“Why don't you go swipe cards up front?” Alex's eyes were kind. “You're awfully distracted today. I'll take over here.”

Maya gave her a grateful smile. “Thanks.” She liked swiping cards. It was easy, and much less messy when she was caught daydreaming about her next story.

She hated the big, round table where the students sat together as they rifled through the pages of each other's work. She would've preferred to hide at the back of the classroom, tucked away in a little boxy desk.

“Hey, Maya.” Connor sat next to her-again. This was the other reason she hated the big table. Personal space was becoming an issue. Somehow his knees and feet and hands kept getting all tangled with hers under cover of the table, and she wasn't quite sure how to stop it without making a scene.

“Hi.” She pretended to be engrossed in the story they were discussing today.

It was a long, depressing piece about a girl whose father had sexually abused her, told entirely from the point of view of the girl soaking in a bathtub. At the end, she slit her wrists. Maya hated it, but she was already famous among the group for loathing unhappy endings. She was just thankful that no one put their names on their pieces, especially after her epic WWII tale of a soldier falling in love with the nurse who took care of him was ripped to shreds last month by the entire group of Salinger-wanna-be's.

“Great story, isn't it?” Connor leaned over her shoulder, and she could smell the tuna they'd served in the cafeteria this afternoon on his breath.

“Is it yours?” She glanced at him. He was what her roommate, Jen, called a “hottie"-blonde, blue-eyed, strong jaw, great cheekbones. Male model material, really. He could pose for romance novel covers, she mused. Still, in spite of everyone else's enthusiasm about Wheaton College going co-ed this year, Maya still couldn't get used to having boys in her class. All the boys her age seemed so immature.