Professor Graves is overwhelmingly arrogant. Sexist beyond her comprehension, beyond reason.

"Really, Ms. Gardner," he sighs, lacing the 'Ms.' with as much contempt as he can muster, "you'll make a fine attorney. You just need to stop competing so hard with everyone in your class."

Shešs questioning the disparity in the grades he gives. It's not possible that her papers are worth less than those turned in by Chris, Matt, or Josh. She studies with these guys, knows what they are capable of, what she is capable of.

And as Graves gives her his most patronizing smile she catches his eyes drifting to her chest. She smiles and excuses herself.

Chris is sitting outside her building, dribbling a basketball idly between his knees. He hasn't been showing up unannounced for a week now. She is automatically on her guard.

"Hey," he says, the hunch of his shoulders telling her the news long before he gets out, "We need to talk."

She folds her arms defensively, wills tears not to fall.

Her friends will be relieved, she thinks. They hated Chris, all six feet of beer-drinking, peer-pressured sports trivia. Not a scrap of individuality about him. King of the herd.

"He's so generic," her friend Rachel complained. "He's so *not* you."

Amy only thought about when they'd met. Chris told her that he could remember the first thing she ever said in class the first week they hit Yale. That he'd spent two and a half years trying to work up the courage to talk to her in the library. That he thought she was a mystery, because she'd never meet his eye when they passed each other on campus.

Amy's self-confidence is a total masquerade. She's astounded she fooled anybody.

"It's just not working," he shrugs, "we're different. We want different things."

Couldn't talk his friends round, she realizes. Couldn't be bothered defending his choices anymore.

"Besides," he blunders on, "it's the last six months of college, man. We all want to have a little fun."

This shouldn't hurt, she thinks, as she pushes past him without responding, lets the door swing closed in his face.

She grabs a plastic bag off the couch, begins to pace around. His t-shirt, two of his cds, the wretchedly boring novel he's been 'reading'. The box of condoms he keeps in her bedside drawer. The Playboy he'd convinced her to stash under the bed.

She will not cry.

Amy finds him in the library, in a study room, with three of his friends. She dumps the contents of the bag on the table, stares him down while his friends begin to jab each other with their elbows, snickering behind their hands.

She's back out in the bleached sunlight before the first taste of salt. She straightens up, lets her armor click back into place, won't meet anyone's eye.

A day later she's back in class, only pauses a second before she raises her hand, "Professor Graves, I have to disagree..."

Her voice doesnšt waver.