I drum my fingers against my laptop. I have nothing. Nothing. I've known about this paper for weeks and I've finally gotten to it this weekend but the last two days have been torture, staring at a blank document. Okay, marathoning Grey's Anatomy. I never said I was a model student. But I've been thinking about the paper too, trying in vain to come up with something, anything, that I'm passionate enough about. That's the task, 10 pages on something I'm passionate about. What kind of topic is that anyway? I'm in college, it's for my politics class. The professor said something about passion being key to politics. Who am I kidding, something about? She said,

"Class, all great politicians should be passionate. While your final exam will deal with political theory, I am demanding something much more personal for your final essay. I want you to argue for your greatest passion, I want you to explain to me why you are passionate about it, I want you to make me feel as you feel. I want you to give me your hearts."

And then she smiled that smile that makes my stomach do backflips. Professor Mills. I would have gladly ripped my heart out of my chest right there and handed it to her. But then she would have failed me. She's great, I've never had a better teacher, but she's a harsh grader. Honestly, she's kind of evil.

I'm head over heels in love with her.

It all started on the first day of the semester,the second of my second year at UCLA. I hadn't wanted to take politics, I fought with my advisor about it. I'm a social work major, I want to work with kids, help them get out of the system like I did, and I think of politicians as scheming liars who don't care about anything but lining their own pockets. But I needed the credits and all the other options were full, and he thought it would be "good for me".

Good for me, to have an 8am every Monday morning. Dr Hopper is an asshole. Anyway, so I was late to the class, obviously. My scholarship gets me a dorm room but it kind of means that I always sleep in. At least my roommate has a coffee machine. I think Mary Margaret might be an actual angel. Not right now, because it's 2am and I'm still fidgeting instead of writing. I don't think angels are supposed to hate. But generally, she's an angel.

I got to this class and Professor Mills had already started, some speech about the importance of rules and regularity. I stumbled through the door, I swear only five minutes late, a total mess though, denim shorts and the tank top I'd slept in, no socks inside my favourite cowboy boots, and she turned around, looked me up and down, and of course every damn seat was taken.

"You must be Miss Swan, the late addition," she said, smirking. I would have apologised but I was too busy staring because she was fucking perfection. She was young, really young, like younger than thirty, and she wore this tight grey dress that didn't reveal anything but was somehow the sluttiest outfit I'd ever seen. She had bright red lipstick and her eyes had this mean, seductive glare that I was sure hid so much depth.

"I would like to speak with you at the end of class. For now, why don't you take a seat at my desk?"

I slumped into the fancy professor chair and took out my books, trying to look like a good student, but Professor Mills had turned back to the rest of the class and all I could see was her gorgeous behind. I was tempted to drop my pencil. Then I did drop it, but behind me, and practically fell out of my chair trying to pick it up. She didn't say anything, she just stopped speaking altogether and turned around, watching me with one eyebrow raised until I was back in my seat with my pencil in my hand-

"Emma!"

Mary Margaret grabs my foot. Both of our beds are lofted, our room's this awesome indie canopy thing, we even burn incense, but right now she's trying to pull me out of bed and onto the floor.

"What?" I ask. I feel kind of bad, maybe she wants to sleep.

"Emma, you're supposed to be writing your politics paper but you've been basically drooling on yourself for the last half hour. What's on your mind that's more important than not losing your scholarship?"

I groan. "I was thinking about the damn professor. What the hell was she thinking with this topic?"

M shrugs. "I think it's a good topic. I mean, it's hard that it's open but you could write about social equality or healthcare or-"

"I'm gonna stop you right there. She said it had to be personal. Like, we can write about a wider political issue but we have to include a strong personal element, like why it matters to us."

M gives me a look. "I hate to say this to you, Em, because you're really smart and all, but are you really that stupid?"

"What?"

"Em, what is your whole life about? What are you studying? Why are you here?"

"I…" I trail off. I'm not going to write about that.

"I think you're only stuck because you know what you should write, it's the obvious thing to write, but you don't want to write it because you don't want to reveal yourself."

I grit my teeth. "She has no right to know that stuff, I don't talk about my childhood to anyone… And anyway, I'm not passionate about it. I want to make it right, make it better, that was part of why I got the scholarship but I'm not… I'm not passionate."

"Liar."

"Think what you like. I'm not writing that for my essay."

"You have to write something."

"I'll write about Grey's."

"And then you'll fail. Idiot."

I make a face.

"Emma, this is the professor you're practically in love with… Would it really be so bad to open up to her?"

"Yes!"

M shrugs again. "Suit yourself. Bullshit your way through it. But she'll know."

I look at my document again. I realise I'm being totally inconsistent. I say I want to give Professor Mills my heart, but I won't even give her a little piece of it. I'm so scared, I'm so scared she won't like me, won't like what I write, will lose respect for me… She doesn't know any of it. I refuse to be the charity case, the pitiable scholarship kid with no family to go home to.

And suddenly I know what I'm going to write. I bite my nail, thinking, a smile forming on my face.

"Emma..?" M says dubiously.

"Don't worry, M."

Em and M. That's what people call us. I chuckle at it again. If only we were a ship…

"When you say don't worry, I always worry."

"It's a great idea, I swear. I'm gonna go to the 24 hour lab in the library so you can get some sleep."

She flops down on her bed. "Fine. Don't get yourself kicked out."

I don't answer. Honestly, I'm about to do the stupidest thing I've ever done. But there's only one thing I'm passionate about right now. And that's Professor Mills.

I smash out the last paragraph. It's actually good, though I say so myself. I haven't hidden anything. I'm no teacher's pet, I never could be, I just say what I think. I say how she makes me feel, how she distracts the hell out of me in class, how I still hate politics, how driving her nuts in basically every class makes getting out of bed in the morning worthwhile.

Like this one time… It was a few weeks into the class and I'd been managing to be pretty much on time and this morning I was actually early and only a couple other students were there and Professor Mills walked in all sassy and "I woke up like dis" and class started and it was about women in the political field.

"In my time as a mayor, I-"

"Wait, Professor, you were a mayor?"

"Yes, of a large town in Maine. Please do not interrupt, Miss Swan."

"Why'd you quit?"

I wondered how she could have already been a mayor and become a teacher in her twenties.

"I grew tired of the environment."

I tilted my head to one side. We'd been talking about women for a few classes now and I couldn't help myself.

"Because it was so male dominated?" I asked coyly.

"That was a part of it, yes."

"So how would you advise the women in this class interested in pursuing a career in politics? Should they also quit when it gets tough and retreat into a more feminine career?"

"Miss Swan, my personal choices are not relevant to this class. But of course, I advise all of you to see your gender as something positive, and to follow your chosen career knowing that it should not hold you back."

"I'm glad you think so. But what about exploitation, and inequalities like… For example, the way women are supposed to look."

She prickled instantly. "My appearance is my personal choice."

"You don't think tight skirts and lipstick make a statement?"

"I like to show that strength and femininity are not mutually exclusive."

She kind of had me there. I loved the way she dressed, too. But I wasn't backing down.

"But shouldn't you be able to be taken seriously even in jeans and a tank top?"

She smirked. I was glad, I didn't really want to upset her. Much. "It seems your main issue with me is that I do not favor your preferred style of dress. Must we all be like you for you to respect us, Miss Swan?"

I shrugged. "No. But when I asked, I didn't mean you in particular. You assumed that. Which means you are sensitive about it. You use your body, you basically prostitute yourself to society so you can have power over people. But for some reason, when you did have power, you gave it up to teach-"

"Yes," she said exasperatedly. "To teach in one of the most respected schools in the country. I do not see it as a step down. And I am partial to the sunshine. Now, if you do not want an F for your class participation grade, I would advise you to keep your mouth shut for the remainder of this class."

I did as she said. She seemed like the sort of person to follow through on threats. But it wasn't long before I was provoking her again. Mostly I liked doing it because she always had answers.

I feel a little guilty that my serious paper is so ridiculous. But I'm sick of teasing her because I can't tell her how I feel, I'm sick of her driving me crazy three times a week, I'm sick of pretending I'm something I'm not. I don't belong here with all these rich kids, I don't fit in with the smarmy assholes studying politics, or even the students in my social work classes. I don't know how I got my scholarship but despite my consistently high grades, I'm sick of it. I'm sick of being the success story, the model foster kid. My life was awful. I hate myself for not running away, I had countless opportunities, but I stayed in a life that I hated because I was seemingly incapable of breaking a single rule.

Professor Mills inspired me to break the rules. I'm pretty sure she didn't mean to, but she still did, so I make the finishing touches to my insane paper and print it out in the required MLA format, just in time for class.

I put my paper on the pile. She looks at me and I feel as if she knows. She can't possibly know but somehow she knows and she stares right into me and I shiver despite the sweltering heat.

"Thank you, Miss Swan. I'll see you in the exam."

"Wouldn't miss it for the world," I say dramatically. The corner of her mouth lifts up in a smile.

"If only all my students were so enthusiastic," she says with just a hint of sarcasm. How little she knows.

"What can I say, professor? You inspire me," I drawl.

"I am honored," she says, and she actually looks kind of chuffed; her eyes glitter and for a second it's like she's thinking that she means something. And then I'm projecting but… She seems really damn happy to mean something. I wonder if maybe she feels a bit like I do, like her life is meaningless no matter what she does. I wonder about why she really moved here, why she wants to teach.

My exams aren't going to start for another couple of weeks so I'm pretty free. I have to work, I have a job washing dishes in the cafeteria. It makes my fingers all dry and wrinkly, but it's not that bad. I like it because I don't have to interact with people. I don't exactly have anything against people, it's just… They're demanding. I always have to be someone, to be someone I'm not. Everyone tells me I should be myself; the trouble is, I don't know who that is. I know what I'm doing now doesn't feel right, but that doesn't mean I know what would feel right. Washing dishes always makes me philosophical. Well, either that or I fantasise about a certain professor rubbing my back and shoulders to ease the ache I have in them from bending over the sink.

I spend the afternoon working, take a quick shower, then run down to the beach. M's used to me keeping to myself; we arrange to meet for a late dinner but I can't wait to get off campus and away from anyone I know. I plug in my ipod, shutting out the world, and practically sprint away from civilisation. There's a part of the nearest beach that's fenced off, I think it used to be used for something to do with the military but now it's just empty, hidden from everything by a bunch of rocks, and I scale the fence and drop down into it and find a patch of grass to lie on, letting the sun tan my sweaty skin. It bleaches my hair, too - in summer my hair's like white gold, it's my favourite thing about the way I look.

I turn off my music so I can listen to the ocean. I can hear the city but it's faint, a soothing hum of manmade sounds mixing with natural ones. I listen to my breathing, I feel my heart thrumming in my chest and I stare out at the horizon, dreaming of sailing off into it and never coming back. I don't know where I'd go, I just know that I want to. I've always been trapped, and now that I'm free, totally independent, no one holding me down at all… Somehow I feel more trapped than ever. I've spent my whole life running from all kinds of pain. But I think the pain's gotten inside me somehow. No matter where I run, there's no escape.

The ocean sloshes against the sand, wiping away the marks of the day. A clean slate for tomorrow. I wish my mind could be a clean slate… I give myself a shake before I can get upset, then I jump to my feet and run along the waterline, kicking up sand that stings my legs. I run for almost an hour before turning back. The sun's starting to set; the sky burns pink and orange and purple and I burn with it, pushing my body as hard as I can all the way back to campus.

M's already waiting outside the caf. She rolls her eyes as I charge up to her.

"I'm not showering," I tell her. "I need ice cream. Ice cream and fries."

She looks at my washboard stomach.

"You're a biological marvel," she tells me. I see what she means. I always have energy despite a diet of junk food, too much coffee, and the occasional vitamin pill when I remember to take it.

We go inside. She puts together a salad and orders a grilled chicken burger. I help myself to a large bowl of ice cream coated in sprinkles and chocolate syrup, then order some fries to dip in it. We go out on the balcony to eat.

"Are you gonna tell me what you wrote for Professor Mills?" M asks me.

I consider this. "Maybe," I say. "If you promise not to judge me."

She narrows her eyes. "I make no promises. But now you have to tell me."

I sigh. "I wrote about her. I wrote that she's my passion."

M laughs, she thinks I'm kidding. And then she sees my deadpan expression and she gasps.

"No," she says slowly. "You can't have…"

"I did," I tell her.

"You're insane."

"I know."

"You… Why?" she asks in the end.

"Because… I decided to tell the truth."

"Jesus, Emma, you couldn't have picked another truth? Every student gets a crush on one professor or another. You never tell them about it. That's just… Crazy." She sounds more sympathetic than anything else, like I'm someone to be pitied.

"I didn't have another truth. M, I don't fit in here, we both know it. I'm not like the other students, I'm not even like you. I came here to escape, but after almost two years… I can't be how I should be."

"No one wants you to be anything other than yourself, Emma. It's just… Sometimes rules are a good idea."

"And in this case..?"

She raises her eyebrows. "Of course it's a good thing that professors can't have relationships with students!"

"Why? We're both adults. She won't be my professor after this semester, what difference does it make?"

"Because… I don't know, it's just wrong. She's so much older-"

"Less than ten years," I counter.

M sighs. "It's just not appropriate."

I shrug. I know that. "I guess… I just couldn't help myself. I know it was dumb but it was like once I thought of it, it wasn't possible for me to write anything else." I eat my last ice cream coated fry. "I get in trouble. It's what I do."

"You feel like you don't fit in, but you turn that into feeling that you can't fit in," she tells me. "And that's not true. You can fit in, you're allowed to be happy, Emma. You don't have to break everything any more."

"Too late now," I point out.

She gives me this awful, pitying look. "You'll get another chance. You'll just have to apologise. They'll understand."

"I can't apologise," I say. "I'm not sorry."

She rolls her eyes, but then she gives in and smiles. She knows being serious and mad won't change anything. "Let me know what she says," she chuckles.

We go back to our room and watch a few episodes of a dumb sitcom, then settle down to sleep. The next two weeks are a blur of work, studying, running, partying - especially partying. I love drinking, I smoke weed, I embrace my stereotype of a wild college girl. I make friends, I make more than friends, I don't save any numbers or remember any names. Exam time rolls around and I've almost forgotten the essay, I've been so busy and I try really hard not to be a worrier. But then, the day before my Politics final, I get an email. My heart's racing just from the subject line.

Final Essay for Politics 201

Miss Swan,

While your chosen topic for your final essay in this class was original and intriguing, I feel I cannot grade it fairly due to personal bias. I have decided to grant you an extension, provided you meet with me after your examination tomorrow to discuss more appropriate topics.

All the best for your finals,

Prof. Mills

I call M as soon as I've read it. Six times.

"What?" she asks in a muttered whisper. I never call her.

"Friendly," I tease.

"Sorry," she says in her normal voice. "I was in the library. Why are you calling me?"

"I just got an email from Professor Mills about my essay!"

"Oh, God…"

"No, it's not bad. It actually seems like… Like she liked it. She says I have to do another one, she wants to meet me after the exam. So maybe she is mad, but I don't know, it doesn't really seem like I'm in trouble."

I can hear M's reaction, changes in her breathing as she goes from surprised to amused.

"Good for you, asshole," she says in the end, laughing. "Maybe she returns your affections."

"Yeah, right." I roll my eyes to the empty room, then hang up and go back to studying.

The exam isn't bad, I finish on time and I feel pretty good about things. That is, until I see Professor Mills staring at me with a stony expression. I shudder. She has to know what she does to me. I stay in my seat until everyone else has left, then I get up slowly and hand her my paper. She puts it on the pile, then picks up the whole lot to carry. Without really thinking about it, I grab her purse for her and hold open the door. She nods in thanks and I follow her to the elevator, where we stay in complete silence, and then into her office.

I've never been in here before. It seems kind of empty, there's nothing personal, no pictures, not even a pot plant. Most professors really go to town on their offices but Professor Mills' space could belong to anyone. The pinboard is empty apart from the fire instructions; even her pens must be in a desk drawer - her desk is completely bare. She puts the papers down on it, then takes a different paper out of a drawer. Mine.

She sits down and puts on her glasses. So, so hot. I sit in the chair opposite her, awkwardly passing her purse over the desk.

"So, Miss Swan," she says, a slight blush rising to her cheeks as she turns to the first page of my essay. "Perhaps we should discuss your original submission, first."

I aim for nonchalance, but I think I end up looking like I'm going to puke. The air feels thick, like it's pressurising us. I'm glad I'm sitting but I still feel like I might faint if she fiddles with her hair one more time. She's wearing a black skirt and a red silk blouse with way too many buttons undone and I'm sweating profusely through my Star Wars t-shirt and denim cut offs (so short the pockets hang out below the ends of the legs). I scuff the toes of my boots and bite my lip, nodding, then I wait for her to say something else.

"I've assigned this piece every semester I've taught 201. This is the first time in three years I've had a submission anything like this. I think you were well aware you would be called out on it, I think you knew you were breaking the boundaries… Honestly, I think you were expecting to fail. I know you like getting a rise out of me. But this essay is incredibly well written. I find it passionate, which was what I wanted, and I feel that it gives an insight into you which very few people seem to be privileged with."

She pauses. I wait. She looks at me as if she wants me to say something. I keep waiting.

"I don't know if you intended to mock me. I think it is very likely that what I say next will turn into a grand joke between you and your friends. But… When I read this paper, Miss Swan, I found myself close to tears. No one has ever been so complimentary towards me, as a joke or otherwise."

I stare at her. I can't hide my surprise.

"Furthermore, I was moved by a paragraph close to the end." She flicks through the pages, finding the section. I blush bright red as she begins to read it out loud.

"In addition to the ways in which she inspires me academically and argumentatively, I am passionate about Professor Mills because of her insight into people. In politics, such insight is vital. And Professor Mills sees me in a way no one ever has before. She sees that I love to fight, but when we clash it is as if she knows I have no choice but to challenge her. She does not force me to conform to her rules. Her class is the only place in which I have ever felt that everything I am is accepted. It is the only place where I do not constantly fear that I am wrong, that I am making mistakes, and that I do not belong there. And then you go on to conclude that this makes me a good teacher," she says.

"I wasn't joking," I blurt out. "I meant every word."

She looks at me; I feel like she can see right into my soul.

"Thank you," she says softly. "But, Miss Swan, if you really feel this way…" She trails off, reaching out across the desk almost as if she wants to take my hand.

"You shouldn't," she says in the end. My stomach clenches as I see the beginning of sympathy in her eyes.

"I don't need your pity," I say, almost angry.

"I do not pity you, Miss Swan," she says firmly. "You are one of the brightest students I have ever encountered. You are feisty, you are strong, you are exceptionally beautiful, and ridiculously brave."

To my horror, I feel my eyes prickle with tears. I force myself to hold them in.

"I am curious, though. If you wish to tell me, I would like to know why you feel as if you must be wrong, as if you do not belong anywhere. Anywhere but my class," she adds, smiling ruefully.

"Did you look me up?" I ask. I know the answer. I want to know if she'll tell the truth.

"Yes."

I'm pleasantly surprised at her candor.

"But your scholarship status and the fact that your emergency contact is a social worker can only tell me so much. Where possible, I prefer not to make assumptions."

"You also know that I have a 4.0 GPA, and that I run cross country," I point out. She chuckles.

"I can tell to look at you that you run cross country."

I shrug. "I'm in it for the money."

"Where I went to college, the most lucrative scholarships were for music."

"Did you have one?"

"Piano," she confirms. I'm impressed. I play a little guitar, but to have gotten a scholarship she must be pretty amazing.

"I just said what I think," I say, going back to the essay, wanting to get it off the table as soon as possible. "I like your class. I never went to fancy schools or had a fancy family, I don't know how to talk like I'm rich and famous, which is how everyone seems to talk here. I don't like the things they like, when I make myself hang out with them I feel like I'm faking everything. But even though I never wanted to take your class," I pause to see her chuckle again, "you make me feel… Good. Safe. And like I said, like I might actually be doing something right. Honestly, I was so stuck when I was writing that paper because I feel like I don't know who I am, underneath all the faking I'm just… Nothing. I've always been nothing. You were the only thing I could think of that I actually give a damn about. Your class is the only place I feel real."

Her hand's still lying there on the desk and I almost take it, I'm so close, but then she pulls it back and looks at me, another kind of look, hard and thoughtful.

"Do you feel real now?" she asks me. I'm not expecting the question, I open and close my mouth a few times like a confused fish. But then I nod.

"Yeah…" I say slowly. "I mean… I feel like you're really listening. Like you actually want to know what I think."

She smiles. "You are correct. Considering what you have said to me, I am reluctant to send you away to write a paper that will demand so much, without any help. There is no impending deadline, I have until August to submit your final grade, so… If you like, we can meet again when your exams are over and set about exploring and furthering your passions."

The way she says passions does incredible things to my hyped up body, but I force myself to calm down and think about her suggestion.

"How do you mean?" I ask.

"The other students in the class drew upon their experiences seeing musicians, movies, plays, artists, museums, political speakers, places they had traveled... Currently you are at something of a disadvantage; I completely understand your reluctance to write about passions which developed from a life seemingly focused largely on basic survival. So, if you are interested, I propose that you allow me to share with you some of my passions. I have a car, and plenty of time now that the semester is over. You may choose another topic, and write another paper."

"So… You want to show me, like, museums and stuff?"

She smiles again. "Yes. Something like that."

I can hardly contain myself. I'm grinning like an idiot, I feel like it's Christmas, like how Christmas should feel.

"I must be clear, Miss Swan, this is still strictly a teaching relationship."

Somehow her tone implies she wants to be the opposite of clear. But I nod in understanding. I don't want to get either of us in trouble.

"I am glad to see you seem to be in favour of my plan..?" she says, her voice raising at the end of the sentence with an uncertainty that turns it into a question. I can't believe that she's nervous, of me, but somehow she is. I keep grinning at her.

"Yes," I say happily. She stands, walking around the desk. I stand too but she doesn't stop walking, she steps right into my personal space, so close I can feel her breath on my lips. Her smile changes from awkward and cute to powerfully salacious.

"Then I look forward to working with you, Miss Swan," she says. I almost squeal as I feel her hand slide up my thigh, but then it's gone and I reach down to find she has simply slipped a business card in my pocket.

"Call me when your exams are over so we can arrange a date," she murmurs in my ear.

I try not to moan as I tell her I will, then stumble from the room. I get out of the building and lean against the wall in the sunshine, wondering how the hell I'm going to survive this extra credit class. For most of the meeting, I was sure she was being totally professional. But the last two minutes changed everything. There was nothing professional about the way she looked at me, the way she touched me. I groan as I replay every deliberate movement, every look, every time her tongue peeked out to lick her luscious red lips, every flex of her fingers across the desk. I never thought she would read between the lines of my essay to see my darkest desires, but now I'm realising that of course she sees them. She sees them because they are hers as well.