Drama

CHAPTER FOUR

Liz was already awake and staring at the ceiling when her alarm went off the next morning. She silenced her phone and tossed it forcefully into the covers.

It had been another late night with Lucas. A late night, with no results. At this point, Liz was convinced she was far more revved up about sex than Lucas could ever be. But despite all her valiant efforts to finally consummate their relationship, something always seemed to go wrong. Last night, she had broken the heel of her shoe getting out of the taxi in front of the Tribeca Grill. And limping around one of her favorite restaurants in a pair of broken Ferragamos wasn't exactly her ideal version of foreplay. Back at Lucas's house, they had settled for their usual sweaty make-out session in his bedroom. His hands had groped the usual places and she had stopped them at the same point she always did, when she just could not ignore the pit stains forming on his undershirt and feign desire anymore.

She had planned dozens of perfect evenings for the two of them. Impossible-to-get dinner reservations, premiere tickets, swanky hotel rooms... but no matter how romantic and elaborate her plans were, the next step simply never seemed to come. It just wasn't perfect yet. And Liz sure as hell hadn't waited this long for it to be anything less than perfect.

There was another element to the puzzling fact that even after eight months of dating just-the-right guy, her virginity was still firmly intact. She considered herself ever-ready. She thought about sex constantly, to the point that she wondered if she was verging into some sort of deviant territory. She wanted to take that step. But as frisky as she could feel day in and day out, when she found herself at the point of no return, clutched in the strong and sexy arms of the man she professed to love, something always stopped her. Not like a still-small voice in the movies or in books, but a screaming banshee in her ear, wailing Nooooooooo! And she listened. Every time.

The snooze alarm went off and Liz sighed. She'd feel better after her shower, she decided. After all, it was only it was only the second day of school. Way too early in a long and well-plotted race to feel this fatigued.

Wait... what the bloody hell? As she paused by the bathroom mirror, Liz spotted a bright red indecency on her chin. A pimple? A friggin' pimple?! What was she, thirteen again? She picked gingerly at the spot, trying not to listen to the banshee voice inside her head screaming that maybe it was more than a flashback to pre-teen dermatological awkwardness. Maybe it was an omen. A nasty, puss-ripened omen.

"This is so not happening to me." Liz made this command to the mirror, but her reflection didn't seem to pay much heed.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"There will be no more free rides in this course." The bearded hippie who masqueraded as a political science teacher slammed a copy of the Washington Post on his cluttered desk. "I know I am amongst ac-tors, ar-teests, and dance-airs. Individuals who have it all figured out and have no use for me, for this class, or for academics in general."

Liz's glance at Carly across the aisle said what the hell is this guy talking about?! Liz hadn't worked her ass off to maintain a 3.8 GPA just so this guy could come in here and act like she and all her brethren were brain dead. There were academic requirements to get into Madison, after all. Strict ones, in fact.

"This is the Washington Post," he announced, brandishing the crumpled remnants of the daily newspaper. "Get used to seeing it. Get used to buying it, every morning when you kids make your pit-stops at Starbucks to grab your mocha nightmares or whatever. This newspaper will be our textbook. Every day, we will dissect its contents as a class, read, discuss and debate its issues. Eventually, you all will come to understand and appreciate its importance."