Like I Love You

Chapter 1: Not Into Girls-2

Dana looked for her all throughout the rest of the day—in the Student Union, in the cafeteria, in the twin dormitory buildings that rose five stories and housed most of the sophomores living on campus. Dana knew it was a long shot, but she took to hanging out in the study lounges on the first floor, hoping against hope she might catch a glimpse of the girl and maybe somehow strike up a conversation. If she ever saw the pretty stranger again, she’d be sure to come up with something much more scintillating to say than, “I like your perfume.”

Maybe the next time she’d add something daring and sexy, along the lines of, “I still smell you when I close my eyes.” Though that needed a bit of work, Dana admitted. When she first thought it up, it sounded promising, but the more she ran her mind over it—and once, when she actually said the words out loud in front of a mirror—she had to admit they sounded a bit stalkerish. Or, worse, like a bad pick-up line. Maybe she should just stick with, “Hey.”

Trouble was, she didn’t see the girl again, not even in passing. The campus wasn’t that big, and she dawdled in the cafeteria during meal times, so surely sooner or later she’d run into the girl. Wasn’t there a law of physics or something about things like that? Dana wouldn’t know; she was an English major and knew jackshit about science or physics or anything that wasn’t Shakespeare or Milton or 19th Century American classics.

Still, hello? She ran into the girl once. Chances were they should run into each other again.

Dana got her wish on Friday afternoon, but she didn’t find the other student in any of the places where she’d been looking all week long. Instead, she found her in the one place she least expected.

In one of her classes.

On a whim she had signed up for a Women’s Studies class whose credits would also count toward her English degree. She didn’t know anything about women’s studies, really, but the class was cross-listed and sounded interesting: French Women Writers. Dana had hesitated—would the class be taught in French? If so, she was screwed; she’d taken four years of Latin in high school, enough to test out of taking a foreign language in college. Her knowledge of French was limited to the few random words that had entered English, such as rendezvous, RSVP, and the origin of using the term “mayday” as a cry for help.

But the course description stated that the class was taught in English, which was a plus. It was taught during a three-hour window on a Friday afternoon when Dana didn’t have another class scheduled, another plus. It was reading-intensive, which she liked, and would count toward her major, also good. The one thing that sealed the deal, though, was that when she called in to register for classes, this course had still been open. Of course—who in their right mind would’ve taken it? So Dana signed up and hoped she didn’t need to drop it after the first class.

When she walked into the classroom on Friday afternoon, she took a quick look around as she slid into the first desk closest to the door. With her back to the wall, she could watch her fellow students and the professor at the same time, and still manage to make it out first when class was over. Which was good, since the class ran from 1:30 to 4:15, and her next shift at the library started at 4:30. She had to be across campus and clocked in, ready to work, in record time. Hopefully the professor wouldn’t be the long-winded type who liked to keep students after class should’ve let out.

If so, at least Dana was close enough to the door to sneak out when she needed to.

As she had expected in a Women’s Studies class, most of the students were female. She didn’t know any of them, and wasn’t surprised there weren’t more; it was two minutes until class was about to begin and only eight students were in the room. More disturbing was the fact that the professor wasn’t there yet. Which meant they would most likely run over their allotted three hours. Great.

Then she walked in, the girl from the library. The curls were pulled back in a loose ponytail, held at her nape with a scrunchie, but a few had escaped to drift around her face. She chatted with an older woman Dana could tell was the professor just by looking—something in the loose pants, maybe, or the oversized sweater, or perhaps it was the reading glasses hanging from a jeweled chain around her neck. Whatever it was, Dana pegged her right, as she made a beeline for the desk at the front of the room, the girl from the library at her side. Dana tried to listen in to what they were saying and heard a rapid-fire conversation in French.

Way to throw the curve for the rest of us, she thought, impressed.

Dana stared at the girl from the library, trying to catch her eye, but she didn’t look around, didn’t bother assessing the rest of the class the way Dana had upon entering the room. Instead, when she finished talking with the professor, she took the closest available seat, which just happened to be the one beside Dana. Seizing the opportunity, Dana leaned over and said, “You speak French.”

Obvious, much? Did that come out sounding as stupid as she thought it had? God.

The girl threw her a contemptuous look. “Well, duh. It’s my major.”

“Really?” Again, spoken before she could stop herself; of course it was, it had to be. Who made up something so weird?

Along those lines, who majored in French? What did anyone do with a degree in that?

Trying to save face, Dana leaned over to tell her, “I’m English Lit. Well, no, I’m Dana, but I’m majoring in—”

“Alright, class?” the professor interrupted.

With a final glance Dana’s way, the girl from the library hissed, “Shh!”

The professor continued, “Let’s get started. I’m Madame Sarkozi. Bonjour.”

“Bonjour,” the girl beside Dana replied.

Dana frowned. “I thought this course wasn’t in French.”

This time the nasty looks came from both her classmate and her professor. She shrank back in her seat, wishing she could disappear. Strike two, she thought miserably. She should do everyone a favor and drop the class now. It was going to be a long semester.

* * * *

Through the professor taking attendance, Dana learned Bethany’s name. She wrote it on the inside of her notebook and circled it in a heart, then underlined it for emphasis, feeling sixteen and lovesick as she did. Bethany stayed turned away from her throughout the entire class, focused on the teacher, so Dana could stare at those soft curls all she wanted. She imagined plunging her hands into those thick depths, pressing her nose against the cottony waves, breathing in that tangy perfume. It reminded her of summer, for some reason, fresh cut grass and sandy beaches and the ocean surf crashing in the distance. If she buried her nose in Bethany’s hair, would she smell that scent there, too? Or between Bethany’s breasts, between her legs? What would a girl who smelled that good taste like?

Dana had no clue, but she’d give anything to find out.

The professor gave them a ten-minute break midway through the class. Most of the students left the room, heading for the vending machines in the lounge at the end of the hall, but Bethany stayed behind to read over the syllabus. Dana followed her lead, thinking it might be a way to get to know her a little more. Rummaging into her messenger bag, Dana found a pack of gum and took out a stick. As she unwrapped it, she saw Bethany glance over and held out the pack. “Would you like some?”

Bethany smiled, that tight bow loosening around her lips until they spread into a sunny grin. “Sure, thanks.” She took two pieces, but Dana didn’t say anything. Unwrapping both, Bethany popped them into her mouth. “You’re Dana, right? The English major.”

“Yeah. English Lit.” Dana felt her whole body flush. She remembered!

Perfect brows furrowed as Bethany frowned. “There’s a difference?”

“Not really,” Dana admitted. “It’s more like a concentration. You can do English Lit like me, but there’s also Creative Writing. As a major. Then there are the minor programs, like Film and Folklore and Linguistics, stuff like that.”

Bethany laughed, a lovely, tinkling sound that reminded Dana of wind chimes. “I’m almost sorry I asked.”

“Don’t they have concentrations in French?” Dana asked.

Bethany shook her head. “Nope, you learn it all.”

Cautiously, Dana wanted to know, “Then what do you do with it?”

“Teach, if you want. Which I don’t,” Bethany hurried to add. “I’m minoring in Politics so I’m thinking I might do something along those lines, intern at the UN at some point, something like that.”

“Wow.” Dana was impressed. A little intimidated, too, if she were honest. Politics? She wasn’t interested in them herself. Hell, she hadn’t ever even voted before.

Then Bethany shrugged, as if she didn’t know either. “Or maybe not, we’ll see. Maybe I’ll run off to Paris and become a bohemian artist with a sexy French lover. You never know.”

Too bad I’m not French, Dana thought. “Can you draw?”

With another laugh, Bethany waved the question away. “Pssh, no. But I don’t think you really need to know how to be an artiste in gay Paree.”

Suddenly Dana wanted a sexy French lover herself, but she didn’t want to run off to Paris to snag one. The girl sitting beside her would do just fine.