Free Principles of Love by Emily Franklin Page B

body behind mine while seeing gradually developing images of him playing in Central Park with his dog (thank God he’s not a cat person — I’d have hives just looking at the feline), on a beach (the Hamptons, it turns out) — and then, the picture to end all of them — a shirtless Robinson working outside as a carpenter (a la Trading Spaces) building bookshelves for the guest cottage at his parent’s summer house.
    “What a cool house,” I say, pointing to the photo I just slicked to the wall.
    “Dad’s pet project,” Robinson says and flicks through other images to show me another picture. “This is the view from the deck.” Rolling surf, litter-free beaches, and perfect tufts of sea grass. I’m invaded by an army of romantic and domestic images of the two of us playing frisbee with the dog, spending the summer in the guest house.
    And then, when five near-perfect images are done, Robinson says, “You’re good.” Heart into mouth. “A good student I mean.”
    “Thanks,” I say. “It was fun.” Bland comment on my part, but better than faltering over how he’s a great teacher or such bullshit that only barely covers up my extreme lust. Only when I’m walking back to my house after leaving Robinson at Whitcomb, do I realize I didn’t see any trace of his supposedly serious girlfriend in the photos. There’s hope yet.

Chapter Seven
    I wake up from one of those dreams where your teeth fall out. Not the entire mouthful, but one at the front or a molar. The feeling is similar to the whole Naked in Class Dream phenomenon that everyone has at some point (in my case, I was actually naked on stage prior to performing a song I’d written — doesn’t take Freud to figure that one out — not that I’ve ever been in the buff publicly nor penned my own lyrics…yet!). Shaking off the witch-toothed vision of myself takes nearly all day.
    In an attempt to better myself and live up to my full potential (I like to sound like old report cards when I lecture myself), I take my journal outside and sit on the porch alternating between writing down lists of things I like and gazing at the swish of purple skirts as the girls’ field hockey scrimmages on the same spot Chris the MLUT tried to gargle with my tongue.
    Faint cheers and words of encouragement (“Yeah, go for it! You can do it!”) make me think of Nike ads and fluorescent Gatorade drinks, but what I write on the unlined pages of my navy blue book ranges from Songs I Will Always Love to Words that I Find Creepy/Annoying (phlegm, itsy-bitsy, nefarious). I also like to jot down words that rhyme or slant-rhyme or somehow flow into each other in case I ever get the guts to write a song in its entirety. And I say entirety because it’s not that I am so scared or insecure that I’ve never tried to pen an original tune, it’s just that I am the Queen of Unfinished Lyrics (if I am demoted from my superhero Friend-Girl position, I can assume the throne). Earlier pages of the journal reveal songs titles and phrases such as:
    Wherever Eye Hide
    Sleeping softly waking light
    Keeping tabs on you tonight
    You say you’re
    Insert abrupt ending here, only to skip a couple of pages and, right next to a perfectly peeled French beer label from when I first saw the Eiffel Tower this summer:
    I’ve heard spring in Paris is the time for love
    But here it’s August and nearly the end of
    Summertime, without you again, streets emptied of their remembered kisses
    And then STOP.
    My point is: I try. I just don’t get as far as I’d like, and when I go back to see if I can finish the stuff I’ve started, I feel dopey and whatever feelings I had at the time have dissipated.
    Now I write:
    In the movie of this hour, in the theatre I’d have the power
    To forget myself and find my scene with you
    You’d be cast as Leading Male, I’d be more than just a walk-on
    And we’d —
    And just as I’m making progress, I see cleats in front of me. Connected to said shoes are the