"Wait, Mr. Senate, when are these things due? I have a summer job and I can't be sitting around doing these stupid worksheets."

"Not sitting around doing these stupid worksheets because of your winter job is what got you into a study program in the first place," I tell Kyle Gregger. He just makes some clicking noise and slumps in his seat and I give him the only advice I can. "Just do the sheets, I know you can and so do you, do the work and you won't have to go through the course this year."

He seems to have accepted it and starts writing his name on the papers. I look around to the rest of the study class and see them all doing their individual things. Which sucks for me. Now I have time to think. Great.

What am I supposed to do? Can I really have a former student living in my apartment with me? Obvious answer: No. But how am I suppose to tell her that? And what is the real reason anyway? Is it the fact that she's a former student or is it because I could possibly see Dana as . . . As nothing, no I see her as a student and nothing else.

And she needs help.

And a student in need . . . This is narrowing down into very few options.

It's only a few days.

Maybe.

No. No, I can't do it.

**

I have exactly twenty dollars that I can spare and how exactly am I suppose to stock a kitchen with that? I do have more than twenty, nearly sixty- five, but if I get tossed out tonight I have to have a little money to stay somewhere.

I roam the aisles of the grocery store and I realize I've never really shopped for practical purpose before. I've been here before but only to pick up a few things, milk, TV dinners, bread, but nothing major because I never made anything major. Although my mother stopped cooking when I was nine I never learned, instead going to the fun world of frozen, prepackaged dinners and peanut butter sandwiches. But it was different now.

I had to prove I am a good roommate. A roommate that makes phenomenal meals. And I can do it.

I know I can.

I do.

And if all else fails there's always the freezer isle.

I've now taken my cart down the path of canned foods; I don't know about Mr. Senate but Chef Lazani Saucy holds a little part of my heart. Who knows, maybe if I make homemade ravioli it would taste *exactly* like that of the good chef . . . Hmm, then why bother trying? Just get a few cans and viola, done. And I wouldn't be lying; it's homemade, made at home . . . heated up at home.

Same thing.

I should check prices. I never looked at prices before; my job pays well to say the least, but now is conserving time. I still don't have enough 'expense' money for college, I should have stopped buying clothes a long time ago but I didn't so now nearly every cent I get has to be saved.

If this truly is 'adulthood' I'm off to a bad start.

Now what do I buy? Milk, right, milk, bread, basics. See? I can do this.

**

"Harry, you better hide, Guber's coming," Marilyn warned.

The teacher's lounge didn't provide many places for said hiding. I chose to sit here and hope for the best. It works because Guber doesn't bother to stop in. I let out a breath in relief because even if I didn't care that the twisted organization fanatic disapproved of my informal clothing I didn't want to hear him go over it for the next twenty minutes either.

"His rules are ridiculous," I complained to Marilyn as she sat down across from me. She was saddled with one of Lauren's courses as well as two of her own for Summer school and study group. "It's not like he chastises the female staff for wearing those paper thin skirts in this heat."

"Then wear a skirt, in fact, *please* wear a skirt. Just let me know beforehand so I can bring a camera."

I must not be giving an exactly amused face because she just smiles and sips the lemonade we stole from the refrigerator. I'm sure it's Guber's so at least that makes the day a little sweeter.

"What's up with you today? You look like you've been up for forty-eight hours straight," she questions.

I'm too comfortable to look directly at her and answer so I stay with my head leaned on the back of the couch. "It's those damn infomercials, specially that super fast cooker thing, sucks you right in."

"I've seen that, with the internal cooker, frozen steaks done, and everything cooks with . . ."

I look over and she seems totally unashamed.

"What? I want one of those."

Back to the ceiling and I decide not to throw some smart-ass remark out because I'm being nice . . . or maybe just because I'm too tired to think of one. It's happening far too often these days.

"You sure nothing's bothering you?" She sounds a little worried and I know she's thinking I'm staying up nights because I haven't see Lauren for a while, or even talked to her.

I've got bigger problems than that right now.

"No, I'm fine, sleepy but fine. I have one more hour of class then I can go home," I yawn. This couch is comfortable; I could sleep on this couch . . .

"Hello all." There is a smile in that voice. I don't want to hear smiles right now.

"Hi, Milton," Marilyn says from her chair.

"Hello to you. Harry! How is life treating you?"

"Like I'm its bitch, Milton, thanks for asking," I say sarcastically.

"Someone isn't dapper today."

"What are you doing here?" I ask annoyed along with another yawn that just escaped my mouth.

"Picking up the love of my life," he says with a dreamy tone. I don't need to hear dreamy tones either, especially from a grown man.

"You an Lisa Grear are back together?" I ask and I even look at him for this one. The last I heard she had unceremoniously dropped him, not the nicest thing to do once you consider he gave up a lot of respectability just to be with her . . . Ah, parallels to my life, great. Wait, I'm wrong, because I am no where near that whole debacle of a relationship. I wouldn't put myself in that position.

I'm serious.

"Back together and better than ever before."

"Yeah?"

"Uh-huh," he says, sitting on the couch back and looking off into . . . I don't know, he's being an idiot. "We have something special, we can't stay away from each other so it was really inevitable that we would be together again."

. . . Okay.

"You sure she isn't yanking you around? Getting back for that double homework in sophomore year?"

Didn't mean to say that. . . Eh, yeah I did.

He looks at me sharply and defends himself. "Yes, I'm sure and I was never her teacher. We have a connection, Harry. It's spiritual."

"And physical."

Another sharp look.

"And I'm sure you don't have anything to compare to that - oh, wait, I seem to remember a student - Now what was her name . . . Diana, Deana, no, it was Dana. Yes, Dana Poole," he responds with so much mocking it could choke a horse.

I do what anyone would.

I say screw you and then stew in my spot on the couch. It works for me anyway. Marilyn who's been watching the whole thing without a word shakes her head and stands.

"I have a class now, it's been fun." She says her good-byes and is gone. I hear Milton stand and then shuffle for a minute before he comes around the couch to sit down. I look over at him and he has a guilty look as he stares at the table.

"I'm sorry, I know you don't like to talk about the whole Dana thing." Now it's my turn to look at him sharply but he goes on anyway. "But that's how I feel about Lisa, I don't want to talk about it. Not like that. She means everything to me and I'll defend her through anything."

He sounds all valiant and sure of himself. He's happy with her, happier than he was a year ago. It's kind of a hopeful sight. But I don't want that hope because it'll lead to things I do not need.

But I get it. I get his dedication. And I know he's heading for a crash because Lisa Grear is not going to be Mrs. Buttle one day and, ultimately, I think that's what he wants. I don't know someone who can look at a woman and already know he wants to spend his life with her. I wonder if he even knows it yet or if it's just floating around in his subconscious. That wouldn't be me. I'm smarter than that and I know what to do and what not to . . .

Dana has to move.

**

It smells really good in here, it's sweltering too, but that's pretty much the point. Because I made something that will prove . . . prove what? Something good I hope. Because I made blueberry muffins.

Not MADE-made.

I did take them out of the bakery box.

And I put the oven on so it was hot and seemed like I baked.

And I put them in a muffin tin and heated them up so it seems like I just pulled them out.

So I did all the basics, I just didn't make them *originally* . . .

Like the lasagna.

But I heated it up, and, really, isn't that most of the 'cooking' thing right there? I did make the garlic bread . . . and it's a little mushy, and it's a little burnt on the bottom but still good, it balances itself out. Now I just have to wait for Harry.

Harry who is opening the door right now.

Show time.

**

I enter a sweltering apartment and feel the heat smack me in the face. But then I smell good things.

In the average single guy's home that is a RARE thing.

And it's clean.

I see a set-up here.

"Dana?" I call out casually.

She appears before me with a little pair of shorts and a white shirt that is nice and . . . and the smells. The smells are good and different and --

"What's going on?"

"I made dinner," she announces with a big smile. Her hair is piled on top of her head and spikey bits are falling down on her face and sticking to her forehead and her eyes sparkle with . . . hope.

I can't tell her now. After dinner, I will. I will.

"Let's eat?"

She nods and I guessed correctly, it is done and we can eat, then I can tell her. She leads me, and it doesn't take very far, into the small kitchen and I sit down to a plate. Lasagna stares back at me and it doesn't look bad, in fact it looks pretty good.

"Taste it," she urges from my side.

**

"I guess I'll taste it," he humors.

He looks a little nervous as he picks up his fork. It's good, I already know, of all the frozen Italian food I tasted - which is a lot - this is the best. The fork with layers of pasta, sauce, cheese, and meat slowly approached his mouth. He has a really beautiful mouth--

Lasagna.

Tasting lasagna. Focus on that.

"Mmm."

"Thank you," I say graciously and practically bounce over to my chair. I see his eyes dart to my legs and then back to his plate and I think maybe I shouldn't have changed from my jeans, but if I didn't I would have died from heat exhaustion, you gotta make some sacrifices. "So, how was your day?"

"Good, everyone cooperated." A set-up and I smile.

"Didn't have to pull the gun?"

"Slow day. This is really good."

"Worked all day." Not a total lie, I did work to find it, just didn't work to make it.

This is going well, there is a whole good feeling happening here.

"I can't believe you made this, I know you didn't find these ingredients here. Not unless this is really made out of corn flakes and mustard."

"Which is why I go out and get things, pitch in for food and stuff . . ." I trail off but he looks a little uncomfortable so I clarify it. "Like roommates do."

He sets down his fork and stares down as he breathes an impending sigh of bad news.

"Dana . . ."

"I made muffins!"

It's not Shakespeare's smooth tongue but I'm desperate.

**

She jumps out of the chair and brings over a tin, holding it carefully with an ugly yellow potholder I forgot I had. I have the burns to prove it. They are . . . perfect. Dana Poole made perfect muffins. I look up at her and she's hopeful again, but not the home etc. type.

"You made those?"

"Taste them."

They look perfect but looks can be deceiving. I learned that a long time ago. But I trust her - even if it doesn't look like she sampled them first.

I'm just staring at them before she gets, I don't know, impatient or nervous, so she sets them on the table and breaks a piece off of one of the warm treats and I follow it to her mouth. It opens an accepts the morsel without preamble and I just watch as her pillowed lips close and barely touch the tips of her fingers . . .

She HAS to move.

"Mmm," she coos out.

She has to move NOW.

She opens her eyes that close in what seemed to by extreme pleasure and she smiles. "Try some."

I blink and clear my throat before I reach out and take a whole muffin out, it's a little warm but I wouldn't care if I was holding a red hot poker right now as long as I didn't have to focus on the main attraction beside me. I open my mouth and, undignified, stuff the better part in and nod.

"Good," I say with a full mouth when I finally look at her and that smile lifts a little more. She does make good stuff, even if the lasagna tastes suspiciously like it was Mama Geloli's Frozen Cuisine. I know my bachelor food. But she did it for a purpose, she did it to make me want her to stay and what can I say to that?

How can I throw her out?

She can stay one more night.

But I get the bed.

**

It worked. I . . it worked. He smiled and told me, completely relaxed, that I could stick around if I wanted. Muffins work, I'm going to by a hell of a lot more muffins because he even helped me clear the dishes.

Course he isn't going to help me wash them.

And he said he gets the bed.

**

The spring pinches me still but the extra pillow I found helps. Not much.

And Dana is probably in there because . . . because I'm an idiot and I need to not feel guilty at other people enduring 'The Devil Spring'. Now she's enjoying the bed, soft and nice and . . . Okay, thoughts turning from the bed to other things that just don't need to be turned to.

I am getting another couch TOMORROW. This is ridiculous; it never hurt this much when I fell asleep watching Letterman. It has to be this pillow; it's not positioned right and if I could just . . . Maybe if I lift up a little before I pull it out, a little faster . . .

**

CLANK! THUMP!

What was that?

The shirt I had been removing is back on as I rush out, flinging open the bedroom door, for a sight that is . . . quite . . . funny.

But laughing isn't going to endear me to Harry.

Too bad I already started. And the evil eye he's giving me is just making me laugh harder.