Free Love & Lies: Marisol's Story by Ellen Wittlinger Page A

decide what to do with the rest of the day—grab a slice of pizza at Bertucci’s, slink down to the festival and hope I didn’t run into the zinesters again, or just go home and work on the assignment—when Olivia Frost slipped through the door of the Center, her white sandals slapping lightly against her heels.
    “Just the person I was hoping to run into!” she said, smiling.

C hapter N ine
    S HE DIDN’T EXACTLY ASK ME to have lunch with her; she just said she was starving and didn’t I love Café Algiers, which was her favorite restaurant in the Square, and before I knew it, there I was, once again sitting across a tiny table from Olivia Frost.
    “I know it’s hot,” she said, gathering her skirt above her knees and fanning her long legs with it, “but I have to have my coffee. Do you like espresso?”
    “I do,” I said, “except those tiny cups don’t last long enough.”
    She laughed. “Well, then, we’ll just have to order two or three right off the bat. Coffee is the blood in my veins.”
    Just the idea that she had blood and veins and other human organs made my own circulatory system pound in my ears.
    She leaned across the table and pointed to the menu. “Tell me, do you like hummus? They make the best hummus here I’ve ever tasted.”
    I wasn’t a particular fan of hummus, but I was in the mood to be tutored by Olivia Frost in all things. “I’ll try it,” I said.
    She laid a long-fingered hand over my small, scruffy knuckles and said, “Something tells me you aren’t always this agreeable.”
    I wasn’t making this up, was I? There was something going on here. “Why do you think that?” I asked.
    She lifted her hand and sat back in her chair to appraise me. “Because you’re smart. You think for yourself. You’re a little scornful of some of the other people in the class.”
    “How do you know—”
    “By the look on your face when you’re listening to them. You’re used to being the star, aren’t you?”
    “I wouldn’t say that . . . exactly.” But she gave me a knowing smirk, and I had to laugh. I had a feeling this was a case of it-takes-one-to-know-one. “I guess that’s true sometimes.”
    “Well, you’re definitely the star in my class. I can tell already. And someday, when the rest of the world knows you’re a star too, maybe you’ll look back and remember that I was your first real teacher.”
    Okay, she’d only heard one thing I’d ever written, and it was two pages long. Besides, teachers didn’t usually tell you this kind of stuff until the class was over, so you couldn’t lord it over anybody else, or slack off on your work because, duh, you were the star . There was definitely something unteacher-like going on here, and, even though my ego was big enough to file this kind of flattery in one corner and still have plenty of room to dance, her praise was making me a little dizzy.
    “Thanks. How long have you been teaching?” I asked, to get the focus off myself.
    She rolled her eyes and laughed. “Seems like forever. I love teaching. I was born to teach.”
    “Where else do you teach?”
    “At Harvard.”
    “Really?”
    She shrugged. “It’s not as good a gig as it sounds. The students all think they know more than I do. It’s exhausting. I prefer teaching adult education. Those people appreciate a good teacher.”
    I nodded, wondering if I was one of “those people.”
    “You’re not the usual adult ed student. Why aren’t you in college?”
    “I deferred Stanford for a year so I could write a novel.”
    Olivia almost did a spit-take with her coffee. “You plan to write a novel before you go to Stanford? I knew you had balls when I first saw you.”
    No matter how good-looking she was, that irritated me a little. “I don’t think it takes balls to write a novel.”
    She laughed. “Okay, then, chutzpah. Nerve. Ambition. It does take all of those, and I suspect you’ve got them in spades.”
    A waiter came around then, and Olivia ordered