Love Story(6)
Author: Jennifer Echols

I crossed my fingers that Hunter would draw a horse the class wouldn’t like.

“And that’s how our in-class critiques work,” Gabe said. “We need to be sure we understand this process up front. The classroom dynamic is very important.” He looked around the table as he said this, eyes lingering on each student in turn like a seasoned writing instructor. He’d probably been teaching writing part-time at the junior college in So-Cal for years to finance his surfing addiction. “You need to trust one another in order to do your best work. Once the classroom dynamic goes sour, it’s almost impossible to sweeten. Are there any questions?”

His eyes rested on me, as if I had been daydreaming. Who, me? I actually did blush because I wanted Gabe to think well of me. The college arranged for the outstanding freshman honors creative-writing student from the fall semester to work as an intern for one of the major publishers during the spring semester. That could be my foot in the door for an editorial job when I graduated, even publication of my own novel someday. Plus it paid more for fewer hours than my current coffee shop job, which was killing me, and I would not have to work standing up.

Gabe didn’t look like the type of guy who would have a lot of sway over a publishing internship committee, but after the decision makers reviewed my portfolio, they might ask him whether I was easy to work with. Maybe getting along with other authors was the most important criterion. Then again

whoever heard of authors getting along with each other? Look at Hemingway and Stein, or Hemingway and Fitzgerald, or hell, Hemingway and anybody.

Another knock sounded at the door, and in walked my stable boy—sans the riding jacket and breeches. His eyes were an intense blue, exactly the color of his polo shirt. He could have been accused of vanity, wearing that color on purpose, except that his disheveled appearance made it clear he didn’t care about that sort of thing. Except he did. His dishevelment was carefully planned.

I waited for those eyes to meet mine. Of course he saw me. I had long red hair. I practically glowed in the dark. And as he stood before us at Gabe’s right hand, he met everyone’s gaze in turn, just as Gabe had, working the room. Everyone’s gaze but mine.

“Tell us your name,” Gabe said to Hunter, “and why you want to be in this class. Be convincing. This is your big chance.”

Hunter nodded. “My name is Hunter Allen.” Most college freshmen would have mealymouthed their way through this self-introduction, but Hunter embraced it as if he were on tour promoting his self-help DVDs. “I want to be in this class because the other freshman honors creative-writing class I’m in conflicts with my chemistry class. I can’t be in two places at once, a concept that seems beyond the grasp of this institution of higher learning. My schedule is f**ked up.”

A guy snorted laughter because Hunter had cussed in class, and several of the girls gasped. Hunter was testing Gabe. Hunter liked to test people.

Gabe passed the test. He didn’t raise an eyebrow, just sat with his chair pushed back from the table, gazing at Hunter, giving him the floor.

“Also,” Hunter went on, “my roommates Manohar and Brian”—he gestured to the Indian dude and his friend—“told me this class wasn’t full, but it did have lots of beautiful women.”

Now all the guys burst into laughter, and one of the girls on the other end of the table exclaimed, “You’re in!”

Summer turned to me. “I heart this person.”

“You would,” I muttered. Girls always did. Including me.

“Your horse, sir,” Gabe said.

Hunter handed Gabe a sheet of paper. He had the nerve to give us a grin over his shoulder and salute us with two fingers as he left the room again.

Gabe examined the paper, then held it up for us to see. Everyone leaned forward, squinting. It was a horse’s tack—bridle, reins, saddle—all placed as if a stable boy had put them on a horse. There was even a broom for manure. Only the horse was missing.

It was a message. To me. He’d been teased about being my stable boy for the last six years at our school, and finally he was out from under me. He did not want to be called a stable boy anymore.

He was not going to like my story.

“All in favor of Hunter Allen joining the class,” Gabe said, “raise your hand.”

Everybody in the room raised a hand except me.

Summer turned to me and asked out loud, “Why aren’t you raising your hand?” Afterward Summer and I were going to have a talk about subtlety and secrecy, because damn.

I said, “I think we have enough students already. It’s an honors class and we’re trying to keep the class size small. It’s capped at twelve.”

“It’s capped at thirteen,” Gabe corrected me.

“It ought to be capped at twelve,” I said. “And we’ve already arranged the schedule for discussing our stories.”

I could feel Summer staring at the side of my face. “Are you on crack?”

I raised my voice over the guffaws of the guys across the table. “I am working my way through college, and I am concerned about getting the best value for my hard-earned money.”

Summer gave up on me and turned back to Gabe. “Can I have Erin’s vote?”

“No,” Gabe said.

“Then can I vote twice?” asked Brian.

The class tittered. Manohar gave Brian a look of outrage.

“Because he’s my roommate!” Brian exclaimed at Manohar. “Just because I’m g*y doesn’t mean I like men, perv.”

Hunter opened the door and leaned into the classroom. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear any of that.” He backed out again and closed the door.

“She’s outnumbered anyway,” Gabe said. “Looks like we have a thirteenth student.” He glanced at me and pursed his lips, perplexed. Then, amid a smattering of applause from the class, he scraped back his weighty chair and went to the door to let Hunter in. Violins screeched repeatedly, as when the heroine is about to get stabbed in a horror movie, but I don’t think anybody heard them but me. The violins were drowned out by the escalating applause as Hunter followed Gabe into the room. Gabe sat at the head of the table and gestured toward the only empty chair, at the foot.

As Hunter rounded the table, he paused to put out both hands and slap Manohar and Brian simultaneously in the back of the head. “You didn’t warn me about the horse.”

Brian lunged after him from his chair. Hunter instinctively sped up, jogged a step, then slowed to his customary saunter. He collapsed into the comfy chair at the end of the table as if the whole episode had taken a great deal out of him. Leaning over one armrest, he eyed the girl on his right from underneath the blond hair in his eyes and said loudly enough for the whole class to hear, “I’m so glad to be here.” Guys laughed, girls giggled, and the entire chemistry of the quiet classroom had changed from scared freshmen to friendly writing class, just because Hunter had joined us.