When the Heart Falls(97)

Mr. Posthumus raises an eyebrow. "Cocky, aren't we?"

"Realistic."

He waves his hand, as if beckoning me to continue. "So you have a lot of experience?"

"Well, I know things."

He adjusts his glasses again, leaving a thumbprint on the right lens. "What sort of things?"

I lean in and quiet my voice. "Remember chapter five? When they're in the Jacuzzi and she does that thing?"

"Oh yeah."

"And that other thing?"

"Oh yeah."

I lean back and beam. "That's what I know." Sorry Dad. I didn't read kid books for long.

"You mean you actually—"

"No." My eyes widen. "That'd be crazy." I was good girl, though, wasn't I?

He puts his hand down on the table. "See, that's my point. You're not writing from personal experience."

"You could tell by just reading my book?"

Now it's his turn to beam. "I'm trained for that sort of thing. The romance…"

"What?"

"It's a bit dry."

Ick. "So I want it wet?"

"You want your readers—"

"Don't even say it. Say… moist if you want, but don't say wet."

"You want your readers moist."

I scrunch up my eyebrows. "That sounds so wrong."

"Yet it's right."

I smile at him. It's a trust me kind of smile. A you can tell me anything kind of smile. If I were in a cop show, I'd be the Good Cop criminals tell everything because of my smile. "But that scene, in the bathroom, didn't it, you know…."

"What?"

"Well, you know..."

"Didn't it what?"

"Didn't it turn you on?"

He blushes. "Well, that was a good scene."

I wiggle my eyebrows. "You like that one?"

"That thing she did. That was quite a thing. I didn't know you could even—no. That's not the point."

That thing she did. A book on acrobatics gave me the idea. I fold my arms. "What is the point?"

He cleans his glasses, smearing his greasy thumb spot over the glass. "You haven't dated in while."

"How do you know?"

"The romance—"

"It's a bit dry."

He nods. "Not even realistic, really."

"Thanks. I really needed that clarification."

"You really did. You need to get out there and get—"

I throw my hand up like a stop sign. "Please. Don't say laid. Say happy time, if you must. But don't say laid."

"I was going to say dating."

My hands fall to my lap. "Continue."

"You need to get dating. And then you need happy time."

I smack my head. "Kill me, please."

"They fire us for that sort of thing."

"Darn."

He clenches his jaw. "I know. Sometimes I just want to… never mind. Let's continue."

"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."