Prologue.
Joey closed the door behind her and sat down on the bed. She thought about what had just happened. Looking back, the whole thing seemed ridiculous - she hadn't been at college long enough to know exactly what were the ins and outs of the professor-student relationship, but she was pretty sure that whilst the odd extra-curricular conversation, and maybe even the occasional cup of coffee was not out of the question, prolonged physical contact probably was. Definitely was.
Whatever, she thought. It's not as though we had sex.
She was sat quietly thinking on the end of her bed, staring at the floor, and realised that she wasn't bothered. The only thing she was bothered about was the fact that she wasn't bothered, which was ridiculous. She felt somehow cheated, as though she had betrayed herself in some way by not feeling bad about the whole thing. But then she hadn't started it. Or had she? She couldn't really remember, not clearly. She had gone to Wilder's study to ask him about Derrida - everyone else seemed to find him so significant that she felt she ought to know something about him - and found him pouring himself coffee at his desk. His response to her questioning was a bemused smile, which for some reason really, really annoyed her, but seeing her frustration he pulled up another chair and handed her a mug of coffee.
'You know Miss Potter, you really shouldn't be getting so hung up about this. It's not as though your work is suffering; the Rose Lazare break- through was really something.'
'Thank you. But I still feel like I'm paddling around in the dark. Minus a compass. Everyone else knows all these terms, and people, and concepts, and I haven't a clue what they're talking about.' That was really the problem. She hated feeling like the stupid one.
'Ah, now I get it. College lesson number one - ignore everyone else. Just because the way you deal with the problems in front of you is different from everyone else's approach, it doesn't mean it is less 'good', or any less critically viable. In fact it may even be more so because you are relying on your own instincts and not trying to decide whether your reading fits into some second-hand critical framework; deconstructionalist, Freudian, post-structuralist -' She gaped at him. 'All right, I'm confusing you. But you have to realise that in this world opinions always need defending. If you start reading the opinions of others, you have to make sure you maintain faith in what you personally think. And in your case, Joey Potter, that is a lot more interesting and significant than in most. But I'll get you your Derrida.'
He had stood up to reach for the book from the hundreds that lined the walls of the room. She had jumped up to move out of his way, seen him about to knock his now cold coffee all over his desk, darted in to save it, found herself between his reaching arms, he looked down, she looked up. The kiss had lasted several minutes before he stopped and they looked again at one another. He had shown no sign of guilt (well, neither had she), but looked resigned.
'I think you had better go'. She smiled apologetically and left.
She couldn't help thinking that she should be feeling some kind of significance about the whole event. You know - first kiss. First sex. First illicit contact with an older man. She remembered Gwen telling her how she felt she would never kiss a boy unless it meant something, and now here she was having kissed her professor of all people and finding she didn't care. It had been electrifying, arousing, exciting - but ultimately not as important as it perhaps should have been. She felt only a regret that she was capable of responding to a stimulus that was purely physical; a year before anything like that would have been distasteful, she had always felt love to be the thing that mattered.
She groaned with frustration, and went over to the window. Maybe this was what growing older did to you. The impossible dream that Worthington had once been was now a very solid reality, and Capeside was fading into a dream world, but somehow becoming more attractive than it had ever been in all those years when she had longed to escape it. She thought about that as she gathered her books, and couldn't help feeling a pang of regret.
Joey closed the door behind her and sat down on the bed. She thought about what had just happened. Looking back, the whole thing seemed ridiculous - she hadn't been at college long enough to know exactly what were the ins and outs of the professor-student relationship, but she was pretty sure that whilst the odd extra-curricular conversation, and maybe even the occasional cup of coffee was not out of the question, prolonged physical contact probably was. Definitely was.
Whatever, she thought. It's not as though we had sex.
She was sat quietly thinking on the end of her bed, staring at the floor, and realised that she wasn't bothered. The only thing she was bothered about was the fact that she wasn't bothered, which was ridiculous. She felt somehow cheated, as though she had betrayed herself in some way by not feeling bad about the whole thing. But then she hadn't started it. Or had she? She couldn't really remember, not clearly. She had gone to Wilder's study to ask him about Derrida - everyone else seemed to find him so significant that she felt she ought to know something about him - and found him pouring himself coffee at his desk. His response to her questioning was a bemused smile, which for some reason really, really annoyed her, but seeing her frustration he pulled up another chair and handed her a mug of coffee.
'You know Miss Potter, you really shouldn't be getting so hung up about this. It's not as though your work is suffering; the Rose Lazare break- through was really something.'
'Thank you. But I still feel like I'm paddling around in the dark. Minus a compass. Everyone else knows all these terms, and people, and concepts, and I haven't a clue what they're talking about.' That was really the problem. She hated feeling like the stupid one.
'Ah, now I get it. College lesson number one - ignore everyone else. Just because the way you deal with the problems in front of you is different from everyone else's approach, it doesn't mean it is less 'good', or any less critically viable. In fact it may even be more so because you are relying on your own instincts and not trying to decide whether your reading fits into some second-hand critical framework; deconstructionalist, Freudian, post-structuralist -' She gaped at him. 'All right, I'm confusing you. But you have to realise that in this world opinions always need defending. If you start reading the opinions of others, you have to make sure you maintain faith in what you personally think. And in your case, Joey Potter, that is a lot more interesting and significant than in most. But I'll get you your Derrida.'
He had stood up to reach for the book from the hundreds that lined the walls of the room. She had jumped up to move out of his way, seen him about to knock his now cold coffee all over his desk, darted in to save it, found herself between his reaching arms, he looked down, she looked up. The kiss had lasted several minutes before he stopped and they looked again at one another. He had shown no sign of guilt (well, neither had she), but looked resigned.
'I think you had better go'. She smiled apologetically and left.
She couldn't help thinking that she should be feeling some kind of significance about the whole event. You know - first kiss. First sex. First illicit contact with an older man. She remembered Gwen telling her how she felt she would never kiss a boy unless it meant something, and now here she was having kissed her professor of all people and finding she didn't care. It had been electrifying, arousing, exciting - but ultimately not as important as it perhaps should have been. She felt only a regret that she was capable of responding to a stimulus that was purely physical; a year before anything like that would have been distasteful, she had always felt love to be the thing that mattered.
She groaned with frustration, and went over to the window. Maybe this was what growing older did to you. The impossible dream that Worthington had once been was now a very solid reality, and Capeside was fading into a dream world, but somehow becoming more attractive than it had ever been in all those years when she had longed to escape it. She thought about that as she gathered her books, and couldn't help feeling a pang of regret.
