Page 8 of Director's Cut

Not that I’m the only bitch at this school clacking from Parking Lot D to the cinema school in 85mm Louboutin pumps. In fact, I find myself hyperfixated on the brands I see as I pass. Jimmy Choo, Valentino, Tom Ford, Gucci, all slid onto lithe bodies that have yet another label slapped onto their backpacks, Greek letters on their shirts.

Then I step into the courtyard of the School of Cinematic Arts. It’s the most beautiful spot at USC, illuminated in the last-week-of-August LA sun. The set of buildings are all modeled off a classic Paramount-type studio lot, soft cream stone layered upon rust-colored paint and pueblo-chic red-tile roofs. I force myself not to stop at a rather impressive fountain, perfect red and yellow flowers planted around the edges and a shining statue of some kind of cinema man in the middle. And suddenly the sorority girls I was vibing with so much are gone.

The students here are all scraggly beards and beanies. Industry people who don’t have the money to clean up yet. These people also stare at me. I tug at the collar of my shirt as I locate an elevator. Everyone is gazing at me in an unnervingly specific way. Not like people on the street, who squint at me like I may or may not be someone they knew in high school. These kids scrutinize me, as if trying to remember if they enjoyed my filmography enough to approach me.

I enter the main building and press the elevator button for the fourth floor, forcing a deep breath as the inside stays empty. Then footsteps sound, and a guy darts into the closing doors. He’s glistening with sweat and brushes his jet-black hair off his dark brown skin. He’s probably in his thirties but has a baby face and, maybe it’s the heels, but I can’t help but notice how awkward it feels to look down at him when we make eye contact.

“Oh my god, you’re Valeria Sullivan,” he says. His voice is gravely.

We hit the second floor, no stops. I can’t even get my lips to stop trembling as I smile. “Yeah.”

Third floor. We stop, doors open, but there’s no one there. I press the Close button. The guy is still staring. My first instinct is to look down at my chest; given the way he’s looking at me, I’m starting to worry I’ve had a nip slip.

But my shirt is still perfect. I make eye contact again when I look up. He flusters right along with me, but my blush is now visible.

“I’m so sorry,” he says. “Shit. Oh my god, I’m your—I’m your TA.”

Oh.

Oh, fuck.

He holds out a hand. “I’m Ty Dhillon. Should’ve opened with that.”

We shake hands. Now if I could just get my heart to stop racing. His palm is sweaty. Or maybe it’s mine. Either way, we pull out of the handshake quickly.

“I can take you to Dr. Arko’s office.”

A twinge hits my chest. When I was a TA, even in England, I called the professors I worked with by their first names. How hard-core is Maeve Arko that she’s making her TA use her title and her last name?

“That’d be great.”

We step off the elevator. I can still hear the clack of my shoes, despite the carpeting. Ty’s brown eyes slide down to them, then swiftly, perhaps automatically, slide up my outfit. It’s not sexual necessarily, but there’s a feeling I always get with these things. You can tell which fans spend their nights adoring gifsets on social media during convention meet and greets.

“You look great,” he says. Bingo. He frowns, pauses. “Like, chic.”

I swallow a snort of laughter, but a smile still creeps across my face. “Thank you.”

My gaze falls on his outfit. It’s a surfer-brand T-shirt, cargo shorts, and sandals. Like the worst straight-California-boy outfit in existence. “You too.” My lukewarm comment still seems to fluster him.

Finally, we reach an office door with Maeve Arko, Assistant Professor written in clean letters. Ty knocks before stepping inside.

“I’m sure you don’t have to knock,” Ty says as he opens the door.

Just like that, there’s Dr. Maeve Arko, in a navy pantsuit with a floral patterned blouse underneath. One of her hands is wrapped around a pair of Beats as the other closes a laptop with a single finger. Her nails are red.

And here’s the problem. I didn’t look her up before. In fact, the only thing I knew about her going into this was her name and that she got her PhD in Queer New Wave cinema from Berkeley. But I didn’t, you know, look up what year she graduated. Because I can’t imagine it was more than three years ago. Considering she’s already a tenure-track professor, she must be a providential combination of hypercompetent and lucky.

Oh, and Maeve Arko is fucking hot. Big, expressive brown eyes, an elegant narrow nose, sharp cheekbones and jawline. Shaped brows that look almost natural. A pink swath across Cupid’s bow lips, dark brown chin-length hair that falls in waves, like she runs her hands through it all day.

Let me formally apologize to every person I’ve judged for staring at me like a clown.

Maeve gets up from her desk and shakes my hand. “So nice to meet you, Valeria.”

Her voice has a slight timbre, like it’d dip deeper with certain inflections. I’m fucked.

I’m…also fucked because she doesn’t actually sound happy to meet me. I cannot look to check my blouse again. My jaw’s clenching. I need to unclench it. “I go by Val.”

She offers me a brief, curt smile. The office is pretty minimalist, set up almost like a therapist’s office—her desk, bookshelves filled to the brim, a brown couch, and one chair by the window. She lingers near her desk, and Ty darts for the additional chair. I go for the couch.

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