Page 4 of Yield to Me

Chapter 2

Michael flicked his wrist at the smartboard, conveying a black and white photograph of a woman staring at the lens, a cigarette in her mouth, her arms crossed. He was explaining the midterm project—copy cat a famous photographer in six shots, then write a paper explaining how the photographs copied the style of that photographer and what your own style can take from the experience. I was a sculptor, not a photographer, but I had taken the class for access to the professor, a celebrated advisor in the graduate department. I wanted to pick the professor’s brain, to see exactly what his expertise was and to learn how he saw the world through the lens of an artistic photographer. But he taught the class once a month, leaving us fully aware that it was basically Michael’s class.

Michael took care not to look at any of the women in the class when he lectured, especially me. It was like he wanted to assert his position, reminding us of the power he held over our grades.

“Log your camera checkouts, and remember that we’ll be picking our photographers and developing your test rounds next class.” The click off of the projector signaled that we were done for the day, ten minutes early. I pretended to organize my belongings as I waited for everyone to leave. Two women straggled behind, eager to discuss their ideas with Michael. Once he saw that I was waiting for him, he directed them to his office hours, shooing them away. One of them scoffed at me as she passed me.

“Do you know who you might pick?” Michael asked. He pushed the blond hair off of his forehead, a reflex he had. His blue eyes were peering down at me, his hands braced on either side of the podium.

“I thought we had to draw them out of a hat,” I said. I tried not to smile as I said this. I knew what he was suggesting. He was always giving me preferential treatment, though I tried to pretend like I didn’t notice.

“Look over the list and text me your choice. I’ll make sure you get it.” He glanced around the empty hall. “Maybe Francesca Woodman.”

“I’ll check her out,” I said. I noticed he had said to text him, a subtle reminder that I had his phone number, though I had yet to use it for more than a Will you be at so-and-so’s opening?

“What are you doing tonight?” he asked. I could see that one coming.

“Working,” I said.

“Not until, what, like ten or eleven?”

“Maybe nine, maybe ten. Who knows?” But I knew. “I’ll let you know.”

“Let me take you out for dinner,” he said.

His lips were relaxed, thick and soft, but bold, like his bright blue eyes. His confidence skirted arrogance, but I knew that was part of what interested him in me. I wasn’t an easy-to-seduce undergraduate, and I had never been susceptible to his charm. It helped that we were almost the same age; he was two years older than me. But I had never been one to fall for those tricks anyway. I respected him and had started a conversation with him after the first class, with the goal of getting more information on the graduate program, which he was in. I made my interests clear. I kept my distance when it came to the boundaries of the teacher and the student, even if he was only the assistant. Part of me wanted to go on a date with him, even if it was for fun to burn off an empty night, but I always reminded myself of my goals. And I knew we wouldn’t work long term anyway.

“Another time,” I said.

“How long until you cave?” he asked. His mouth stayed open in surprise, as if he was shocked that someone would actually refuse him. I started signing the checkout log next to him, extending my use of the Nikon FM-10.

“Could be a long time,” I said. “Especially if I’m in the program next year.” I tucked the sides of my cardigan closer to me, a nervous habit I had to cover myself when I felt like I was getting too much attention. “You know I keep business and pleasure separate.”

“Because an art program means business,” he said. He nodded at my crossed arms. “It’s like you’re hiding from something.” I shook my head; a wavy strand of hair fell in front of my face. “It’ll be purely academic,” he said. “Drinks, tacos, and live music aside, we would discuss your art and your merit for the program.” He grinned. “Hell, we could even discuss application strategies.”

I smiled but shook my head. “Another time.”

He sighed. I grabbed my book bag and hoisted it on my shoulder. “Glass shouldn’t be this hard to break,” he said.

“You’re not the first person to use that line,” I said, waving as I walked out of the classroom. I was usually never even considered by men as good looking as he was, and it felt good to be pursued by him, someone so stubborn and arrogant, and even better to turn him down. As I walked to the parking garage, I wondered what I had done differently to capture his attention, or Owen Lowell’s, the man from the other night, for that matter. I had looked Owen up online the day after we met, and found that he had initially started as a financial analyst for a medical equipment company, but had somehow worked up the chain and took ownership of the company, then began investing in other projects, until eventually, he became the all-might Owen Lowell everyone seemed to know and want. I laughed at a clickbait article, Owen Lowell, Most Eligible Bachelor in San Francisco! You won’t believe that his fiance left him! Because that’s all women cared about: whether a man was handsome, rich, and why he was single.

With Michael, I had a feeling my maturity and constant rejection of him set me apart from the other students. But I had no idea what I had done when it came to Owen Lowell. He had noticed me and I had never even seen him before. You’d think it would be unavoidable with someone with such a controlling presence, but I guess the drinking at the events and my end goal, networking for the program and the program alone, kept me focused.

And anyway, I was still the ordinary Riley I had always been. I had wavy brown hair, a small dark mole on my left cheek, and shit brown eyes that my mother called amber when she was trying to make me feel better. But I told myself to forget about this bullshit. I had one concern in my life: proving myself to my mother, to Grayson, and to myself. I didn’t need a man to help me do anything. I could be successful off of my art, and my art alone. I could even take care of my mother with it.

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