When the Heart Falls(6)

"Dating isn't for me." Maybe it was for that little girl, her head in a book all night, dreaming of Prince Charming. But not for me.

He twirls his pen—the red pen of doom—around in circles. "I suppose you could skip straight to—"

"That's not for me either."

He starts laughing. "And you want to write romance novels?"

"Yes."

He keeps laughing. "Sorry."

I start to stand. "Should I go?"

"No. I'll be serious with you. Writing romance isn't your thing."

I roll my eyes. "Jeez, sir, why didn't you tell me earlier?"

"I'm telling you now. Unless you're willing to have happy time, you can't write romance."

"You're just full of useful ideas."

He rubs his chin, eyebrows furrowed. "There is one other thing you can try, though."

"Don't say sleep with a teacher."

"No. Cut out the romance stuff. Make your book literary fiction."

"I don't read literary fiction." My dad bought me one of those, but it was too slow to start and the characters talked of boring things. I read more in high school. I had to. But most literary novels are sad. No one saves the princess. No one falls in love. Or if they do, they die. Or their child dies. Or everyone dies.

"Well, you won't get far with genre fiction here." Mr. Posthumus pushes my manuscript away, his lip curled in disdain. "Our program at Sarah Lawrence is designed more for serious writers of literature. Why spend your parents’ good money on such an expensive education just to write romance novels?"

My dad asked me the same thing. When I showed him my college application, he asked, "You have books on everything, don't you? College is for math or science or languages. You're good at languages." My mom always checked my language homework and nothing else. Until she didn't have to check it at all.

Mr. Posthumus nods. "Besides, you'd do well in Modern Languages and Literature."

I remember how I forced my dad to sign the application, refused to change it, and I push the manuscript back at my advisor. "I'll do well in Creative Writing."

"Who's the expert here?" He wears a cocky grin. And I imagine him as a young boy, reading kid books about spies.

"Come on? Have you never considered writing genre fiction?"

He leans far back in his chair, staring at the ceiling, and I see an old man once again, holding a book some old literary committee gave an award. He smacks his lips. "Utilitarianism, Winter. It means—"

"The greatest happiness for the greatest number of people is what matters." I glare at him and imagine the many words I could use to demonstrate my vocabulary. Few of them are nice.

"Literary fiction is the greatest," he says.

Many have tried to prove so. Many have failed. "But more people read genre."

He shrugs and gets a far away look. "I'm good at literary."

The window is dim. The sun has set. "I need to go."

He holds up a slip of paper. "Here's a form to transfer majors."

"Where's the form to transfer advisors?"

"Winter, I'm trying to help you."

"Then give me my evaluation."

My advisor nods, pulls out a folder, and hands it to me, along with the battered copy of my manuscript. I hold both, staring at my name on the manila folder. Winter Deveaux, Freshman.

His chair squeaks as he shifts his ample bottom and pushes back from his desk. "Are you going to read it now?"

"Do I have to?"

"Not really. Have fun in Paris. Maybe you'll meet someone."

I stand up, grab my water bottle, and slide the evaluation into my backpack. "I'll be too busy writing."

He meets my eyes, and for a moment, he looks like my dad. "I hope you know what you're doing, Winter. Few writers succeed."

I chuckle. "People keep telling me that."

"Because it's true."



Butterflies dance in my belly as we stand in the line to check my luggage. JFK International Airport looks like an alien spacecraft from the outside, but the inside is like its own mini-world, with stores and cafes and people from all over the world hurrying off to their next adventure. I've only ever been to an airport to see my sisters and cousin off, never as a traveler myself. Each time I came, I'd stare at the flickering and ever-changing screen of flights and imagine picking one at random and flying somewhere new.

Airports hold their own kind of magic. They are gateways to other worlds, in the most real sense. An airport is a portal, taking you from one life to another. When you fly, you're suspended in time and place, not existing anywhere fully until you land. My hands tremble in excitement as I take my ticket, my gate number circled in a bold yellow highlighter, and leave the counter to say goodbye to my family.

They're waiting by the bathrooms, and I pull my carry-on suitcase behind me to join them, holding up my boarding pass for them to see. My face splits into such a wide smile I'm sure I look a bit insane. "It's real. I'm about to leave for Paris! C'est très excitant!"

My sister, Autumn, hugs me first, squeezing me tight. Her green eyes glow with excitement. "I know you're going to have an amazing time." She pulls back and brushes a stray lock of black hair from my face. "I might see you while you're there. We have a big Egyptian exhibit about to go on tour and The Louvre is one of our tour stops."