Dearest Clementine (3 page)

I’m relieved to see Harper curled up on the couch talking on the phone when I walk in.

“Are you the only one here?” I ask as she hangs up.

“Yeah, Jenna went back home with Ryan because you know how they get after shows,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Dani went out to eat with her friends.”

Grabbing the corner of her blanket, I tuck myself in next to her, and we stare at the muted television. At some point, we’re going to have to deal with the boxes that are still stacked along the walls, but I’m too tired to consider it. Now that I’m sitting, my legs are numb, and exhaustion starts to spread through the rest of my limbs.

“How was tonight?” I ask.

“The band was great, but Kade the giant dickhead wouldn’t stop hitting on me.”

Kade is the band’s drummer. He’s the son of some politician, and he’s used to getting his way. Guys like him with money and power and no fear of society’s parameters are dangerous, something I’ve learned the hard way.

“That sucks.”

 “I don’t care how scrumptious I look. The next time he puts his hands on my ass will be his last.”

Harper doesn’t have Jenna’s overt beauty, but she’s striking in her own way, and she’s one of the few people I know who’s comfortable in her own skin. Plus, she’s a psych major and doesn’t mind digging around in my brain until I stop with the crazy.

“That guy is such a douche. I don’t know why Ryan is friends with him.”

She straightens in her seat. “But the new guitarist is a sweetheart. And so cute!”

“That’s what I hear.” I haven’t met this guy yet, but he already has Harper’s attention. That says something. “You gonna dump your boy toy for him?”

“You know it!”

* * *

I. Am. Such. An. Idiot.

Reaching into my bag, I pull out my class list. I shoved it in there in May, and quickly forgot about it. I scan my classes: Greek & Roman Myth in Literature, Psychology, Romance Novel-Writing, and Applied Math.

I held off three years to do two things: take my one math requirement—because I’m mathematically challenged—and enroll in what I anticipated would be my favorite writing course, Young Adult Novel-Writing with Professor Golding. She was out on maternity leave last spring and isn’t teaching the course second semester, so this fall is the only chance I have to take it with her. I hoped the class could help me cultivate ideas to write my book.

My stomach plummets as I read the list again.

Being the genius that I am, I’m only now realizing I accidentally signed up for Romance Writing.

Visions of Professor Golding taking me under her wing quickly vanish. The odds of her class having any room for one more student is about as good as finding a street in Boston that doesn’t have a pothole.

Young Adult Writing is taught by one other professor, and I placed a restraining order on him freshman year, so hell would have to freeze the fuck over before I’d consider taking another one of his classes.

I had all summer, all damn summer, to figure this out, but I didn’t think to look at my class list, other than a cursory glance, to make sure it was correct. I must have seen the “novel writing” part and thought I was set. Shit.

It takes staring at my registration sheet and the online catalogue of classes for ten unblinking minutes to realize that the course numbers for Young Adult and Romance Writing are nearly identical. But the Sunday night of Labor Day weekend is not the time to figure this out because there is nothing I can do until classes start.

Fuck!

By 10 a.m. on Tuesday, I’m in need of alcohol. Shots. Maybe tequila. I’m not a drinker, but the sight of students standing in a packed classroom trying to get into Golding’s YA course has me feeling defeated. I double-check her office hours and decide to see her after class and head off to Romance Writing.

I roll my eyes. I hate romance novels.

I’m so screwed.

* * *

I’m ten minutes late, but at least I make it. I scurry in, ducking as though that might make me invisible, and sink into one of the last open seats. The room is huge and almost overflowing, which is strange considering only creative writing majors should be in here.

Professor Marceaux is strolling the front of the class, clucking her tongue as she surveys us. Before I get a chance to look at the syllabus, she calls on a student who has her hand up.

“So what’s the difference between
Fifty Shades
of Grey
and romance?” a girl in the front row asks.

From the sudden chatter that erupts, I get the impression this is on everyone’s mind. Am I the only person who hasn’t read
Fifty Shades
?

Marceaux pauses mid-step. “Excellent question. First and foremost, Ana, the main character in
Fifty Shades
, is considering whether or not she wants to be Christian’s submissive, so the whole story revolves around this sexual conflict, which places it firmly within the erotica genre. Let’s also consider diction. In romance, we say making love or maybe having sex. For my taste, we won’t say
fucking
,” she says, making the whole class laugh as she wags her eyebrows.

Oh, Jesus
.
Do we have to talk about sex?
Can’t romance be about unrequited love and angsty looks? Maybe a little drunk fondling in the coat closet?

The professor has a thick French accent, and as she struts across the front of the room, she pushes her tortoise-shell frames up to the top of her head. She clucks again. “Along those lines, I wouldn’t write penis or clitoris. You will need to make up some fun euphemisms for those words.”

Students start muttering and a few girls giggle.

Why the hell do I need a fun euphemism for the word penis? I never plan to write that word. Ever.

I feel ill.

A guy sitting next to me nudges my elbow.

“I could help you out with that,” he whispers, smirking. “You know, with the euphemisms.”

“Go to hell, jackass.” It only takes a minute to pack my bag before I storm out of the room. The professor mumbles something as the door swings shut behind me and laughter erupts a second later.

When I get home, my head is pounding. In the late afternoon, when Jenna walks in, her eyes bug out when she sees me.

“Holy Christ, Clem, what was up with you in class today?”

“What class?” I pull one leg up underneath me and sink deeper into the bench seat by the bay window.

“Romance. You didn’t see me waving wildly to you from the other side of the room?” Her arms flail around as though I need a demonstration.

“Oh my God, are you taking that too?”

“Yeah! Why did you run out?”

“Are you kidding? I’m not taking a sex-writing class.”

She frowns. “That’s not what it is. You missed the rest of the professor’s explanation. She said in romance, the sex comes secondary to love. Sex might be part of it, but it’s really about the bigger story of growth.”

I drop my head into my hands and rub my throbbing temples.

“What happened to that Young Adult class you were dying to take?” she asks as she shuffles through the room.

Groaning, I close my eyes. “I made a mistake when I registered for classes last spring and accidentally selected Romance.”

“Bummer.” She pours a cup of coffee and settles next to me in the window nook.

I crack open my eyes and glance up at her. “Jenna, I’m not the kind of person who comes up with fun euphemisms for body parts. That’s just not me.”

“Well, maybe this is a sign, y’know, to try new things and be bold.”

It’s my turn to frown. Bitchy I can do, but I’m not sure about bold. The last time I did something truly bold was freshman year, and what resulted still scares the shit out of me.

Maybe that’s why I still can’t write.

Jenna elbows me, trying to coax a smile. “Cheer up. I’m cooking up something really fun for your birthday this weekend.”

“Fine. As long as it doesn’t involve euphemisms for the word penis, I’m game.”

Disappointment sags her face. “Well, that’s no fun.”

Maybe not, but it’s safe.

-
3 -

I have no idea for my book and no YA class. I keep waiting for more bad news because crappy things always seem to happen in threes.

I begged Professor Golding to let me take her class, but she merely handed me the waiting list, which was two pages long, so I swallowed my pride and apologized to Professor Marceaux for bolting from her lecture. I told her I had a sudden emergency and left out the fact that I had nearly died when she said clitoris.

Which now has me thinking of euphemisms for the word clitoris. Like nubbin, bean, bud, button.

Oh my God.

An unwanted image comes to mind.
He reaches between her delicate thighs and strokes her throbbing nubbin.

Jesus. Someone shoot me if I ever write that in a book.

Accepting that I’ll be taking a freaking romance-writing class this fall means a trip to the bookstore. I duck in, hoping to make it out before I get harangued into working, but when I get to the counter, out of the corner of my eye, I see
him
. Fucker-from-hell.

A drum beats fast in my chest, echoing through my body. Barely able to catch my breath, I do the first thing that comes to mind and dive under the register.

I don’t think he saw me.
Please. Go. Away.

The girl manning the register returns from her break. Her shoes bounce in front of me two seconds before her big brown eyes are in my face. One of her eyebrows quirks up as she tries to understand why her boss is hiding under the counter. I hear Jason Wheeler, my freshman-year writing professor, talking on the other side of this counter.

I whisper, “Becca, if you call attention to me, I will crack your femur with my teeth.”

She stares a moment, her other eyebrow rising to meet the first, before she backs up and straightens so that I only see her feet again.

“Hi, Professor Wheeler. Is that all for today?” God, she’s chipper.

“Yes, thank you, love.” Hearing his voice, all smooth and velvety and full of shit, makes me want to vomit. Or kick him in the balls. Or kick him in the balls and then vomit.

The register beeps as Becca scans Wheeler’s items.

“Do I know you, dear?” he asks.
Here we go.

Becca giggles. “I had you for British Literature a few years ago. I’m surprised you remember.”

“You’re too lovely to forget.”
Hurl.
“Are you an English major?” She must nod because he says, “Excellent.”

“How was your summer?” she asks, shifting back and forth on her feet.

“I spent it in London. It was wonderful. I just got back a couple of days ago.”

Becca laughs in that innocuous way people do when there is nothing funny.

Wheeler mumbles something I can’t quite hear before he says, “Come see me if you ever need help with anything. I’d be more than happy to assist you.”
What a skeaze.

I’ve known he was returning to teach here this fall, but nothing has prepared me to see him. When I look down, I’m rubbing my wrist. I close my eyes and take a few deep breaths to regain some composure, and when I open them, Becca is crouching in front of me again.

“He’s gone, although I don’t know why you’d want to avoid him. He’s gorgeous! I had the biggest crush on him freshman year.”

“Sorry I threatened to crush your femur.” Not that I actually intended to wrap my jaw around her thigh. “He and I have some bad history.”

Her mouth puckers. “Oh, he gave you a bad grade, huh?”

“Something like that.”
No, nothing like that.
Once my paralysis wears off, I shake my head. “Becca?”

She ducks down to look at me again.

“It wasn’t because of a bad grade.” I swallow, trying to ignore the lump in my throat. “He’s a bad guy. He’s… dangerous.” I want to tell her more—I want to tell her to stay away from him—but the words don’t come.

She looks at me as though I’m speaking a foreign language. A couple of girls approach the counter, their chatter breaking the uncomfortable silence.

Becca glances up at them quickly and then back down to me. “I don’t know what to do with that, but okay.”

Before I get a chance to explain why I’m acting like a lunatic, one of the customers asks her where to find a bedside TV remote caddy, and Becca saunters off to find the item.

I’m not sure how long I sit there trying to steady my breathing or my trembling hands. The recurring sound of an incoming text finally draws my attention:
Don’t forget the Saran Wrap!

Jenna’s message reminding me of an errand I need to make is the icing on my fucked-up day.