The last time I experienced THE KISS, it happened behind a bale of hay at my friend Eliza’s ranch in Kentucky. I was sixteen and in love with her older brother Glenn, but he’d been dating the same girl for ages. That summer, when I tagged along with him and Eliza to visit their grandmother’s ranch, he and his girlfriend finally (finally!) broke up. And Glenn finally (finally!) noticed me.
He kissed me to the sound of horses snorting and the smell of manure. It was clumsy and furtive, and yet it was a kiss I never forgot. We went back to Connecticut and dated for seven months. I lost my virginity to him and thought we’d get married and have babies, but then his ex-girlfriend decided she wanted him back and now they’re married and have babies.
Good for Glenn. I don’t think I would’ve been happy with him in the long run. Me living on a ranch in the middle of nowhere? Hard pass.
I hadn’t experienced another kiss like that since him, though. Until yesterday.
Fitz gave me THE KISS. It lasted less than a minute, occurred in front of a dozen people during a juvenile game of Spin the Bottle, and yet? It has consumed my mind from the second I went to bed last night to the moment I opened my eyes this morning. I undoubtedly dreamed about it, too, though I can’t remember.
I also can’t allow myself to dwell on it anymore. Fitz only played along to placate Katie, and he disappeared right after it was over. For me, it might have been THE KISS, but for him it was just…a kiss.
What an unbelievably depressing thought.
Luckily, I’ve got plenty of distractions today, though they’re not exactly the good kind. First off is another meeting with Mr. Richmond, who’s as curt and condescending as he was the last time we met. Froghole’s lips curl in distaste when I tell him I’ve decided to design a swimwear line for the fashion show.
I guess fake British people don’t like swimming.
Once again when I leave his office, I’m torn between never wanting to see him again and desperately needing to dig into every corner of his life to discover whether the accent is real.
On my way out of the admin building, I text Brenna with my continued suspicions.
ME: Swear to god he’s not British!
BRENNA: Who?
ME: Assistant dean aka academic advisor. I told u about him last week
BRENNA: Right. OK. We MUST investigate.
ME: ikr?? How do we proceed?
BRENNA: I was being sarcastic. There needs to be a way to convey that over text. I mean, I thought the capital-letter MUST implied sarcasm, but I guess not??
ME: I’m being serious, Bee
BRENNA: That’s the sad thing
ME: How do I find out where he was born? His LinkedIn profile says he went to Columbia U in NYC. He didn’t even go to school in England!
BRENNA: 1) Lots of peeps come to USA as international students 2) You’re insane 3) We still on for the game Sat?
ME: Yeah we are. And thanks for ALL your help
ME: You got that was sarcasm, right?
BRENNA: Fuck off.
After a ten-minute walk across campus in the bitter cold, I knock on Erik Laurie’s office door for my second meeting of the day. Despite my winter clothing, I’m colder than an icicle. My teeth are chattering, and I swear I have frostbite on my nose.
“Oh boy. You brought the cold in with you.” Laurie mock-shivers as he lets me into his office. It’s surprisingly spacious, with a brown leather couch against the far wall, a big desk in the center of the room, and a gorgeous view of the snowy courtyard.
“I’m keeping my coat on, if it’s all right with you,” I say wryly. “I’m chilled to the bone.”
“As much as I’d love to see what dazzling and fashionable outfit you’re wearing underneath all those layers, I’ll let it slide.” He winks. “This time.”
A familiar uneasy sensation ripples in my belly. It’s the second week of classes and Laurie has been nothing but friendly to me. But every time I’m around him, my creep-o-meter goes haywire. The winking hasn’t stopped, either. He flashed no less than ten winks to various female students yesterday.
“Sit down.” He gestures to one of the plush visitor’s chairs as he settles in his own chair. “Let’s discuss the midterm first.”
Nodding, I sink into the chair. We’d already emailed back and forth a few times about how he’s going to accommodate my learning issues. There are two major papers required for this course, but I’ll only be turning in one, the midterm. For the final essay, I’ve been given permission to do a seminar in front of the class, where I’ll have to lead a discussion on a topic that Laurie assigns me.
On Monday, he handed out a list of themes for the midterm, and I chose what I believe will be the easiest one to write. Now he just needs to approve it.
“Have you decided on a topic? I want to make sure you’re comfortable with your decision before you start writing.”
His genuine concern thaws some of my wariness toward him. Despite the chronic winking and occasional creepy vibe, he does seem like a good professor. One who cares about his students.
“I’d like to do the one about New York fashion. I think I can find a lot to say about the topic. I’m planning on starting an outline tonight.”
“All right. Perfect. And you have my email address, so you can contact me if you get stuck or if you want me to look over your thesis.”
“Thank you,” I say gratefully. “I might take you up on that.”
Laurie smiles broadly. “Good. Now, moving on, I need to see your proposal for the fashion show.”
“I’ve got it right here.” I reach into my messenger bag and pull out the leather portfolio that holds my sketches, a brief write-up of my swim line, and the comparative photographs he requested. “I included images from some lesser-known swimwear designers who I’ve been inspired by lately.” I slide the portfolio across the desktop.
Laurie’s expression shines with approval as he flips through the photos. “Kari Crane,” he says with a nod. “I was in the front row for her debut in Milan.”
“You were?”
“Of course. I never miss a Fashion Week.”
“I go to Fashion Week in Paris and New York,” I tell him. “But not usually Milan.”
Laurie flips to the next designer. “Now these are intriguing. I love Sherashi’s use of beadwork in these halter tops.”
He seems to know every single designer on the planet, and I’m somewhat awed by that. “Me too. I also love how she infuses her own culture into her line.”
“Bollywood meets French Riviera. It’s brilliant.”
“Yes. Exactly.” I can’t help but beam at him. And he hasn’t winked or flirted in the past five minutes, which is a relief. “For my line, I want to play around with a combination of classic and modern, with some boho-chic thrown in the mix.”
“Interesting. Let me take a look at your sketches.” Concentration creases Laurie’s forehead as he studies the drawings I’ve enclosed. “These are quite good, Summer.”
I flush. I’m not the best artist when it comes to portraits or landscapes, but I’ve always had a knack for drawing clothes. When I was younger, I filled entire sketchbooks with what I considered the perfect outfits or styles.
“Thank you.” I hesitate as he studies a series of sketches featuring men’s trunks. “I know swimwear isn’t going to be as difficult to design as, say, formalwear, but I’m really passionate about these. And obviously I can include more pieces in the show so that my workload is comparable to the other students’.”
“I’m not worried about that,” he says absently, moving to another sketch. When he finishes examining each one, he looks up with a pleased smile. “I’m on board with this.”
Excitement stirs inside me. “Really?”
“Oh, yes. I can’t wait to see what you come up with.” And just when I thought we were done with it, he winks. “I’m especially curious about who you’ll line up to model these designs.”
Ew. Way to ruin the moment.
?
??You’re a tall girl,” he adds. “You should think about walking the runway yourself. I have no doubt you look incredible in a bikini.”
Double ew.
“Um, yeah, I’ve never been interested in modeling.” I get to my feet and gesture to the portfolio. “So do I have your approval to move forward?”
“Absolutely.” He hands the leather book back to me.
“Great. Thanks. I’ll see you in class.”
I’m relieved to leave his office, even if it means shivering my ovaries off in the cold again. Every time I start to think he’s harmless, he triggers that dreaded creep-o-meter.
Outside, I’m blasted by a gust of frigid wind. I hate you, January. Just die already. I begin my journey across campus, checking my phone as I head for the parking lot where I left my car. I find a missed call from my mom, along with a text that makes me smile.
Call your parents, Summer. I miss my girl.
My heart expands with love. Ugh, I miss them so much. I’ve barely spoken to them since the semester began. I’ve been busy, but so have they. Dad recently started jury selection for a high-profile murder trial, and Mom has been visiting Nana Celeste in Florida.
I return Mom’s call but get her voicemail. I try my dad instead.
He picks up right away. “Princess! It’s about time!”
“I know, I’m sorry. I’ve been swamped. Also, I can’t believe I caught you out of court.”
“Barely,” he admits. “I’m only available because the prosecutor requested a five-minute recess. His next witness is late.”
“That’s unacceptable!” I exclaim, only half joking. “Don’t let them get away with it, Daddy. Have them charged with contempt of court.”
He chuckles. “Not how it works, sweetheart, but thanks for the concern. How’s school going?”
“Good. I just had a meeting with my independent-study advisor. I’m designing a line of swimwear for the final show.”
“What about your other classes? How are you handling the workload?”
I give him a quick rundown of what I’m studying this term, admitting that it hasn’t been too challenging yet. “But I am writing an outline for an essay tonight. Wish me luck.”
“You don’t need luck, Princess. You’re going to kick this essay’s butt.”
He has such faith in me, it makes me want to cry. Not once, in my entire life, had my parents ever called me stupid. But I know they must’ve thought it. How could they not when I kept coming home with failed tests for them to sign? When all my written work was covered with red edits, comments scribbled all over the margins?
“But if you are having trouble, let me know. Maybe I can speak to David—”
“No,” I cut in, my tone firm. He means David Prescott, the dean. Well, I’m not having it. “Dad. You need to stop talking about me with Prescott and asking for favors. The assistant dean already hates me because he thinks I got preferential treatment—wait, forget all that,” I interrupt myself. “If you’re so eager to grant favors, I need one from you.”
He laughs. “Do I even want to know?”
“Can you find out where Hal Richmond was born?”
“Who?”
“Briar’s assistant dean. He has a British accent, and I’m convinced it’s fake.”
There’s a beat.
“Princess.” Dad sighs. “Are you torturing this poor man?”
“I’m not torturing anyone,” I protest. “I just have my suspicions and I would love you so, so much if you could verify his place of birth. It’ll take you all of five seconds, you know it will.”
His laughter rumbles in my ear. “I’ll see what I can do.”
My spirits are still high when I sit down later to outline my midterm. Mom got ahold of me before dinner and we spent an hour on the phone catching up. And all three of my roommates are out for the night, so I can work in silence. With my ADHD, even the slightest distraction can set me back. I get sidetracked far too easily.
My essay topic is how New York fashion evolved in the first half of the twentieth century, and the factors that led to each transformative incident. It’s a bit daunting because I’m dealing with five decades of fashion, marked by major events like the Great Depression and World War II.
In high school, my special-ed teacher—oh gosh, it makes me want to throw up saying that. Special-ed teacher. It’s frigging mortifying. Anyway, the teacher assigned to me had an arsenal of tips to help me better organize my thoughts. Like making flash cards or using sticky notes to jot down various ideas. Over time, I figured out it worked best to write one idea per note, and then arrange them until they all flow together to form one coherent train of thought.
To begin my midterm’s outline, I sit on the floor of my room with my supplies lined up and ready for use: highlighters, Post-It notes, erasable pens. I’m wearing thick wool socks and sipping on a big cup of herbal tea. I got this. I’m a rock star.
I start off by writing decade headings on each yellow note—1910s, ’20s, ’30s, ’40s. It’ll probably be easier to organize the paper chronologically. I know I have a ton of research ahead of me, but for now I rely on what I know about those time periods. Up until the Great Depression, I’m pretty sure bright colors were all the rage. I write that down on a sticky.
Roaring ’20s, we’re looking at flappers. Another sticky gets written.
Women’s fashion favored a boyish look for a while—I think maybe that was the ’30s? I stick another note to the floor. But I feel like the ’30s also produced a lot of feminine, frilly tops? And speaking of frilly tops, I saw like five of them at the Barneys on Madison over the break. Are they back in style?
Oh, and I forgot to tell a girlfriend from Brown about Barneys! They’re having a super-secret VIP sale on Valentine’s Day weekend. She’s going to lose her mind when she finds out.
I grab my phone and shoot a quick message to Courtney. Her response is instantaneous.
COURT: OMG!!!!!!
ME: I know!!!
COURT: We’re going, right?
ME: OBVIOUSLY!!
We text back and forth in pure excitement, until I suddenly realize I’ve spent ten minutes talking about a clothing sale instead of doing my work.
Grrr.
I take a deep breath and force myself to concentrate. I list as many trends I can think of, then nod in approval. There. Now I simply need to go into detail about each one and explain the societal factors and events that shaped fashion over time.
Wait. Is that my thesis?
No, you idiot. You still have to come up with one.
I bite my lip harder than necessary. My inner critic is, frankly, a total bitch. My old therapist was always preaching about self-love, urging me to treat myself kindly, but that’s easier said than done. When you have one major insecurity that rules your life, your subconscious doesn’t let you forget it.
Loving yourself is hard enough. Silencing the inner critic borders on impossible. For me, at least.
I inhale a slow, steady breath. It’s fine. This is fine. I don’t have to think up a thesis right this second. I can gather all the information first, and then once I begin to piece it together, a general hypothesis will form.
But there’s so much information. A mere five minutes of Googling on my laptop leaves me overwhelmed with facts. And the more I read, the broader the topic becomes. I have no idea how to narrow it down, and the panic hits me like a fist to the stomach.
I take another breath, but it’s quick and choppy, and I don’t think any of the oxygen actually enters my lungs.
I hate this. I hate this essay, and I hate myself.
My eyes feel hot. They start to sting. I rub them, but the act of touching them unleashes the tears I’m trying to suppress.
Stop crying, my inner critic scolds. You’re being ridiculous. It’s just an essay.
I try again to draw air into my lungs. My brain begins to scroll through the exercises my counselors and parents encourage me to do during a panic attack: I repeat that I’
m going to be okay. I visualize giving myself a big hug. I think of Nana Celeste (who always calms me). But the scrolling stops when my gaze drops to the sea of yellow stickies on the floor, the jumble of thoughts that make up my nutty brain.
Another choked sob slips out.
“Summer?”
I freeze at the sound of Fitz’s voice. It’s followed by a soft knock on my door.
“You okay?”
My breath escapes in a trembling wheeze. “F-fine!” I manage to answer, and cringe at the crack in my voice.
He hears it too. “I’m opening the door now, okay?”
“No,” I blurt out. “I’m fine, Fitz. I promise.”
“I don’t believe you.” The door eases open and his handsome, worried face appears.
He takes one look at me and curses roughly. Before I can blink, he’s kneeling beside me. One warm hand grips my chin, forcing my gaze to his. “What’s wrong?” he demands.
“Nothing.” My voice shakes again.
“You’re crying. That’s not nothing.” His eyes drop to the dozens of notes stuck to the floor. “What’s all this?”
“Evidence of my stupidity,” I mumble.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Stop saying nothing. Talk to me.” His thumb rubs a gentle line up my wet cheek. “I’m a good listener, I promise. Tell me what’s wrong.”
My lips start quivering. Dammit, I feel another wave of tears coming. And that makes me angry again. “I can’t fucking do this, that’s what’s wrong.”
I fling a hand out and sweep the Post-It notes away. Some of them remain stuck to the hardwood, while others fly across the room or slide under the bed.