Blush - Jamie Brenner Page 0,4

not as prominent as, say, Harvard or Princeton. It was not the most beautiful campus—certainly not as beautiful as, say, Vassar. But the college had one thing that no other school had: English professor Rohita Moore.

Sadie had first met Dr. Moore when she was a junior in high school and had won a spot at YoungArts, a prestigious national arts competition. The essay she’d written had been part poetry, part treatise on the objectification of adolescent girls in popular culture. YoungArts flew her down to Miami, where she had room and board for a week to spend with other high school artists—writers, ballet dancers, playwrights, actors—and to study under mentors who were professionals in their field of interest. One of Sadie’s mentors had been Dr. Moore, a groundbreaking music journalist who had also published several volumes of award-winning short fiction. Now she was her academic advisor, and Sadie had planned to spend the summer working as her research assistant.

She’d never been more excited about anything in her life. The fact that she had just been published in The New Yorker—the magazine that published her literary idol Susan Sontag—paled when compared to the anticipation of working with Dr. Moore for the next few months.

Holden would never understand, but there was no place she would rather be, even on a flawless spring afternoon, than inside the redbrick Colonial building that was home to the English department. Somehow it smelled of musty library books even though it didn’t actually house a book collection.

An hour earlier, Dr. Moore had welcomed her into her office looking uncharacteristically somber. In hindsight, Sadie should have known something was up by the lack of Dr. Moore’s usual warm smile.

Dr. Moore stood and closed the office door. She wore one of her signature jewel-toned dresses that complemented her dark skin and large brown eyes. She had close-cropped hair, and the only jewelry she wore was medium-size gold hoop earrings. A striking woman, she wore her beauty effortlessly because she knew her looks were only her second-best asset.

The thing Sadie liked the most about college was the way it felt to be surrounded by brilliant women. In high school, she’d read the book Steal Like an Artist, and it said if you were the smartest person in the room, you were in the wrong room. Well, for the first time in a long time, she felt like she was in the right room.

Dr. Moore resumed her seat and leaned forward at her desk, looking at Sadie with a direct gaze. “Sadie, you continue to miss all the key deadlines for your thesis.”

“Um, well, not all of them. Exactly.”

She had been admitted to the university’s honors English program, a track that would enable her to take masters-level classes during her senior year. To graduate with the honors degree, she would spend her senior year writing her thesis. The outline had been due the week before finals, and she still had not handed it in. The shameful truth was, she still couldn’t quite home in on the right angle for her paper.

It should have been easy. The subject of her thesis was her favorite writer, Susan Sontag. She’d originally intended to examine two works: Sontag’s Illness as Metaphor and her seminal 1964 essay “Notes on ‘Camp.’”

She had thought her passion for Sontag’s work would be enough to sustain her through the rigors of developing a thesis.

Apparently, it wasn’t.

“I’m a little behind, but I have my topic now,” Sadie said. “Detachment as methodology in the works of Susan Sontag.”

“You were supposed to have finalized your topic months ago. You should have an outline already.”

“I can catch up.”

Dr. Moore clasped her hands together and leaned forward on the desk. “Sadie, I can’t in good conscience keep you on as my research assistant. Even if I wanted to overlook the fact that your status in the honors program is in jeopardy—a prerequisite for the research position—you need to focus on your academics.”

Sadie crossed her arms, hugging herself. “I just need a little more time. Can we talk after the weekend?”

“Sadie, this isn’t something that can be figured out in one weekend. Nor should it be. I want you to give this some thought.”

Some thought? All she’d been doing was thinking about it! She was exhausted.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” she said quietly.

“Nothing’s wrong with you. This is exactly how you should feel.”

“I’m supposed to feel like I’m failing?”

“No. But this is meant to be a challenge. Have you ever felt challenged before?”

“Of course,”