Chapter Eight

True to her word, Maeve isn't in class for the Rocky Horror lecture, and Ty takes over her office hours after mine. Being out from under her scrutiny should've made the Rocky class my best yet, but I found myself teaching as if she were in the room, giving me dirty looks whenever I went off on tangents. I'm still not great, but I'm feeling better at reacting on my feet when students chime in with questions and comments. It was a good class, but I missed the way Maeve fields student interaction to give me time to regain my spot in my notes, the ease with which she talks about film theory. I fucking hate admitting it, but not only was her critique of my lecturing style correct, but her presence makes the classes better.

Speaking of Maeve, I don't hear a word from her all week. Even reviewing our latest email chains (which I do daily now) have me burning like I have a fever, a feeling that only subsides after I delete my mail app off my phone and it doesn't go off again within the hour I allot for playing video games to try to take my mind off her while Charlie reads the HBO script.

It was a moment of weakness. Weakness, loneliness, horniness. It doesn't mean anything. It can't mean anything, yet the shame hasn't faded. In fact, it hasn't faded for the entire two weeks since it happened. And now I'm sweating through my antiperspirant on a mild September day, my heart lodged in my throat, as I wait for Maeve's return to the classroom.

True to her word, she's back for week four, the Little Shop of Horrors lecture. There are only two more classes before the midterm, and I'm tense wondering if all the students are learning enough to pass. I take a deep breath and set my stuff on the desk in the lecture hall. As per usual, I'm fifteen minutes early and only Cory is here, clicking away on her phone.

"Have you seen Little Shop before?" I ask her, hovering near her seat. Anything for a bit of distraction. She's been popping by office hours every week since week two, and we've begun chatting normally. Once you get past that initial layer of shyness, she's actually quite a sharp student, equally invested in her technical animation classes as her film students' electives. No offense to any of my costars, but it's refreshing talking to a young person who didn't take the California High School Proficiency Exam to escape high school early.

Cory puts away the phone. "My school did a performance in high school, so I'm familiar. Are you and Professor Arko focusing on a particular angle?"

So much for Cory distracting me. It makes my heart beat even harder to know she's thinking of this class as Maeve and Me. Like we're some comprehensive unit. Yeah, sure, if "Horny Weirdo Who Can't Keep Boundaries" and "Mrs. Professor Boundaries" are a unit.

"Anti-capitalism," I reply.

Cory nods. "Cool." She looks up at me, and I swear she senses my nerves. "Makes sense."

I have to just keep repeating it. Maeve doesn't know what I did thinking of her. It's just built up in my head because we haven't physically seen each other since I did it. She doesn't have psychic powers. There's no way it'll be brought up. Plus, sure, she's hot, but there's still the matter of her actively disliking me. Hell, she's not even my type. I don't get with academics, not after Emily. The fantasy was a fluke, something that will never gain another ounce of real-world fodder. Maybe Mason has a friend who wants to get laid who she can hook me up with. Just to let off some steam. Charlie and I have sushi with her once a month, and that's coming up soon; I'll ask her then.

Cory flashes a smile. "Is this lecture on the midterm?"

Well, assuming Maeve didn't rewrite everything. I smile back. "I'd pay attention."

The door hinge squeaks. I whip my head to see who's coming in, only for it to be a group of students. I move back to the podium to wait.

I have the PowerPoint set up when she enters with Ty. They laugh as they come in, and when I look up, I catch Maeve mid smile. Her eyes scrunch up when she laughs, and her smile is big enough to make dimples appear along her cheeks. It emphasizes the sharpness in her cheekbones. I feel a pit in my stomach waiting for that smile to disappear as soon as she sees me.

Her laughter fades as she leaves Ty and approaches her usual seat.

"I like your watch," she says as she sits down.

No hi, no updates about class, just…complimenting my watch? My brow pinches as I look down at my wrist. I'm wearing a '68 Omega gold watch, the kind that's small enough to be mistaken for a bracelet. My grandma gave it to me for my eighteenth birthday. And since when does Maeve compliment my style?

But when I look at her, she's casually pulling out a notebook and pen, going through her usual prep for class. Students' eyes are starting to turn toward the front of the room. I swallow, centering myself. I can do this lecture without looking at her. It won't be that hard. This time will be the worst, and it'll only get easier from here. In fact, for some reason, Maeve hasn't looked at me today like I am a waste of time. Maybe her good mood will last another couple of minutes.

"When most people think about Little Shop of Horrors, there are some very specific moments that stand out," I begin. "Audrey II, plant monstrosity and the bane of high school drama programs everywhere."

A couple of students laugh, and I exchange a knowing look with Cory.

"Song-wise, we remember love ballads like ‘Suddenly Seymour' and twisted doo-wops like ‘Dentist.' But I'd argue the seminal song, the song that contains the musical's heart and soul, slides in at the beginning and goes by without much fanfare. ‘Skid Row,' also known as ‘Downtown,' presents a simple thesis: class structure is rigid, and people long to escape it. Ultimately, though, those who've seen the off-Broadway show know that the dream of escaping capitalism dies as quiet and meaningless a death as Seymour at the jaws of Audrey II."

Jamie raises his hand. Whereas this kind of break would've thrown me off weeks ago, I mentally put a bookmark in my lecture and call on him.

"But, Professor Sullivan, Seymour survives in the movie," he says.

For the kid who was so caught up on my nudity in films, I'm surprised he noticed. I glance at Maeve, who's looking at her notebook, tapping her pen. She might hate me, but I have to admit whatever she said to Jamie straightened him out.

"And that's exactly where we begin our discussion: at the end. Why did Frank Oz make that change? Unlike other adaptations we've looked at, we can't blame societal changes. The musical hit stages in 1982, and Oz's film was released in 1986. So, what else can we look at to explain the difference?"

Hands raise into the air. Cory in particular leans forward as she waits. But, to keep things interesting, I let other students give their ideas.

"Budget."

I shake my head, catching Ty's gaze. He mouths something, but all I need to make out is the little smile on his lips. I'm doing okay.

"Studios."

"Timing."

As we go around, Cory squirms in her seat, raising her hand higher. Finally, I give her the floor.

"Audience expectations," she says. "People who go see stage plays and people who see big studio movies expect different things from a story."

"Bingo." I throw her finger guns. It feels almost too playful, but I'm slowly getting back into a groove. "Now, before we really get into this, let's give this clip a watch."

We kill the lights to put on the clip, and I find my seat again. My seat—my breath quickens—right next to Maeve. We make eye contact. Prolonged eye contact, on-purpose eye contact. Embarrassment floods my face, but the smile she gives me helps. It's not the full-face smile she gave Ty, but it's encouraging. It forms a stark contrast to the very depressing alternate ending to Little Shop the students are watching now. Unlikely as it seems, this is the first time I remember Maeve actually being encouraging in class. Who is this woman, and what did that conference do to my Maeve?

She leans over to me. My heart pounds. "You're doing a nice job involving the students."

I nod, pulling away as quickly as I can. "Quick to learn."

The clip ends far faster than I anticipated, and I don't really know what comes over me. It feels strangely like the buzz I get after a glass of wine, like my organs and words are a little slippery.

I sing a line from Seymour's part in "Skid Row," the melody easy in my ear and playful as it comes out between my lips.

Gwyn's the real singer in the family, sounds like a Disney princess. But I have a voice that Trish says is underused in Hollywood. I could do a musical if I wanted or perform a song as a strong addition to a drama. But god, I wouldn't have been able to sing in that moment if not for this groove I've found myself in.

Students are staring at me, entranced. It's the look fans get at signings, like they're under a spell.

I turn to Maeve as I sing the last line. "?‘Someone gimme my shot or I'll rot here.'?"

We hold the eye contact this time, and it's heavy. And god, my insides swoop.

She's got that entranced look too.

I blink a few times as I trail off after the last word, look away from Maeve. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see her rub her face, return her expression to neutral. What the hell has changed between the last time I saw her and now?

I click my tongue. "A little more ominous with that ending, eh?"

I look back at Maeve one more time. Her looks aren't scary anymore. In fact, I'm already starting to forget what she looked like when she wasn't looking at me like this, soft and enamored.

The hour-and-a-half lecture passes without a hitch. I recall big ideas with surprising clarity and ad-lib better versions of the one-liners I'd intended to infuse into the lecture. I keep the students engaged and get through most of the meat of the lecture. My blood's buzzing when the screening operator switches the movie on. I return to my seat and lean back, biting away a smile. I didn't think it was possible to feel that same euphoria that comes with a great take on a movie set anywhere else, but this sure feels similar. Like the best moments of directing Oakley in Flames last year.

Maeve grabs my shoulder, making my heart leap. She leans in to whisper in my ear. My stomach drops, and my brain buzzes. It's— No, this is a normal thing humans do. It's not similar to what I imagined that night.

"Hey, can we talk outside?"

I nod and get to my feet despite a rather unfortunate quaking in my legs. No big deal. I was shaking like this when I accepted an Oscar; surely I can fake it for Maeve.

We leave the singing chorus and blaring horns of Little Shop of Horrors for the quiet echo of SCI's hallway. Maeve takes a seat on one of the leather chairs right outside the door. I take the partner chair. She crosses her legs when she sits. It tightens my stomach just like it always does. I mimic her, crossing my own legs.

"Is something—?" I start to ask.

"I'm sorry." She tucks a piece of hair behind her ear. Her earrings are shaped like little stars. "I have been— Your lecture today was wonderful. It was honestly better than half the lectures I see tenured professors do. It was thorough, engaging, and you said something new about Little Shop. Ty says your Rocky lecture was excellent too. And I"—she sighs deeply—"have been unfairly dismissive of you since you started. You clearly care about this class and the students, and that's all I could've asked for in a co-professor."

Part of me is shriveling up inside from all of these nice compliments, leaving nothing but the idiot part of me behind. The idiot is flabbergasted. "Are you apologizing to me?"

Maeve's frown deepens, her eyes growing watery for just a moment. "I want you to know it's not you. I took on this job because I needed a stronger portfolio as I move through the final stages of a major research grant for my second book. I really only knew you from Goodbye, Richard! and your jokey interviews and videos."

Interesting that she still doesn't bring up Needlepoint.

"It didn't align with your dissertation and—shit."

Has Maeve sworn before?

"No. No, this isn't— I didn't give you a fair shot. I thought you were just doing this for the publicity and were lying about actually caring. I was wrong. You're very smart and charismatic, and I'm glad someone so capable is teaching with me."

She exhales, running her hands down her face. Shakes her head, looks back up at me. Her hair is back in her face. I hold my breath as I resist moving it.

"Um, this is really nice of you," I say. Yeah, sorry you were being a jerk. I'm also sorry I touched myself thinking about you. And fuck, she called me smart, charismatic, and capable? No one calls me all those things.

"Can we start over?" she asks.

Is she serious? Was it really just a good lecture that changed her mind? This is way too convenient, but I'm exhausted, so I'm not willing to look for a deeper meaning. "Like…reintroduce ourselves?"

And Maeve does it.

She laughs.

She laughs and gives me her squinty-eyed, full-face smile.

My insides might've been taut from our last encounter, but somehow that laugh is all it takes to melt them to mush at my feet.

"Not everything has to be like the movies," she says, biting away the smile. "But I have also been embarrassingly short with you outside of class." She finally pushes that hair out of her face. "In all honesty, I've been fitting you in between a ton of paper and chapter writing and student org work. I imagine you've got a lot going on too. But maybe we could meet here and grab food at Study Hall or somewhere downtown? Maybe next week? I feel like I have a lot of catching up to do."

I've been out for ten years, even if I was publicly back in the closet for three. Yet in all that time, I don't think my heart's fluttered as hard as it is now, hearing Maeve ask me to eat food with her. Catching up feels like a plea, a promise to be fulfilled. She's got none of that LA fake niceness I'm so used to. Hell, I've seen the proof of that up close and personal.

Maybe this is real; she's really holding out an olive branch. Even the thought is downright terrifying considering the way I've been feeling about her lately. Especially the way I've been feeling in private.

"Okay," I say.