitled questions these kids have for me. It’s what I do every day in my normal life anyway. These kids already feel miles away from me and we’re in the same room. What’s the point of doing this if I don’t get to actually interact with my students in a meaningful way?

Then Maeve starts the screening. She nods to Ty and motions for me to follow her. I do, heading out of the classroom and back into the echoes of the stone-floor hallway on the first floor. It’s quiet with just the three of us out here. She stares at me for a long moment, posture tight.

“Look, Valeria—”

I hate how my heart jolts hearing her say my name.

“I appreciate what you’re doing with the office hours thing, but stick to what we outlined. We’ve dealt with celebrity guest professors before, and this is the best way to handle it. How to get the best results possible.”

I raise my chin. “You do realize you’ve been corresponding with my manager this whole time, right? She told me that you approved my syllabus and you’d be helping with logistics. I’m sorry if something got lost in translation. Can we at least—?”

Maeve’s jaw clenches, a little spark in her own eyes. She smooths out her wrinkleless blazer, says, “Then talk to your manager,” before returning to the classroom.

Yeah, this is not the self-esteem bump I had envisioned.

CHAPTER FOUR

“Why can’t you just order clothes online?” Charlie asks as he jumps out of my car the next morning.

This trip is the result of a long, overcalculated decision Charlie and I made last night. When I talked to Trish after leaving USC, the conversation boiled down to one thing: if I wanted Maeve to respect me as a (temporary) academic, I had to act worthy of respect. Which meant taking responsibility for not preparing for the class and looking the part. The humbling was surprisingly easy to swallow—I had fumbled the first class—but the clothing was surprisingly harder. Yes, I did notice Maeve judging the expensive shoes. Maybe even making the connection that I picked out the expensive outfit instead of reading my emails. Trish agreed—perhaps a more affordable wardrobe would take the heat off me. But that meant going to a mall. As in, a public place, which, depending on how close it was to my house, could be crawling with paparazzi.

So, Charlie and I came up with a solution. We’re going to Torrance, otherwise known as the most unremarkable suburb next to the town with the best beaches in LA. It’s also dominated by a giant half-outdoor shopping center, and it’s our best bet for actually braving a mall while not getting recognized.

“It’ll be quicker to just grab everything I need,” I say. I smile at him. “Plus, even with you staying at my house, we have a lot of hang time to make up for.”

I click the Send button on an email to Maeve and roll back up the sleeve on the Blink-182 crop tee I selected from my normal-person clothing. My collection turned out to contain an embarrassingly high amount of Dodgers merch; one of said Dodgers caps is currently on Charlie’s head. Hoodies are my usual regular-person outside clothing, but with it pushing ninety in the first week of September, it’s not happening. I’m gonna try not to think about how Maeve and I are going to discuss my syllabus tomorrow after my disastrous first impression.

“And since this is us hanging, try to look a little happier,” I say as Charlie holds the door open for me, his Nebraska transplant parents having thoroughly imbued him with Midwest hospitality.

The burst of cool—no, freezing—air in Nordstrom almost makes me regret not wearing a hoodie. But one glance around at the countless makeup stations, gleaming stone floors, and the abundance of white light and I’m sweating again.

Charlie looks over at me and rubs my shoulder. “Breathe, Val. We’re not that important compared to the people of Sunnydale’s shopping needs.”

My breathing softens at Charlie’s sweet little Buffy joke (the show was primarily filmed in Torrance). “You’re right.”

Still, I take Charlie’s hand as I aim us into the main area of the mall. My heart jolts as I do it; it’s so automatic a gesture to do with him as a friend, but being out in public gives it a whole other connotation. It’s like, we are going to be perceived as a man and a woman together, and any tiny sign that we’re affectionate or comfortable makes the average person think we’re a het couple. All it would take would be me grabbing Charlie’s hand like this to make a stranger think we’re going to go home and fuck. Both our queer identities erased—just like that. It makes me queasy.

Still, I keep holding his hand until we’re out of Nordstrom. Whatever Charlie and my sexualities, we’ve always been physically affectionate, holding hands through those early days of opening emails from reps to see if we got nothing parts. We fit together naturally, and if he’s not bothered, I’m not either.

His gaze slides across the stores lining the three-plus levels of the mall. “Do you think they have your favorite store here?”

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