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  Syeesha sat in the second row of the classroom and savored the lightheaded, euphoric feeling that engulfed her every evening she was in Professor Asher’s class. Why couldn’t he be a normal college professor? she’d often wondered. Most of the faculty at SLS sported frizzy gray hair—if they had any hair at all. They wore faded and wrinkled Dockers and lectured in a dry staccato that reminded Syeesha of sitting in a hot church as a child while the preacher urged the congregants to pray for Sister So and So’s speedy recovery, his voice proving more effective at inducing sleep than a mother humming a sweet lullaby in a rocking chair.

  Professor Asher had the physique of a basketball player— tall, muscular, and lean. He wore his shirt unbuttoned just enough to glimpse his smooth, well-defined chest. Once, before the weather turned cool, he had worn a Polo shirt to class with sleeves short enough for Syeesha to spy a tiny bit of a tattoo on his left arm. That was enough to keep her wondering about him for the next few weeks. Had he been a rebel in his youth? Or was his tattoo nothing more than a middle-aged man’s vain attempt at staying trendy and bucking corporate culture?

  “Syeesha?”

  Her eyes were already on him. Now she brought them into focus and was surprised to see that he was speaking directly to her.

  “Y-yeah?” she stammered.

  “That question was directed at you,” Professor Asher said. He pushed up his metal-rimmed glasses. Her heart beat faster.

  “Um . . .”

  Thirty pairs of eyes looked at her, waiting expectantly.

  What was the question?

  “Yes?” He folded his arms across his chest, then ran his hand over his head, smoothing the waves.

  Probably a habit he developed when he was thirteen and discovered a mirror and girls . . .

  “Hishon versus King and . . . Spalding?”

  “Are you asking me or telling me?”

  He didn’t belong there. He belonged in the latest issue of GQ. Yet, there he stood, as pleasing to the eyes as a wrapped Christmas present, asking her a question that would surely result in embarrassment and laughter.

  “Ms. Green. Are you certain that was the case we were just discussing?”

  She hesitated then nodded, afraid that if she spoke again a quiver in her voice would make her infatuation transparent.

  “And what exactly was the final decision in the case? Please.” He sat on the edge of his desk and let one leg dangle while the other rested on the floor. Black socks peaked out between his dark blue jeans and shiny, black loafers. “Enlighten the class since you seem to have the luxury of daydreaming through this part of the lecture.”

  She cursed herself for wishing long ago that those dark, laser-sharp eyes of his would someday home in on her alone.

  “The court ruled”—she scooted up in her seat to better master her breathing—“in favor of Elizabeth Hishon. She claimed that young associates were baited like rabbits to join the firm and the promise of partnership was dangled in front of them like a carrot. . . .”

  Jeez! Why do I sound like a bad writer instead of a lawyer?

  She cleared her throat and continued in what she surmised was a lawyerly tone. “When she was not invited into the partnership within the time frame that had been represented to her upon joining the firm, she filed a lawsuit for gender discrimination.” She looked at the other students in the class for their reaction. A few of them looked surprised that she knew the details of the case. No one was more surprised that she.

  “Based on what?” he pressed. “What was the decision?”

  Feeling more confident now in this rare moment of glory, Syeesha held his eyes. “Title VII of the Civil Rights Act of 1964. The court agreed.” She wished he would covertly wink at her. “None dissented.”

  All eyes returned to Professor Asher. He nodded. “Try to keep your mind focused for the rest of the lecture. And I’ll try not to bore you.”

  As the professor stood up and made his way back to the podium, Syeesha could’ve sworn she’d seen the tiniest smile flicker across his lips then disappear with the speed of a falling star.

  ***

  Chapter 9

  As soon as class ended, Syeesha lingered a bit by fumbling with her laptop and backpack. When it became obvious that Professor Asher was more preoccupied with whatever was purring from Felicia Pearlmann’s strawberry-glossed pout than asking Syeesha to hang around so that he could confess his forbidden love for her, she bundled up in her puffy coat and scarf and meandered from the room, her sophomoric crush crushed.

  “Syeesha!”

  For the sweetest second, Syeesha imagined it was the professor calling. But she had memorized the cadence in his voice enough to know that it wasn’t him.

  “Hey, Christian. What’s up?”

  The way his eyebrows rose high on his forehead brought to mind a little boy sitting on Santa’s lap, ready to recite his memorized wish list of toys. The snug knit cap stopped an inch above his alert black eyes.

  “I’ve been meaning to ask if you’d like to join our study group. Me and a couple other students. I know you’ve said no before, but I thought maybe you’d have changed your mind by now.”

  Christian probably needed his study group less than they needed him to decode the complex lectures. His intelligence was only one of the reasons why he was the kind of guy that every parent would want to see their daughter bring home. His wide mouth, beneath a faint outline of a mustache, looked like a foul word had never touched them. His dark eyes slanted upward, and his long, full nose complemented his angular face. A scar sliced through his right eyebrow like a perfectly straight line drawn through smooth sand. He stood shoulder to shoulder with Syeesha so he couldn’t have been more than five seven, too short for her taste. He wore loose-fitting jeans, a mint button-down shirt beneath a soft gray V-neck sweater, and an unzipped bubble jacket that reminded Syeesha of the Michelin man. She guessed he couldn’t be more than twenty-two, max, considering that he looked like his mother dressed him for school.

  “I can’t, sorry. I’ve got so much going on right now.”

  “Yeah, but . . .” He shrugged. “It’s kind of hard making it through school without a study group, isn’t it?”

  “I’m managing . . .”

  The grade on her last test said otherwise. But there was no way he could know that. Syeesha figured she was just going through a slump. The procrastination instead of studying, the daydreaming in class, and the cramming for exams were all normal symptoms of a tired student. It would pass. It had to. Buying the big house with the nice kitchen was still on her agenda and secretarial pay wasn’t gonna get it. Besides, she just couldn’t bear to be stuck in a study group with a bunch of Type A personalities jockeying for the leadership position and spouting off their knowledge of employment law in an effort to one-up one another. After Tanya had left, Syeesha hadn’t joined another group.

  “Listen.” He took her gently by the arm and led her out of the way of the students spilling from other classrooms. “We’ve got a couple of classes together, and I know that you’re really smart. I’d hate to see you fall behind because you’ve got too much pride to join a study group.”

  “What makes you think I’m going to fall behind?”

  He shrugged, his shoulders moving up and down so slightly that she almost missed it.

  Looking at him conjured a long-ago memory of a lone Boston terrier that had sat on the sidewalk and seduced her with its sad eyes while she had eaten in an outdoor section of a Mexican restaurant. She was a sucker for puppy-dog eyes.

  “Tell you what,” she said. “Let me think about it.”

  “If it’ll make you feel better, maybe you and I can study together. Just the two of us.”

  Ah, now we’re getting to the Tootsie Roll center of the Tootsie Pop.

  “Christian,” she chided. “Are you asking me out on a date?”

  His lips curved into a loose smile, his eyes floating about the corridor before gliding back to her.

  Is it possible tha
t I’m having an effect on this guy?

  It was funny how she’d never really noticed him before. The glow of Professor Asher’s light had shone too brightly. Poor Christian. He seemed as if he used to be one of those uncoordinated boys in elementary school who’d always gotten picked last on the dodge ball team.

  “The thought had crossed my mind but I thought I’d best keep it professional. It seems you’ve got your sights elsewhere.”

  Syeesha stiffened. “What do you mean?”

  He nodded toward the classroom. “It’s kinda obvious how you look at him.”

  The smile that played on her lips was gone now. She adjusted the book bag harnessed on her shoulder, fully aware of the blood rushing to her face.

  She said, “I think you might have misread—”

  “Don’t be embarrassed.”

  “I’m not embarrassed.”

  He dug around in the pocket of his coat and extended a card to her.

  “If you change your mind, or just want to talk over coffee. I’d really like that.”

  She didn’t bother to look at the card. Part of her wanted to storm away as evidence of her indignation. But Christian had the kind of demeanor that made haughtiness impossible. With gloved hands, she slid the card from his fingers and stuffed it inside her coat pocket.

  “Thanks,” she said. “Gotta go.”

  “I’ll walk you to the subway.”

  “No, don’t trouble yourself.”

  “I want to be troubled,” he insisted.

  Her weak knees managed to support her confused, jittery body as they walked in silence to the number-two train headed to Brooklyn. She felt strangely comforted by Christian’s presence. He walked in long, confident strides and every few steps he stole small glances at her. Once they were beneath street level, they stood in the brightly lit station, watching the approaching train chug around the bend.

  “Syeesha, I really didn’t mean to embarrass you back there. I know what it’s like to want someone who doesn’t even know you exist.”

  “Who says I want him? He’s our teacher! And he’s so . . .” She struggled for an appropriately offensive word to describe the most perfect-looking man on the planet and all she could come up with was, “Old.”

  His reply was a casual, knowing smile. The way his thick brows lifted, then furrowed, could have been considered sexy.

  The doors to the train opened, but no one got off the nearly empty car. Syeesha stepped on board then turned back to shoot one last defensive strike at Christian as he stood on the platform. But he spoke before she had the chance.

  “Maybe now you’ll start noticing guys a little less . . . old.”

  The train door slid shut.

  Instead of rushing away, Christian locked eyes with her until the train whisked out of sight.

  Syeesha flopped into a seat, perplexed yet giddy. After she’d had time to fully digest what had just transpired, she allowed her held-back smile to break through.

  ***

  Chapter 10

  An Island Divided

  Since the late 1800s, New York City has been divided into five boroughs: Queens, Brooklyn, Manhattan, Long Island and . . . there’s one that I’m forgetting. Oh, yes. Staten Island. Or, as the residents have nicknamed it, “the forgotten borough.” This harmless division of inhabitants is as natural to the fabric of the city as the New York Yankees and the Statue of Liberty.

  But there is a deeper divide that separates us. An unspoken barrier that is causing many to pack what remains of their fragile dreams and seek salvation elsewhere. They slump away with a less romantic realization of the city. We are an island divided between the Privileged and the Paupers. New York City does not want your tired or your poor. And we cannot help the huddled masses who still yearn to breathe free . . .

  It wasn’t quite the personal spin she wanted. The article was basically the ramblings of a broke woman trying to survive in a city of wealth. Hopefully, Tanya would give her time to really grow into this new role of blog writer. Two hours later Syeesha had the full article written. It should’ve taken much less time but she found it hard to concentrate. She kept thinking about all that she could do with fifty grand a year. Although Ray had sent her résumé off to a few other hiring managers who were looking for legal secretaries, it was the mystery client who had her up past her bedtime, distracted by fantasies of an updated wardrobe and an apartment with two fat closets. It was possible she was over-thinking the power of an additional ten grand a year, but she indulged herself anyway.

  When she finally got into her new place, Syeesha would replicate the haven she had created. She looked around. A lone artificial tree stood in a corner next to her tiny closet, adding a touch of cheap elegance to her sanctuary. Plastic bins filled with clothes lay obscured behind a bamboo screen she’d found at a thrift store for fifteen bucks. The bedroom smelled faintly of the burning cinnamon-sugar-scented candle on her nightstand. The breakfast tray on which she worked multitasked as a laptop stand, a dinner table, and a writing desk.

  Pushed against the wall was a chipped five-drawer dresser that served as a bookshelf for a few favorite novels that she couldn’t bear to part with: A Known World, The Color Purple, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. Beneath her bed was a collection of Jackie Collins’s novels. Although she’d eat sautéed worms before she’d confess her love for vintage Collins.

  Above the dresser, framed pictures of her family took a prominent position on the wall shelving that faced her bed. A picture of Trina and her standing side by side in their frilly Sunday dresses. Syeesha was three. Her two pigtails looked like balls of cotton bunched above her ears. Her scrappy body was as stiff as a rifle. Trina, ten, leaned her considerable weight onto one leg, a hand on her right hip as though mimicking the models in the fashion magazines hidden beneath her mattress. Unlike Syeesha, whose lips were set in a straight line, Trina flashed a kittenish smile at the lens. Her father had taken the picture.

  It had been three months after their mother had been eaten away by bone cancer. Maybe her father had been feeling sentimental. There hadn’t been many more pictures after that one. Her mother’s picture wasn’t on the shelf, but instead hung high on the wall. Her fine, dark brown hair was loosely curled and grazed her shoulders. Syeesha had searched those hazel eyes—identical to her own—more than once and could never figure out how a woman so full of life could have married her father. Once, when Syeesha had been angry at her father for the strict curfew he’d imposed, she’d thundered, “At least Ma found a way to escape!” The words had been like an ax chopping through the hard shell of his body. He hadn’t responded. Just turned at the head of the stairs and locked himself in his bedroom. Later, Syeesha had apologized. Her father had accepted. But the wound had marked each of them forever.

  The picture of Barry Green was a formal one. He wore his air force uniform with his rank insignia visible. The four stripes he’d earned during his twenty-year service was a reminder of his perceived failure. The unsmiling yet dignified face with the upturned chin and focused eyes captured the essence of him. He hated that picture, despite looking like a man who could’ve ranked high on a Most Eligible Bachelor list; he valued nothing about himself except his ability to raise successful daughters. The day after Syeesha graduated from high school she’d awakened to find him sitting in the den, in his favorite brown recliner, a picture of her mother on his lap. The doctor had said his heart had simply stopped, strange for a man so young. Not so strange to Syeesha and Trina.

  Syeesha refocused her attention to the present. It wasn’t so hard to do. She heard spirited cries from down the hall so she closed her laptop. It would be fruitless to try and compete with the noise. Kiki had company in her bedroom. From the sounds of it, they were either performing an overly dramatic séance to awaken Elvis from the dead or they were having the loudest sex Syeesha had ever heard. She ignored the theatrics and headed to the fridge for a late-night celebratory drink.

  E-mailed Tanya first completed blog article.
r />   Have hope for a new job.

  Cute guy at school likes me.

  Yep, definitely a reason for a little celebration.

  She rummaged past the expired milk, leftover spaghetti, and half-eaten package of Chips Ahoy! for the bottle of wine she kept stashed in the back of the fridge.

  No wine.

  Maybe I put it on top of the fridge.

  She stepped on a stool and rooted behind boxes of cereal and pancake mix.

  Nothing.

  House music, with its thunderous bass drum and shrill synthesizer repeating the same three notes, became louder. As did Kiki’s operatic theatrics.

  “Stay focused,” Syeesha mumbled.

  Then it occurred to her. She didn’t know why, maybe it had something to do with the way the beat vibrated through the floor and moved through her body. But she knew that once again Kiki had taken advantage of her. The more she thought about it, the stronger her heart pulsed in unison with the music.

  Syeesha’s bare feet stomped toward Kiki’s bedroom, and her fist pounded on the door. But she couldn’t be heard above the music. She pounded again. More noises that sounded like a gorilla attacking a soprano echoed from the room. Syeesha went into the living room to look for something to bang against the door. Monster strutted across the back of the couch as though it were lined with a red carpet laid specifically for her. Syeesha looked at the cat and a devilish thought blossomed. Monster, proving that cats really did have mystical powers, looked at Syeesha, arched her back then glided through the air in a jump to the floor, disappearing into the kitchen.