Page 36 of The Love Interest
No I don’t.
He finally takes in all twelve of us and says, “Hello. I’mnotMarjorie French.”
Eleven of us politely laugh at that. One of us doesn’t find it amusing at all that he’s not Marjorie French. How dare he?!
“My name is Emmett Ford. I am an author of action-thriller novels. I’m replacing Marjorie, who suddenly became unable to teach this year. I understand no one was notified about this changeup.” He opens his laptop while continuing, not making eye contact with anyone as he speaks. “If any of you have an issue with me teaching this class, I’m afraid you’re out of luck. The other graduate-level fiction workshop is also at capacity, so if you want to get out of this class, you’ll either have to convince someone in Ross Morgenstern’s workshop to switch with you or find some other class to fulfill your course requirements.” He clears his throat—the only evidence of his humanity so far—and then says, “Why don’t you go around the room and introduce yourselves. Tell us your name and why you’re here and what you write.”
He turns to the guy to the right of him, indicating that he should start. Which is annoying because that means I’ll have to talk sooner than if they went in the other direction, and I don’t know if my voice is working anymore. I don’t know if I’ll just start screaming when it’s my turn. I bet if I did, Professor Ford wouldn’t even blink. He’d just frown at me handsomely. It’s like he doesn’t even know I’m here. He took me to the Whispering Gallery, made out with me on a bench at dawn, and told me he liked me, and now he’s acting like I’m not in the same room with him.
“Fiona.” Someone nudges my arm. It’s Beowulf. Everyone is looking at me. Even Emmett. Professor Ford, I mean. “Your turn,” Beowulf whispers.
“Oh.” How long had I been mind-ranting? How much did those other three people say about themselves? Am I naked and on fire right now? Because it feels like I’m running through the halls naked and on fire. I clear my throat and glance over at Emmett, which is a huge mistake, so I immediately shift my attention to every other person in the room. “My name is Fiona Walker. I grew up in Eureka, California. I’ve been writing short stories ever since I was little, just for fun. I’ve actually never even sent my stuff—my stories—to any literary journals or magazines. I just wrote to entertain myself, but it didn’t seem like something I should spend my life doing… My parents are New Age-artist types. They’re great. Really great. But they’re not great at keeping their shit together. So I grew up intent on being the responsible, practical one in the family. They own a vegan restaurant, and it’s always been a beloved spot in our town, but they’re so bad at running it. I got my degree in business administration at Berkeley so I could manage the restaurant and help my dad with his…small agricultural business.”
I look around, and I’m pretty sure everyone who’s actually paying attention to what I’m saying knows I mean that my dad grows pot. “Anyway, I thought it was important to be practical and have a career that kept me grounded and kept everything on an even keel… But then my mother was diagnosed with breast cancer—she’s fine.” I’ve learned to say that as soon as I mention that my mother was sick, so people don’t worry. But Beowulf touches my arm anyway to console me.
“I’m so sorry,” he says earnestly.
I chance a quick look over at Emmett and am surprised to see his eyes have softened. He’s looking at me with some kind of compassion or recognition. Those sad eyes again. He looks over at Beowulf and frowns, and the moment between us is gone.
“Thank you.” I tap Beowulf’s hand to indicate that he can let go of my arm now. “She’s good now. But when she was going through treatments, she was too tired to read and it made her dizzy to watch TV, so I would read to her. Her favorite books had always been Regency romance novels. I used to tease her about it. But when I was reading them to her, I understood why she loved them so much and I saw how good they made her feel. When she was still going through chemo, she told me that the only thing she regretted in life was that I wasn’t pursuing my writing because she’d always known how happy it made me. I read her a short story that I had recently written. She said if she died, I had to promise her I’d write books for a living. I said if she lived and got healthy again, I promised to write books for a living. She got healthy again, and so I found someone else to look after their businesses and finances. So, that’s why I’m here. I can’t make a living writing books yet, but I am still a practical person, so I figured why not go into debt getting a master’s degree in creative writing in New York City so I can learn how to write Regency romance novels for a living.”
A few people, including Beowulf, chuckle at that.
I look over at Professor McFrowny Face again.
He blinks once and says, “You’re here to write Regency romance novels?” Not even an attempt at hiding the derision in his tone.
“Yes. I am writing a Regency romance novel. Is that a problem?”
He doesn’t answer. He just shifts his penetrating gaze to the middle-aged woman who’s sitting next to me and nods.
I don’t hear a word the rest of my new classmates say because I’m screaming at Emmett Ford in my head again. At some point, everyone is done talking about themselves and our illustrious professor has us write down our names and email addresses on a sheet of paper and then starts talking about Aristotle’s three-act structure and a couple of books about writing that he likes.
Then he says, “So I was thinking it would be a fun way to get to know each other’s writing style if you rewrite the opening of a famous novel of your choice. It doesn’t have to be the entire first chapter or prologue, just the first page. For instance, say you write steampunk science fiction. You could rewrite the first page ofThe Grapes of Wrathusing your own voice and typical setting of your work. But using the book’s character names. Any questions?”
You thought it would be fun? You? Thought of something fun?
A couple of people ask for clarification, and it seems to annoy Emmett. This pleases me to no end. I hope everything about this class annoys him as much as him being the teacher annoys me. Although I do happen to think that’s a fun assignment.
“Can we rewrite one ofyourbooks?” Beowulf asks, grinning.
Emmett’s jaw tightens when he looks at him. “Beowulf? Is it?”
“Correct.”
“Go for it, if that works for you. I’d encourage any of you to do that. Great idea. I look forward to it.” He looks at me for a second, and it feels like he’s going to address me directly, but instead he says, “Okay. Short class today. See you next week with your assignments. Email them to me and everyone on the class list in five days. Have a good week.”
“Oh, Emmett?” the shiny-black-haired-model-type says while parting her lips and placing the tip of her pen between her teeth. Such a poser.
“Yes?” Emmett doesn’t seem to remember her name. Which makes me a tiny bit happy.
“Veronica,” she says, touching her décolletage. “You haven’t given us your email address yet. So we can send you our assignments.”
“Right. It’s EMMETT FORD at U-N-Y dot E-D-U.”
“Right.” She smiles. “I figured. Just wanted to confirm.”
Emmett stands up and says, without looking at me, “Miss Walker, could I see you in my office for a minute, please?”
