Pretty Is by Maggie Mitchell Page A

allowed to wear normal clothes—jeans and turtlenecks—instead of black pleather and stilettos. And I got to live. I was in the first scene and the last scene. I suffered, I learned, I grew.
    No one saw.
    My faith wavered. My faith in Chloe Savage. The only faith I have.
    Still, I haven’t yet sunk to sitting around my Silver Lake bungalow drinking my face off and moping about the past every night. This is LA, after all. Tonight, for instance, I have a date. A good old-fashioned pick-you-up-at-eight kind of date. The guy isn’t even an actor. He’s a writer, which for all I know might be worse, but at least it’ll be different. I’ve sworn off actors. They’re always looking at themselves through your eyes.
    Lois
    It’s late afternoon, and Ivan’s pool hall is crowded. It is also hazy with smoke, despite the statewide smoking ban. Brad and I claim the only open table, with faded felt and old-fashioned leather pockets; we order beers and select our cues. Ivan appears out of nowhere to rack the balls.
    Brad is good. I am not that good, but I’m generally considered “pretty good for a girl,” which is good enough at Ivan’s.
    I actually play better than usual today, though not well enough to win. But winning isn’t the point. The point is that Brad is happy, shooting expertly, giving me occasional pointers. My willingness to play pool is a peace offering, which Brad accepts by attempting more difficult shots than he needs to in order to keep me in the game. Brad is excellent at this kind of communication, and I almost love him for it.
    Brad and I like the pool hall because it seems worlds away from school; we never see other faculty there. The only danger is students. Because it’s a liquor-serving establishment, someone is always stationed at the door to make a show of checking IDs, but some undergrads manage to get in anyway—mostly, I imagine, local kids who have been going there for years. Until now I have never seen a student of mine here. I’m startled, then, when I’m crouching low to make a long tricky shot across the table and I see Sean leaning against the opposite wall, watching me. I swing my hair out of my eyes, adjust my focus, measure the angle with my eyes again, and flub the shot anyway. Brad sinks his last ball then double-banks the eight ball into a corner pocket, and as I lean forward to give him a mock handshake, I say in a low voice, “My student is here. The one I told you about—the ‘Pamela is a slut’ one. Don’t look—but behind you, by the wall, torn jeans and Docs and a ratty trench coat.”
    “Sounds original.” By the time Brad turns around, Sean is right in front of him, sticking his hand out.
    “Dr. Drake,” says Sean, practically bowing over Brad’s hand. “Nice to meet you. I haven’t had a chance to take a class with you yet, but everybody says I should. I hope to. I’m extremely interested in the American modernist poets.”
    Brad nods a bit goofily, clearly caught off guard, trying to shift gears to professor mode. I tap my pool cue on the floor.
    “I saw you make some sweet shots, Dr. Drake,” Sean says, eyeing the table. “Not bad for a teacher. You want to shoot a game? My buddy over there, he can play, too. Students against teachers. What do you say?” Sean has a “buddy”? I’m surprised. I have pictured him skulking through the world alone; when I try to imagine him holding an ordinary college-guy conversation, maybe chugging a beer, I fail. And the Sean kissing up to Brad is not the menacing young man who frequents my office. Sean is complicated, apparently.
    There are plenty of graceful ways to decline his proposal; I wait for Brad to think of one. Pointedly, I stand my cue against the paneled wall. “Sorry, but that’s about it for me.”
    “Just one quick game of nine-ball with us, then,” Sean says quickly to Brad, and I know my hopelessly amenable friend won’t be able to refuse. I turn my back on them and retreat. From the safety of