Page 14 of Down My Chimney

“So that’s one of the major themes of the book,” Marika said, “and once you’ve seen it, you realize it’s present in a lot of Austen’s—Blake? Blake? Are you listening?”

My head snapped up. I’d drifted off again. Which you might think would be impossible, given that we were sitting in a busy taco joint close to campus that played extremely loud ska music at all times, but I’d managed.

The tacos were shitty, but they were cheap, plus they gave you free chips and salsa. Marika had suggested it because they had great WiFi, and I’d agreed because it was on the other side of campus from my apartment, which meant my roommates were less likely to stop in. They still didn’t know I had a school-mandated tutor, and I wanted to keep it that way.

I’d been assigned to meet with Marika two weeks ago, after getting called into a conference with my coach and the Dean of Students. I knew my grades so far this semester weren’t impressive, but I hadn’t sat down to do the math on my GPA, which only made it more humiliating when they informed me I was in danger of losing my athletic scholarship.

I didn’t really need the scholarship to pay for school—my parents could have covered it—but if I couldn’t keep my grades up, I’d be off the team. And I couldn’t imagine anything more humiliating than getting kicked off because I couldn’t handle the same amount of school work as everyone else.

I wasn’t sure if it was better or worse that I knew Marika from the Best Buddies program I used to volunteer with (yet another commitment I’d let fall by the wayside this spring). On the one hand, I knew she was sweet, and too nice to make fun of me. On the other hand, it was mortifying that someone I actually liked knew how much I was struggling.

“Blake?” Marika said again, waving her hand in front of my face.

“What? Sorry, yeah, I’m listening. You were saying something about, uh, classism? And…subverting…something? Or not subverting it?” I smiled apologetically. “I’m sorry, I think you might have lost me there.”

“It’s okay,” she said. “All I’m saying is that while Austen’s books often function as a commentary on sexism in Georgian society, it’s harder to argue that they offer as incisive a critique of classism. At the end of the day, Emma Woodhouse still marries someone in her social class, and Harriet Smith marries someone in her own. So that might be fertile ground for this paper if you wanted to go in that direction.”

I closed my eyes and tried to remember the ending ofEmma, which I’d forced myself through last week. It wasn’t a bad book, but reading it for school, in such a short timeframe, had soured me on it. Plus, I kept falling asleep, which meant I had to go back and reread chapters I’d already finished.

I didn’t understand how my friends did it. Dev was majoring in econ. Taylor was double-majoring in Spanish and Mandarin. Even Matty, who projected the biggest stoner vibe of all time, was studying finance and acing his classes.Theyall managed to keep their heads above water. Why was it so hard for me?

“Doesn’t she marry someone who’s like, a million years older than she is?” I asked. I was pretty sure I remembered that. “I thought it said somewhere that Knightley was sixteen when she was born. Isthata theme?”

“I’m not so sure I’d call it a theme,” Marika said. “But itisinteresting. Because it’s not just the age gap, right? It’s the fact that he’s known her since she was a child. There’s a power dynamic there for sure. But does that necessarily mean their partnership is tainted from the start? That it can never be one of mutual respect and affection? It’s certainly presented as a marriage of equals, and the ‘right’ match at the end of the book. So there could be something there.”

“Something there for what?” I asked, confused.

“For your paper.”

“Oh. Right.” I flushed. “I’m not really sure I could write a ten-page paper on whether it’s weird to fall in love with someone you’ve known since they were a baby.”

You’ve known Henry since he was six,a little voice inside my head said. But then again, I’d known Henry sinceIwas six too. So that was a little different. And I wasn’t in love with him.

Right?

Something about that question made me break out in a sweat. I took a big gulp of ice water from the green plastic cup on the table in front of me. My phone buzzed, and I glanced down automatically, hoping it would be another text from Henry.

I was driving up to LA tomorrow, and he’d been texting me excitedly about his plans for the weekend. I reallywouldhave been happy to just never leave the room, or his bed, but it made me smile, seeing how stoked he was for everything.

But the buzz was just another batch of notifications from Instagram. I’d posted a picture when I first came in, sticking two shards of tortilla chips under my lips, pointy ends down and dipped in salsa so they looked like fangs.I vant to suck your blood, I’d captioned it. Stupid, but I hadn’t posted anything in a couple of days, so I figured I might as well.

Omg, so cute!

Where are you? Looks delish

I would let you suck that and more

Hotttttt

Blake stop, how are you still sexy looking like a corn chip vampire? NOT FAIR

Where are you? Want some company lololol?

I sighed. There was a reason I didn’t bother reading most of the comments I got. I appreciated the attention—let’s be real, that was the only reason I had an account—but I knew it didn’t mean much. None of these people knew who I really was.

And none of them were the person I really wanted to hear from.

“Blake? Earth to Blake?”

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