Chapter 5 Rowan

I DON'T KNOWwhere to sit, and right now that feels like the most important decision of my fledgling college career.

Yes, I'm being dramatic, but I'm also being realistic.

Humans are creatures of habit. I can't even count the number of times a teacher told a class we could sit wherever we wanted, and yet we picked the same spots every single day, irked when someone dared to switch things up, moving so they could be closer to a crush or farther from someone they weren't speaking to. So this arrangement of a dozen chairs in a circle, which gives the impression more of a kindergarten classroom than a college course, seems ripe for some classic Rowan Roth overthinking.

Half the chairs are already occupied, and when the door swishes shut behind me, a blond girl in an oversize chenille sweater turns to glance my way, her pen pausing in her notebook.

"Can I sit here?" I ask, gesturing to the empty seat next to her.

"Go ahead." She has a septum ring and sleek blunt bangs, the kind that I'm immediately envious of given how mine refuse to cooperate.

In fact, everyone in the room looks like they've put as much effort into their first-day outfits as possible, while also attempting to look like they barely gave them a second thought. There are jumpsuits and plaid blazers and meticulously applied eyeshadow, statement jewelry and fresh hair dye and even an artfully tilted bowler hat. I know this because it's exactly what I did when I got dressed this morning, plucking the lemon-patterned vintage dress with a flared skirt from a hanger in my tiny closet. A patent leather headband and a pair of tights and just enough makeup to look well rested.

I drop my backpack to the floor and slide into the chair. "Thanks." I haven't been faced with the prospect of making new friends since elementary school. I am the only Westview student at Emerson, and that means completely starting from scratch.

I've had a few conversations with people at orientation, attended a few group dinners, but either I have a sudden case of shyness or I haven't connected with anyone quite yet. This feels like my first true opportunity.

I had hoped my roommate would be an instant friend, but Paulina surfaced only with enough time to introduce herself and disappear again. She hasn't been at any of the getting-to-know-you events on our floor and wasn't there when I fell asleep last night, but this morning when I woke up, it clearly looked like someone had been there. I'm either amazed at my ability to sleep through it all or by hers to move about the room like she's conducting a jewel heist.

So I take a deep lungful of courage and turn back to the girl, aware I might be interrupting her writing. "Hey. I'm Rowan."

But to my surprise, she sets down her pen and gives me a smile. "Kait—K-A-I-T, because I was a pretentious little shit back in elementary school when there were four other Kates in my grade. Are you a freshman too?"

I nod. "I'm a bit nervous," I admit. "I have plenty of experience being a pretentious little shit, but I'm not sure what to expect."

When Kait laughs at this, I let myself relax.

A blue-haired girl two chairs away leans over, and I catch a too-strong whiff of perfume. "I've heard Professor Everett is tough, but if you get on her good side, it might make your whole career. She had a student years ago who's now one of her closest critique partners, apparently."

"Is that supposed to make us less anxious? Because now that I know what's on the line, I'm almost certain I'm going to mess something up," Kait says, and I decide I made the right choice by sitting next to her.

Two minutes before the start of class, Professor Everett enters the room, a tall mid-to-late-thirties white woman with curly dark hair in a loose bun, dressed in black trousers and a cream sweater-vest. A few simple chains are draped across her neck, and she wears clear glasses over kind eyes. She looks casual, cool, instantly at ease. Like she's about to start practicing yoga instead of lecturing twelve nervous college kids.

Miranda Everett has written two works of literary fiction: the first, Thursday at Dawn, was a finalist for the National Book Award. But her priority, she's said in interviews, will always be her teaching. When I registered for classes over the summer, this yearlong course was my first choice, and when I got in, I read both her books back-to-back. They were lyrical and modern—reviews called them "accessible lit fic for a millennial audience"—filled with the kind of deep character work that made me realize I could truly learn something from her.

"Good morning, good morning," she says in a warm, bright voice. "I'm Miranda and this is Introduction to Creative Writing. Glad you all made it out of bed and over here in one piece. Everyone seems to be at least halfway lucid—sometimes that can be a challenge on the first day." Some scattered laughter, as though people are wondering whether it's okay. Then she gives a roll of her shoulders and takes a deep breath. "I want you to be able to breathe in this class. It's my hope that it isn't too agonizing—writing is enough of that without throwing an asshole professor into the mix.

"That said—" She reaches into her shoulder bag and places a timer on the desk. "I'm setting this for ten minutes. I want you all to write anything you want. Anything at all. You can use a notebook or your laptop, whichever you prefer. The only rule is—no going backward. No editing. Anything that comes to mind, simply write."

She sets the timer and sits down at her desk, her serene expression unchanged.

All of us exchange glances. I have a dozen questions, namely: Is this going to be graded and what does the rubric look like and should it be double-spaced or—

But then, after the shock and confusion wear off, we start writing.

At least, the rest of the class does. Hands fly across keyboards and pens skate along paper, but my cursor blink-blink-blinks back at me.

I try my best not to focus on the vagueness of the assignment or how immersed everyone else seems. I drum my fingertips on the keyboard, waiting for inspiration to strike. Something. Anything.

When the timer goes off with a ding that startles a few people, I've only written a single sentence.

The classroom is small and sparsely decorated, but sitting here in a circle with other writers, one feels

Scratch that—half a sentence.

A boring, cliché observation about what's right in front of me. One is clearly a bit of an idiot and should have had more of one's coffee this morning.

"So? How did that feel?" Professor Everett asks.

"Stressful," one guy calls out, which is met with laughter.

"I like to begin every class this way to jog our creativity, to loosen ourselves up. I've found that nothing opens up the mind like ignoring craft for a moment and giving yourself space to play, and there are far too many assignments with a concrete goal. It can be easy to lose the reason for why we write. The pure joy of it. These freewrites aren't going to be turned in unless you decide to expand upon them for any of our assignments. They're just for you."

A murmur of excitement spreads through the room, all of us arriving at the same conclusion at the same time: Miranda Everett is the real deal, and we're lucky to have her.

I urge my too-stiff shoulders to soften. This is why I'm here: to learn from the best. To grow into the kind of person who won't be intimidated by a freewrite.

Professor Everett talks about the structure of the class, which is unique in that it runs both semesters here at Emerson. A third of our grade will be based on participation, and she wants us to grow more and more confident with sharing our work over the course of the year.

"Let's go around and have everyone introduce themselves with their name, their pronouns, their year, and why they decided on creative writing."

A wave from the student she gestures to first. "I'm Tegan, they/them. Sophomore. And, well"—they break off, blushing—"I swear I'm not sucking up, but I really loved Thursday at Dawn."

Though Professor Everett has surely heard this hundreds of times, she looks genuinely touched. "Thank you so much, Tegan. I'm thrilled to hear that." Then she gives them a wink. "And might I say, you're well on your way to a 4.0?"

After Sierra, Felix, and Noor, it's my turn. "Rowan, she/her," I say. "I'm a freshman, and even though I've been writing for years, I only just recently started sharing it with other people and admitting that I, um, want to be a writer." Even this admission in a classroom of other writers makes me a little fidgety. I drag a hand through my bangs, blow out a breath. "See? Still getting used to it."

"Welcome," Professor Everett says. "Talking about your writing, putting out into the world that you want to be a writer—those are huge steps. I hope you're proud of yourself."

And just from the way she says it, I really am.

"Kait, she/her, freshman," Kait continues next to me. "And I write… because it's cheaper than therapy?"

For the rest of class, Professor Everett explains Emerson's creative writing major and discusses the different paths we might take, the ways we might use this education in our future careers, whether we're novelists or essayists or reviewers or marketers. Or something else entirely, since creative writing can open up plenty of doors.

"For our next meeting on Thursday, I'd like to get to know you better through a somewhat open-ended piece of writing. I want you to tell me what brought you to this classroom today in the form of a personal narrative. No more than a thousand words."

I write this down in one of my new notebooks. I love that she gives us a maximum but not a minimum, because these aren't the kind of people who are going to write a scant paragraph and turn it in expecting full credit because she didn't define the parameters, like some kids might have done in high school.

Despite my performance anxiety during the freewrite, I'm eager to get back to my room and open up Word again, a new kind of adrenaline running through my veins. At first I'd been worried Professor Everett would be a cold, no-nonsense literary type, but she couldn't be further from it. And everyone in class is so engaged, which wasn't always the case in high school.

Next to me, Kait is sliding her laptop into her bag. "That was… wow."

"I know. Nothing like I expected, but everything I wanted."

Kait nods vigorously, the room's fluorescent light glinting off her septum ring. "Miranda Everett is an icon."

Then I see an opportunity. "Not to be, um, too forward or anything, but would you maybe want to grab some coffee or lunch after this?"

"I have another class at noon."

"Oh. Sure. Sorry."

"But I'm free after that," she says. "How about two thirty? Coffee at the Lion's Den?"

I grin back at her. "Sounds perfect."

I have never had writer friends.

I think I might love it here.

The Lion's Den is one of the campus cafés, and I make my way there after Spanish, which I was pleased to find was largely conversation-based, although much more fast-paced than any of my high school classes. Over the past week, I've been grappling with the sudden sense of freedom here. Example: I can get coffee with someone in the middle of the day without telling anyone where I'm going.

"I might be a snob," I warn Kait as we sit down with our mugs at one of the only open tables. Twinkle lights crisscross the ceiling, an abstract mural on the wall behind us. "I worked part-time at a café in Seattle, and we are very serious about coffee."

"Seattle kind of has that reputation, doesn't it?" She brings the mug to her lips. "Coffee, music…"

"Weather, microbrews, apples—"

"Apples?"

"Yes!" I say. "Washington State takes a lot of pride in their apples."

I learn that Kait Donnelly is from Hartford, Connecticut—"where we're snobby about our seafood"—and that we're in the same dorm, with her on the third floor and me on the eighth.

"And you're a creative writing major too?" I ask, sipping my hazelnut latte. Not as good as Two Birds One Scone, but perfectly acceptable.

"Destined to be a tortured literary soul for the rest of my existence, yes," she says. "Not that we need to suffer for our art or anything. Just that sometimes I do, and I've made my peace with it."

I laugh at this, even though writing has never been that way for me. At least, not until earlier today. "What do you write that tortures you that much?"

"A lot of fanfic," she says. "Do you read any? Or write it? I have to know who your ships are."

I shake my head. "No, but I'm open to recommendations." With what I hope is nonchalance, I readjust my headband, which has been slowly digging its way into my skull. "I… read and write romance."

The words come out with only a tiny bit of hesitation. This thing I kept hidden for so long, worried people would judge me for it.

"That's really cool. So you get that people can be shitty about it."

"So shitty! Even though, of course, most of those people have never read it."

"Some of my friends think I just want to write about hot people banging."

I let out a small cough. "I can relate."

"Which, to be fair, sometimes I do," Kait continues, "but I like a good fluff fic as much as the next person." She twirls a short blond strand around one finger. "My boyfriend doesn't get it. He thinks it's a complete waste of time, since none of it can be published as is, even when I remind him that plenty of successful books started out as fanfic."

"Does your boyfriend go here?" I feel an immediate rush of affection for Neil, who not only understands my love for romance—after an admittedly rocky start at the beginning of high school—but has now read my favorite Nora Roberts, along with a handful of others.

"He's back home. UConn."

"I'm in a long-distance relationship too," I say, and it's nice to have this in common. "He's at NYU."

She swipes around on her phone before showing me a photo of the two of them… in front of the Colosseum in Rome. Gabriel has thick dark hair, a kind smile, and a stud through one eyebrow. Pretty sure anyone would look great with that backdrop, though, the ancient ruins and bluest sky.

"Sorry, not to vacation-flex," she says, a touch of pink on her cheeks. "We backpacked around Europe over the summer. Best month of my life."

"I wouldn't even mind the flex. That sounds incredible." I motion for her to show me more photos: Kait and Gabriel rolling pasta dough, wandering the Louvre, cannonballing into the Mediterranean Sea. "You just… went to Europe? Just the two of you?"

"Took a little time to convince our parents, but yep. We started dating sophomore year, so everyone pretty much assumes we'll get married someday." She says this casually, and I'm not sure if it's because she believes it or because she finds it to be such a ridiculous statement that it isn't worth taking seriously. "But I don't feel like I really knew him until this trip."

"Wow." It's about all I can say, because it's impossible not to imagine doing something like that someday with Neil.

Because what if that someday could be next summer?

We'll be reunited in Seattle, sure, but that's not the same as traveling together with so many days of uninterrupted time. Picturing him in Europe, completely in his element with his love of languages as we explore places we've only ever read about—the vision is such pure bliss, it makes my heart ache.

Then Kait gestures to my phone, and I have to blink myself back to reality. Boston. September. I don't have to search very long to find one of my favorite photos of Neil, taken at Two Birds One Scone a few weeks ago. He's reading a book, an afternoon sunbeam slanting through the window and illuminating his red hair. Peak Neil—so entranced by Bukowski that the rest of the world doesn't exist.

"How long have you guys been together?" she asks.

"Oh—um, since June." My face heats, as though I don't have a right to a long-distance relationship because we haven't been together that long. "We sort of had this rivalry throughout most of high school, and then on the last day, I realized that I'd had feelings for him for a while."

"Enemies to lovers," Kait says with a knowing smile. Because of course a fellow writer would understand the value of a good trope. "You truly love to see it."

We talk more about Professor Everett's book—Kait loved Thursday at Dawn, while I preferred her second book, Helvetica. Thursday had a large ensemble cast, omniscient POV, while Helvetica was a more intimate character study. Two aimless twentysomethings on opposite ends of the world, a friendship they sustained through letters as they struggled with relationships and careers and the loss of their adolescent innocence. It absolutely crushed me, and even though I adored it, it reminded me why I prefer romance: because even if your heart gets broken along the way, the author always promises to repair it by the end.

However, I didn't feel like hurling it across the room when I finished it, the way I might have a few years back. Is that… growth?

My mom was worried about my not taking advantage of everything college has to offer. But here I am, proving that it doesn't matter that my boyfriend is in another state. Well—it does, but it's not going to keep me from becoming a collegiate social butterfly.

We walk back to our dorm together, parting ways when Kait heads for a hall council meeting and it's almost time for my video chat with Neil.

Paulina's at her desk when I get to our room, stuffing textbooks into her backpack. "Hey," she says breezily, not even looking up. "Just about to head out."

And before I can even utter a response, she's gone. The indifference stings, leaving me racking my brain to wonder if I've somehow offended her. I did move one of her succulents in a penguin-shaped pot off the windowsill, but that was only so I could open the window. She moved it back the next day, but she can't possibly be upset about that, can she? Unless that was a classic passive-aggressive move.

Guess that lifelong friendship with my roommate isn't meant to be.

I toss my headband onto the bed because God, wearing that for a whole day was a special kind of torture. Then I settle in and open a fresh Word document, clamp headphones over my ears, and wait for my writing playlist to whisk me away. As the Smiths start playing, I tap my fingertips along the keys, focusing on Professor Everett's prompt. A simple one, surely, for our first assignment.

What brought you to this classroom today?I typed in class, as though there was a chance I might forget it.

A variety of images flash through my mind. The romance novels I found at garage sales. Reading them with my door closed. All throughout high school, I hid what I loved because I was terrified of not being good enough. Here I am, finally comfortable with it… and completely drawing a blank.

When I flick my eyes back to the painfully white page, the cursor keeps blinking. Mocking me. So I type:

What brought me here today was

Before realizing it sounds beyond juvenile, like I'm learning how to restate a question for the very first time.

I've loved romance novels since I was a kid and

Emerson's creative writing program seems like

Writing has never been difficult for me—it isn't arrogance; it's a simple fact. The words have just… flowed. I've written essays on the Civil War and The Scarlet Letter and cellular respiration. I even wrote thousands of words in a romance manuscript about two lawyers, despite knowing very little about the legal system that wasn't in AP US Government. I should be able to write about myself, the person I ostensibly know better than anyone.

I switch over to Spotify, deciding maybe I need to add some new songs to my playlist. More new wave, naturally, plus some of Neil's favorite band, Free Puppies! Once I'm satisfied with it, I spend some time fiddling with my chair for a while before accepting that Emerson student life has simply saddled us with cheap uncomfortable chairs, and next time I'll go to the library or a café.

Then Neil asks to postpone our video chat because his roommate asked him to play Ultimate Frisbee. This is accompanied by only a sliver of disappointment, because he should absolutely be playing Ultimate Frisbee with his roommate—he and I can talk anytime. Besides, it's probably a good thing since I haven't managed a single sentence I don't hate.

There's no reason I should be struggling with something so basic, and yet this is the first assignment of the year. I want to impress Professor Everett.

An hour later, after I've brought dinner up to my room because maybe I can't write on an empty stomach, I get another text from Neil:

I may have sustained a minor ocular injury.

It's accompanied by a photo of him with a black eye. I drop my fork into the bowl of lo mein, holding a hand to my heart.

I don't think you're supposed to use your head in ultimate frisbee, I write back. I'm so sorry. does it hurt?

The pang of missing him is both sudden and sharp. If I were there, I'd hold an ice pack to his face, stroke his hair, tell him he could pick a movie to watch and I'd promise not to complain about it.

My trip to New York in two weeks can't come soon enough. A New York City fall, a Meg Ryan sweater, and a boy who looks at me like I am the sun.

No parents, no siblings, no interruptions. Just two and a half days of bliss.

A knock on my door makes me jolt in the uncomfortable chair.

"Game night in ten minutes, if you want to join," Lexie the RA says cheerily, and I save the document—pointless, there's nothing meaningful on it—close my laptop, and follow her into the hall.