Page 46 of The Love Match

“N-no, I am.”

My eyes dart from the top of her head, which only reaches my ear, to the bottom of her feet. She’s dressed in a gray blazer, a matching skirt, and heels that do little to rectify her height situation, with a leather briefcase gripped in one hand, but neither her minuscule size nor her drab outfit nor even her youthful demeanor do her justice. Shefeelslarger than life, somehow.

My gaze freezes at the lanyard and ID badge hanging from her neck, and I realize why.CECILIA LIU, it reads under the college’s logo, surrounded in the same bright red as thecolumns ahead. She’s a professor here, and oh God, what a first impression I must be making.

Professor Liu smiles at me. It’s friendly, but utilitarian. “Here for the open house?” I nod, unable to manage much else. Undeterred by my reticence, she continues, “Very well. I’m on my way there. You may as well come with me.”

She sets off at a brisk pace into the building, not giving me a chance to respond. My legs move of their own volition to catch up with her surprisingly quick strides, but I slow as our surroundings attract my attention.

The reception desk gives way to red walls lined with framed artwork created by past and present students, circling a much grander mural that displays the school’s name and its mascot. Inside some of the classrooms we pass along the way, there are plush beanbag chairs and circular tables strewn with art supplies.

“The child development center,” Professor Liu explains.

Farther down the hall, we enter what must be the main academic center. It’s teeming with potential students around my age and quite a few adults who must be going back to school after a long break. Waiting in the midst of them, between signs welcoming people to the open house, are peppy-looking students in their late teens or early twenties, with clip-on badges that readSTUDENT GUIDESon their school apparel.

There’s a genial girl with cupcakes on her lanyard who waves at us, but before the professor can pass me off to her, I ask, “What do you teach, ma’am?”

Professor Liu stops in her tracks so fast, I almost bump into her. “I’m the co-chair of the English department. In fact, I’m due to give a presentation on degree requirements in five minutes.” She studies me. “Is that something you might be interested in?”

“Um, yes.” I nod so vigorously, she smiles. “I’d love to study English.”

“Then I’m the woman for the job,” Professor Liu says. “Follow me.”

We lope through linoleum halls past the rest of the campus tour to our destination. There’s a sign outside the lecture hall and an assortment of prospective students waiting within. I enter and seat myself at one of the long tables in the very back.

Professor Liu offers a nod as she passes. Beneath the steady weight of her regard, my shoulders unhunch and I sit up straight. One corner of her lips twitches in approval.

As she discusses the requirements for an English certificate with me and other potential students, I become completely engrossed. Some appear skeptical, flipping through the pamphlet to seek other options. But hearing Professor Liu discuss different genres of literature and fields of writing buoys me, particularly when I discover she’s going to be teaching the creative writing course in late summer and fall. My own pamphlet ends up littered with notes.

At the end of her session, I hover next to her desk while she packs. Without turning to me, Professor Liu says, “I hope that was enlightening.”

“Oh, er, it was. Thanks, Professor.”

She evaluates me, eyes shrewd. “You have something to say. Tell me.”

I suck in a deep breath, reminding myself:Be a braver Zahra. Be a bolder Zahra.

“My name is Zahra Khan,” I tell her. “I don’t know if I can do it next semester or even in the spring, but I’d like to enroll in your creative writing course someday.”

Now she smiles, pleased. “You’re a writer. I should have known.”

“C-can you tell?” I wonder, awed at the possibility.

She nods. “There’s something in the way we writers look at the world. I could tell as I watched you staking out the campus. At once observant and lost in your own head.”

We,she said.

My heart does a merry flip. Her words are a shot of daring in my veins. I bob my head. “That happens to me a lot. I, um, taught myself to write.”

“Very impressive,” she replies, eyes alight.

I’m not sure she’d feel the same way if she knew it was because a popular show pissed me off so much by fridging its only brown character that I ended up writing a hundred-thousand-word fanfic to rectify the loose ending and get my one true pairing together. That eventually led to more and more fanfics and a Wattpad account with original work.

“But I’d love to learn from you and other real teachers one day,” I tell her. “There’s so much I still want to know.”

“A hunger for learning is important for writers,” she agrees. “But what’s stopping you from enrolling in September? We have rolling admissions here, and you can sign up anytime.”

I lower my head, clenching my backpack straps tighter. “I don’t think I can afford it yet….” Not if Amma doesn’t pay me back. “But that’s okay. Hopefully by spring or the following fall, I’ll have finished my novel and be able to enroll so I can learn how to revise it.”

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