Undeclared (The Woodlands) - By Jen Frederick Page 0,101

one with the girl on the bench. The gravesite of my father. The picture I took of the front of our house the one time Josh and I returned for a visit after we’d moved to Chicago to live with Uncle Louis. And another tilt shift photography piece–the one of Josh looking awesome. Someday I hoped the portfolio would include Noah fighting.

“After class today, I’m going back to see Dr. Rossum,” I said, pouring Noah a cup of coffee.

He made a face, but I knew it was about my announcement. I made good coffee. “Why Grace? Do you really need an art major to take pictures for a living? You said before you just needed more practice.”

“No. But I can learn a lot about perspective and composition and self-expression.” I took a sip of my own coffee. “It would make me better at photography.”

“Then I’ll go with you,” he announced.

“You can, but you have to stay outside the building.” I had anticipated this and wanted to set early ground rules. If Dr. Rossum was mean again, I could see Noah barging in and punching the professor in the nose, which would result in Noah getting suspended or worse.

“No way. I’m coming inside,” Noah insisted.

“You aren’t the one applying for entrance into the art program,” I replied calmly, sipping on my coffee. He wasn’t going to win this argument.

“No, but I’m not going to sit on my thumb while someone tears you a new asshole.”

I tried a different approach to reason with him.

“Let’s assume that at some point in the future, I’m working for a newspaper or magazine and I have a problem with the editor. I need to be able to work out these issues on my own,” I explained.

“No, you really don’t.” He looked so serious that I tried to keep from smiling at the absurdity. “I’ll come and break his face and then your problem will be solved.”

“What if you’re gone on a fight?”

“When I get back, I’ll come and break his face.”

“Noah, be serious. You can’t go around breaking people’s faces in order to protect my feelings,” I admonished him. I couldn’t tell at this point how much was teasing bluster and how much was serious threat.

He heaved a huge, put-upon sigh and took a long drink of his coffee. “Is it okay with you if I’m mentally punching their lights out?”

“Yes, perfectly. And I want you to describe the action in great detail after.”

***

Noah was waiting for me, just like that first day, slouching against the wall. This time I didn’t hesitate at the door but ran to him. His arms came around me immediately and he kissed me, uncaring of the students around us.

“Ready?” He asked, tenderly moving a little hair that had fallen forward and tucking it behind my ear.

I nodded and lifted up my black portfolio.

We walked silently across the campus, holding hands. The fallen leaves from the trees crunched under our feet. The fall air was getting cooler, but it would’ve to be much closer to freezing before the students would pull out jackets and jeans. I couldn’t recall a time I had felt more content and just generally pleased with the world. I knew that even if Dr. Rossum hated my work again that I’d be okay.

I’d still be able to perfect my photography skills without classes. What I had told Noah before still was true. Nothing was better for me than actual practice, which meant experimentation and, yes, failure.

I’d learned so much from trying and failing. It’s something I wouldn’t fear again.

Funny how facing down your greatest fears actually made you stronger.

“Are you sure I can’t come in?” Noah asked as we reached the steps of the Fine Arts building.

“Yes, I’m sure,” I reached up on my toes and pressed my lips against his. “Your love is so strong I can feel it even upstairs.”

I grinned at the sudden redness appearing in his cheeks. “I do, you know,” he said softly, “love you very much.”

“I know, and I love you,” I said. Pleased with myself, I pushed him onto a bench and ran inside the building. Even walking up the stairs, I felt different. Last time I was tentative, as if I was going to my own execution. This time, I took the stairs swiftly and confidently.

I marched right up to Dr. Rossum’s assistant and gave her my name. “Grace Sullivan,” I said. “I have an appointment to see Dr. Rossum.”

The assistant’s blue eyes twinkled at me. Could she recognize