When the Heart Falls(98)

"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."

I squeal and hug her again. "That would be so awesome. I can't wait."

Daring, my cousin who's more like a sister, is next, a small package in her hand. “I have a going away present for you.”

I open the silver box and smile, pulling out the charm necklace. It’s just like hers, the one I’ve admired for years, with a tiny Eiffel Tower, a silver envelope, a foreign coin and beads. The only thing it’s missing is the key.

As if reading my mind, she pulls hers out of her shirt and holds it up. “My key was my mother’s, before she died. I didn’t put one on yours because you need to find your own. One that means something special to you, that reminds you who you really are.”

I nod and slip it over my head, then hug her. “This is the best gift. Thank you.”

She smiles and tweaks my nose, something she hasn’t done since we were kids. "I have a feeling this summer's going to change your life."

My mom kisses my cheek, tears in her eyes. "We're going to miss you. Write us, call us and be careful."

Autumn and Mom stand together, their auburn hair and green eyes twins of each other.

I'm more like my father with the pale skin and ice blue eyes. His are watery as he takes me into one of his trademark bear hugs. "Be good, kid. And have fun." He shoves a stack of cash into my hand, and it's not American bills but Euros, which look like Monopoly money to me. I raise my eyebrow.

He smiles. "I have my ways. Figured you should have some cash, in addition to your debit card, just in case. Don't lose it."

I shove the wad into my purse. "Thanks, Dad. I really appreciate it."

Another round of hugs, with my own tears spilling over as my heart wars within itself, torn between excitement and sadness, and I'm in the customs line waiting to be interrogated. Irrational fears overtake me, my imagination plagued with absurd scenarios where I'm arrested for suspicion of being a terrorist or accused of smuggling drugs. The scenes unfold in my mind, complete with dialogue, until my body reacts viscerally to this made-up tragedy. By the time it's my turn to show my passport, I'm convinced my guilt will show on me like a tattoo on my face.