Ophelia London - Definitely, Maybe in Love

“I know that, Spring. The entire class knows that. Being vocal about your attitude on preservation has never been your problem.”

Problem? Is being a champion for bettering the planet a problem?

My natural instinct was to go on the defensive, but instead I took a moment to breathe, sliding my fingers up and down one of my braids. A calming ritual.

“This is an important project; you know that, don’t you?”

I nodded silently, but inside I was reciting that everything about attending Stanford University was important. Just ask the four certified letters my high school counselor had sent to the Admissions Board. It wasn’t just getting accepted into Stanford that had been a challenge for me, the succeeding was proving to be an even bigger task—which, obviously, was the most important thing in my life. Over the past year, I’d added more classes, more causes, more claims on my free time with the sole intention of standing out in a sea of fifteen thousand other overachievers.

I had to. Otherwise, I was going to drown.

“You’re an exceptional student,” Masen continued. I smiled at this, my stomach muscles unclenching. “I have ties to periodicals. I see potential in your thesis, and if it turns out well, I can almost guarantee publication.”

Whoa—what? Publication as a junior?

“That’s amazingly huge,” I blurted and dropped my bag. “Whatever it takes. If you don’t think my thesis is strong enough now, I’ll work on it. I’ll do anything.”

He leaned back in his squeaky chair. “I do have a few ideas, but first…” He toggled to a new page on his computer. “I see that you took twenty-one units last semester and nineteen last fall.”

“Yeah,” I confirmed, eyeing the screen.

He arched his bushy eyebrows. “Pretty ambitious.”

I shrugged.

“So that means you’re ahead of schedule, credit-wise.”

Oh, please don’t ask me to be your aid. I’d rather take on another shift waiting tables at the country club than correct freshman papers .

“Have you ever considered picking up an econ minor? A few of your core classes cross over. It looks like you’re halfway there.”

This was a surprise. “I took the two required business classes,” I said, “but other than that, I don’t know much about economics.”

Masen toggled back to my proposal. “I know,” he said deliberately. “That’s my point.”

“Oh.” I swallowed, visions of seeing my name in a periodical vanishing like the Amazon rainforest. “How do you think an econ minor will help?”

“Did you do debate in high school?” he asked, which seemed out of left field.

“No,” I admitted.

“But you understand the concept?”

“You argue either side of an issue,” I began, hoping it sounded like I knew what I was talking about. “You have to know enough about the opposition to fight for both sides.”

“Exactly.” He pointed at my proposal on his screen. “That’s precisely what this needs. The opposition.”

Under my braids, the back of my neck tingled in alarm. The sensation spread up my throat and across my cheeks. A year ago, fearing that I wasn’t getting noticed in my classes or community, I’d made some pretty big changes. It wasn’t just the heavier work load or Green Peace marches, it was the braids, the vegetarian diet, the purposeful lack of a social life…all in the name of being taken seriously. Finally, I felt the part and looked the part. Everything should be falling into place by now. But if Masen, my advisor, still didn’t get how resolute I was, what more could I do?

I was starting to get that drowning feeling again.

“Professor Masen,” I began, “for the last two years, Environmental Science has been my life. Sustainable living, promoting free and healthy land, supporting the local EPA. I chose Stanford because of its liberal programs, and you’re saying you think I should—”

He lifted a hand to stop me. “I don’t mean for you to drive a Hummer or drill for oil. Sustainability is a critical issue, and I think you’ve got a handle on it. A clear understanding of the economic side will round out your research, give it some meat.” He pointed at the screen again. “Judging by your proposal, you’re too close to the subject. I need you to step back and get a new perspective.”

“Perspective,” I repeated, my head feeling heavy.

“In any arena, to truly best your opponents, you must understand them, inside and out. You have the heart, Spring, but you don’t have the business mind. Not yet.” Masen did his chin rub thing again. “You mentioned the EPA. What if you went the other way and studied up on the human impact, the benefits of land development?”

Before I followed my natural instinct to blurt out that there was no such thing, I forced myself to stop and think. Perhaps I couldn’t see Masen’s vision yet, but I trusted him. I kind of had to. The man held my academic future in the palm of his hand.

“The benefits of land development?” I paused, waiting for my brain to wrap around the concept.

“Talk to a few econ students,” he suggested, “or better yet, someone who knows the finer points of land development—that’s key. Delve into your research. Maybe then your proposal will flesh out and we can talk publication.”

That word again. Publication . It was intoxicating. Whether he was using it to guide me or manipulate me didn’t matter. It worked. “Whatever you say,” I replied, picking up my bag. “I’ll start on it right away.”

Masen slid on his glasses. “I look forward to hearing about your progress very soon. Let’s set up another meeting.”

After he gave me a few more instructions, I felt like clicking my heels together and giving a salute, but refrained and headed down the hall, dodging other overachievers as they rushed to class. Once the initial adrenaline was gone, though, panic set in. And by the time I was halfway home, I was in a pretty deep haze, my backpack feeling heavier with every step.

When would I have time to start a brand-new research project and maybe add a minor? Where, exactly, was I going to find a land tycoon at Stanford University? And more importantly: how much of my soul would I be willing to sell to learn from such a creature?

My focus was pulled to a U-Haul truck parked in front of the house across the street from mine. Three moving guys were unloading boxes. So I guessed the wannabe Big Bang Theory physics students had moved out. Too bad, I would miss their weekly explosions.

As I got closer to the house, about to cross the street, a guy came wandering out the front door. Because of his height and long legs, striding was probably a better term. After running a hand through his dark curly hair, he slid on a pair of black sunglasses and stood in the middle of the newly sodded lawn, signing a clipboard one of the movers handed him.

He turned his head. Even from a distance, I noticed the cut of his jaw. It was a nice cut. As he handed off the clipboard, he lifted his sunglasses for just a second, revealing the rest of his face.

Hmm, not bad. Not bad at all. In fact—

“Hey,” the guy said, kind of barking at one of the other movers. “Do not touch the Viper.” He pointed at a long and sleek black sports car parked crooked in his driveway. “It’s worth more than your life.”

Sheesh. What the hell?

I was halfway across the street, still gaping at the guy, when my roommate Julia called from our front door.

“Spring!”

The guy’s head snapped in my direction. When my eyes locked straight onto his sunglasses, I felt my face go red.

Totally hated getting caught staring, but it wasn’t like I was snooping around. I was crossing a public street in front of my own house in the middle of the day. Not exactly a felony. Still, I knew the guy was watching me as I headed toward my house.