Love & Lies: Marisol's Story (4 page)

I shook my head. “Over,” was all I said. This seemed like dangerous ground with Gio, talking about my love life, or lack of it. Besides, other students were starting to enter the room, and I didn’t want them hearing any personal stuff. Gio
shut up too, and we watched the rest of the class wander in. Or, as I thought of them, the competition.

As I’d suspected, everybody else was older. A few looked like college students, but most were real live grown-ups. The women all had big sack purses out of which they pulled new notebooks and pens. There were only two men (not counting Gio), and one of them was actually carrying a briefcase on a Saturday morning. The other guy, who was younger and had a flop of heavy blond hair in his eyes, made a big deal out of turning off his cell phone. One of the two college-age girls set up her laptop on the table and rested her wrists on the table in front of it, fingers at the ready, I supposed, to write the novel immediately.

And then
she
entered, looking around the table at each of us in turn. The way she carried herself as though she were striding onstage, the deliberate way she brushed the loose strands of hair out of her face (aware, I was sure, that every eye was on her), the decisive way she smacked her books down at the head of the table—this was someone who demanded attention and got it.

“As you can see, I am not Edward Deakins. A family emergency has forced Mr. Deakins to back out of his teaching commitments this semester. My name is Olivia Frost, and I think you’ll find me to be a more than adequate replacement for Mr. Deakins. I’m a graduate of Harvard University and I’ve published short fiction in many well-respected literary magazines. I’ve taught for several years, and at the moment I’m finishing my own novel. Does anyone have any questions?”

I don’t know if everybody else was staring at her the way I was, but I wouldn’t be surprised. For one thing, she was stunning—the kind of beautiful you’d notice even if she were wearing a sweat suit and had her long dark hair stuffed up under a baseball cap. She had that high-cheekbone kind of beauty that just can’t be hidden—not that she was trying to hide it. I have very little interest in fashion or clothes in general, but I couldn’t help admiring the silky black pants and salmon-pink blouse Olivia Frost was wearing. Her clothes swirled around her body in a lovely way and more than hinted at what lay underneath. Large silver hoop earrings twinkled between the waves of her hair.

She sat carefully in her chair, crossed her legs, and looked around the table once more, not smiling, but taking us all in. When she got to me, I held my breath. Was I imagining it, or did her gaze stick on me just a second or two longer than it had on everybody else?

Suddenly I wished I’d spent more time on my hair—put in some of that new product I’d gotten to make the spikes stand up better. And I should have worn boots with heels. When you’re as short as I am, you have to work at standing out.

“So, let’s briefly go around the table, and you can tell me your name and why you want to write a novel.”

The first woman swallowed nervously. “My name is Mandy, and, um, I’m not really sure I
can
write a novel, but I want to try. My mother wrote a novel once. She never got it published, but at least she did it.”

Briefcase Man said, “I’m Steve Jeremiah. I’m a lawyer and
a lot of lawyers write novels, so I thought, why not me?”

The next woman sang out, “Cassandra Washington. I just
know
I can.”

Mary Lou somebody was next—she was the one with her fingers already poised on the keys—then Heather and Amy and Michelle, all of whom had been English majors, so what the hell else were they supposed to do? Gio introduced himself as John, which was, of course, his real name, but there was no way I was ever going to be able to call him that. And finally there was the floppy-haired guy, who introduced himself as Hamilton Harper—though I realized immediately he would henceforth be Hamilton Hairdo to me—and said, “Since I sold my business last year, I’ve had a lot of time on my hands, so I figured, why not write a book?” Which seemed pretty obnoxious to me. Like,
Gee, I’m rich and I don’t have anything better to do, so I think I’ll be a concert pianist. I’m not busy, I might as well design a spaceship for NASA.

And I could tell from the way he brushed his blond mop out of his eyes and smiled at Olivia that he thought he was good-looking too. I’m a confident person, so I recognize a fellow egotist, and my ardent hope was that this guy couldn’t tell a pronoun from an adjective.

I introduced myself next, first name and last, then said, “I write all the time anyway—I’ve written a zine for two years now—so I figured I might as well try to write a novel.”

Olivia Frost had a smile pasted on her face as if she’d heard all these stupid remarks before but would make an effort to teach us anyway. She launched into the subject.

“I don’t expect anyone to finish writing a novel in eight
weeks’ time—that would be ludicrous. What I hope to do is give you a foundation on which to build. We’ll discuss character, plot, setting, structure, all the usual things, but we’ll also feel free to break the rules. I’ll give you exercises and assignments, and if you expect to get anything out of the course, you’ll do them.”

Briefcase Steve had his hand in the air. “Excuse me, Miss Frost, but if you haven’t actually written a novel yet yourself—”

She cut him off. “You may call me Olivia, or, if you feel more comfortable being formal,
Ms.
Frost. I’m currently completing my first novel, which already has the interest of several publishers. Believe me, I know what you need to know. I also know what mistakes you’re likely to make, and I can steer you away from the pitfalls. And I’m a hell of a good teacher. Any other questions?” Her glare must have been sending electrical shocks up and down old Steve’s spine. He shook his head and shut up.

“First of all, let me say that
the profession of book writing makes horse racing seem like a solid, stable business.” There were a few muted laughs from the class. “If you are here because you believe that writing a novel will make you rich and famous, you ought not to waste your money. The only reason to write a novel is because you feel
passionate
about it, because you
must
write it.”

She got up from her chair and walked behind us, circling the table, looking at no one. I swear I felt the heat when she passed in back of me, but I managed not to turn around.
“Literature is the question minus the answer. Before you
bother to put a word on the page,
know your questions
.” We scribbled that down in our notebooks, all of us, whatever it meant. The emphasis with which Olivia spoke made me feel as if every word out of her mouth was important, memorable, gospel truth. And it seemed I was not the only one who felt that way.

“If you know exactly what is going to happen in your book before you begin, you’ll bore yourself and your audience.
The suspense of a novel must be not only in the reader, but in the novelist. Surprise yourself and your audience will gasp too.”

She continued to dispense gems, and we continued to hang on her every word. She talked about how you needed to know your characters’ secret fears, hopes, and disappointments. “Even if you don’t use that information in the book, knowing it will inform the characters and make them real.” We did a few writing exercises to loosen ourselves up, and before I knew it, the two hours were over.

“For our next class,” she said, “I want you to come up with two characters. They needn’t be from your proposed novel—this is an exercise. Feel free to experiment. Tell me their names, their secrets, and what you already know about them. Then please write a short dialogue between them.” A couple of people groaned at the assignment, as if they were in the sixth grade. Did they expect the novel to write itself? Did they think if they just showed up here for eight weeks, a book would magically appear before them with their name on it?

I took my time gathering up my single notebook and pen so that the rest of the class could funnel out ahead of me. Gio
walked to the door and then turned back and leaned across the table.

He hesitated a minute and then said, “Any chance you want to grab lunch someplace?”

There was nothing I wanted more than to dissect the class (and Olivia Frost) with Gio. “Sure,” I said. “Wait for me outside, okay?”

He nodded, then looked from me to Olivia, and walked out.

I didn’t have anything particular to say to Olivia Frost, but early one-on-one contact with the instructor was always part of my teacher kiss-up routine, and in this case I was especially glad to pay my respects. Olivia seemed to be searching through her bag for something, but I had the feeling she might be stalling too, waiting for me.

“Hello,” she said, as I came up beside her. “You’re young to be in here, aren’t you?”

“I’m not the youngest,” I said, a little defensively. “The boy across the table from me is almost a year younger.”

She smiled. “There’s nothing wrong with being young. I was just surprised, that’s all. A novel is a big undertaking. Teenagers usually start with something shorter.”

How did she know I was still a teenager? Crap. She couldn’t be that old herself—maybe twenty-three or twenty-four.

“I’ve written lots of shorter pieces. I think I’m ready to write a novel.”

“Well, you would know better than anyone,” she said, standing up. “What’s your name again?”

“Marisol,” I said. “Marisol Guzman.”

“So, was there something you wanted to ask me, Marisol?”

“No, I just wanted to say I think this will be a great class. I already learned a lot just today.” Hell, I sounded like some beginner who was just learning to suck up. I decided to go for it. “Actually, I do have a question. Do you think I could read your novel sometime? I mean I know it isn’t finished yet, but—”

Olivia Frost threw her head back and laughed. “You don’t waste any time, do you, Marisol?”

“It’s just that I think I could learn a lot—”

But Olivia was shaking her head, her hair swirling. “I’m sorry, but I never let anyone read my work before it’s completely finished. I’m superstitious that way.”

“Oh, sure, I get that,” I said. It had been a long shot, but at least now she wouldn’t forget who Marisol Guzman was. “Well, anyway, the class was great.”

Olivia smiled and placed a pearly-white fingernail on my sleeve. “I hope you’ll continue to enjoy it.”

“I’m sure I will,” I said as I backed away, tucking her glorious smile in my memory and wondering if there was the slightest possibility that Olivia Frost could be gay.

G
IO AND
I
HAD JUST ORDERED LUNCH
at the Bombay Club. It was a little pricey for somebody who worked at the Mug, but it was my favorite restaurant in the Square, and I was in such a great mood after class that I didn’t want to dilute it with lesser cuisine.

“Thank God that Deakins guy bailed out. She’s brilliant, don’t you think?” I asked Gio.

“I guess.”

“You
guess
?”

“I mean, she’s interesting and smart and certainly beautiful, but there’s something about her that bugs me. She’s too good to be true. And just a little condescending, didn’t you think?”

“Of course she’s condescending—she’s
too good to be true
! She’s probably used to people being kind of dull in comparison to her.”

“Oh, come on. A lot of people are smart—we’re sitting in Harvard Square.
You’re
smart, and you don’t act like you’re better than the rest of us.” A grin struggled to lift one corner of his mouth. “Well, not all the time.”

I decided to ignore that. “If a woman is smart
and
gorgeous, like Olivia, she probably has to act that way or she’ll be deluged with admirers.”

He narrowed his eyes at me. “You really think she’s that great?”

I sighed. “Were you in the
room
this morning?”

“Obviously not in the same room
you
were in,” he shot back.

It was fun having Gio to banter with again. There was nothing I liked better than a worthy opponent—which he was—and it seemed like we might be able to get our pugilistic footing back. The whole morning had raised my spirits greatly, and when our food arrived, mango chicken curry with a side order of samosas, we both dug in hungrily.

After a few moments of chowing down, Gio said, “So I guess that means you think Olivia Frost is beautiful.”

I stopped chewing. “You
don’t
?”

He shrugged. “I guess she is. Just not my type.”

“Probably not. I think she might be
my
type,” I said.

Gio seemed stumped for a minute, then got it. “You mean, you think she’s a lesbian?”

I shrugged. “Not a hundred percent sure, but it seemed to me there was something a little flirtatious about the smile she just gave me.”

“You mean after class when you were sucking up to her?”

“No, I mean after class when I was introducing her to her new favorite student.”

The waiter came back to refill our water glasses. Gio waited for him to leave, then said, “She didn’t
look
very gay.”

He knew before I said anything that he’d stepped in shit. “Okay, I know there is no one way that gay people
look
. Except
that sometimes you can tell right away—don’t deny it.”

“Yeah, if the person
wants
everybody to know, you can tell; if not, you can’t.”

“Fine. So, I’m just saying, she wasn’t advertising it.”

I dipped a samosa in sauce and bit off a crispy chunk. “I can’t believe you didn’t like her.”

“I’m not saying I didn’t like her. I think she’ll probably be a good teacher. I wrote down a lot of the stuff she said.”

“I wrote down every word that came out of her mouth,” I said.

He nodded. “Well, it’s possible I did too.”

We stopped talking for a few minutes to savor the curry and look out the big second-floor windows at the crowd hurrying along the sidewalk. I think we both noticed the pink blouse at the same moment, and that long dark hair swishing from side to side like a L’Oréal commercial. A warm flush ran through my body and no doubt manifested itself on my cheeks, which I could feel glowing.