“You’re already a writer, Emi.” He seemed sincere, but it wasn’t exactly what I wanted to hear.
“All of the other adjuncts have been published in some right, except for me.”
“Cara’s been published?”
“Twice,” I said under my breath.
He hesitated before continuing. “You want to know what I think? It’s not a lack of talent, Emi. I just don’t think you’re writing what you know. Why don’t you try writing about yourself? Explore everything you went through when you were a kid?”
I felt myself getting mad again. He knew my childhood was off-limits. “I don’t want to talk about it, and besides, you’re totally missing the point.”
Pulling my hoodie up over my hair, I pushed the door open and jogged down the stairs toward the walkway as the rain pelted my face. I heard Trevor slam the door and jog down the steps behind me. I stopped on the sidewalk, turned, and looked up at him. “What are you doing?”
“I’m going home,” he said.
“Great.”
“We still need to talk.”
I nodded. “Later.” He turned on his heel and walked away. I stood for a moment before turning in the opposite direction... and ran.
I was convinced that the years of therapy my aunt Cyndi and her partner, Sharon, had paid for guaranteed my past would always be just that. Still, I knew in the back of my mind that I hadn’t quite dealt with what happened on that long dirt road in Ohio, all those years before I came to live with Cyndi and Sharon. I was guarded and withdrawn, hiding in my relationship with Trevor, in my job as an adjunct professor, in my writing. I knew all of this, but I wasn’t sure how to get out of this rut.
After a few miles, I found myself jogging through the parking lot at UCSD, getting thoroughly soaked by massive raindrops.
“Emi!” I heard Cara call from behind me. “Wait up!”
I turned and tightened the strings on my hoodie. “Hurry, I’m getting drenched!”
Cara’s straight blonde hair clung to her cheeks, making her look even thinner than she was, as she jogged toward me. She was the opposite of me—tall, lanky, with light hair and light eyes. I had frizzy, dark hair that flew everywhere, all the time.
We took cover beneath the overhang of the building that housed the creative writing department. “Jeez, Emi, your hair.” Cara tried unsuccessfully to pat it down as we walked into the building and shook the water off our clothes. Before I could retort, we caught sight of Professor James as he was locking up his office.
“Professor!” Cara called.
He fit every possible stereotype. He was plump, had a thick beard, and always dressed in herringbone or argyle. It was easy to imagine a pipe hanging from the side of his mouth as he talked.
“Do you have those notes on my story for me?” Cara asked.
“As a matter of fact, I do.” He shuffled through his distressed leather briefcase and handed Cara a stack of papers. “I’ve written them in the margins.”
Cara craved constructive criticism, but I never found the professor’s notes all that helpful, even when I was in the program. After I graduated, I stopped letting him read my work.
As she scanned his marginalia, Professor James looked me over. “What are you working on, Emiline?”
“Just doing scene exercises.” I looked away, avoiding his gaze.
“I didn’t mean with your students. I meant with your personal projects.”
I thought idly that the only personal project I wanted to work on was plucking my eyebrows and shaving my legs. “Oh, just some short stories.”
“If you ever want some feedback, feel free to drop your work off in my office.”
I shifted uncomfortably.“Thanks, I’ll consider it.”
I glanced at Cara’s story and noticed, in bold red writing, at the top of the page, the noteBRILLIANT!!
Professor James nodded good-bye and walked away. I turned to Cara. “Two exclamation points? He’s never said anything that nice about my work.”
