Milla had never gone to school before she stepped onto the campus of Santa Rosa, one of the mid-level universities in the California system. Most of her life, she had lived with her hippie mom and an odd and rotating cast of their friends. Her childhood, such as it was, had been a sporadic and hodgepodge afterthought to their life growing high-grade marijuana in the Sierra Nevada foothills and avoiding federal agents and local snoops.
While she walked in the cool shade of the specialized arts building courtyard, looking for class numbers or a map, she was also intently checking out the students she passed. The women -- no matter if tall or short, amply figured or slender, pale white or darker shades of other places and other races -- were put together. They wore clothes that fit crisply, even the sweatshirts, and had traces of makeup and hair that wasn't so much combed through as configured. Milla couldn't help but feel self-conscious as fuck in their midst.
Not that her long, wavy blond hair and honeyed complexion looked out of place, or the lean physique that she'd earned through living off the grid most of her life hauling water, walking everywhere and eating vegan. In fact, if you caught sight of her just right, you might have thought that here was an obvious sorority queen and the belle of the campus ball.
Until that is, you noticed the earth mother attire -- worn vegetal leather sandals, shaggy knit top a couple of sizes too big and a long, flowing skirt. Beyond that, there was an air of shy observation to her that betrayed a sheltered childhood and a recent -- and bewildering -- change of circumstance.
A young man with khaki pants and a rumpled t-shirt seemed to notice, and stopped to ask, "Do you need directions?"
He was cute in a shabby sort of way, although some of his pimples were large enough to have pimples of their own, and Milla smiled as she said, "Yes, Room 212?"
He pointed straight ahead and said, "Go up those stairs and turn right at the top. The classrooms are arranged around the courtyard, so you're bound to find it."
She thanked him and he placed his hand on her forearm and wished her luck before continuing on his way. The place his palm had been tingled with the echo of his touch.
Milla had been raised by a single mother and her on-and-off-again radical lesbian feminist girlfriend, Fatima. There had been men, but mostly transient ones who didn't leave much of an impression on her, even if there had been a few rolls in the hay with some of them. But the truth is that she hadn't had much in the way of positive male attention while growing up. Which meant that being spoken to by even a doubly-pimply-faced adolescent could leave her gasping for breath.
Her first class was Acting 1 with Joseph Harrison. She arrived at Room 212 and peeked through the small door window: Harrison stood at a podium, tall and slender with a beard that was starting to go grey at the chin.
He reminded her physically of Charlie, one of the more recent newcomers to the pot farm, after marijuana had been legalized and money -- at least, legit money -- had started coming in. Charlie had always found excuses to stand close to Milla, and to brush up against her whenever he could. He would ask her probing questions that bordered on the personal, like, "Don't you love the way soft cotton feels against your skin?" She knew there was something creepy about his behavior, but it left her buzzing with anticipation anyway.
"I don't know you," Harrison said dully as she walked into the classroom. She approached him and said, "Yes, I registered late."
He looked her up and down and asked, "What's your name, then, late registrant?"
"Milla Adamley," she answered.
"Well Adamley," he replied, "you go straight to the top of the class." He took a dramatic pause before explaining, "Alphabetically. Have a seat, we're about to get started."
He proceeded to make the students do a number of trust exercises that were designed, he said, not just to rely on their acting mates, but also "to get your attention away from the prison that is your mind."
During one exercise, a person stood in the middle of a circle of classmates, getting shoved by the others. When it was Milla's turn, Harrison scolded her for being so stiff. "Come on, Adamley!" he yelled, standing face to face with her. "Let's. Knock. You. Off. Your. Center!" he said, punctuating the gaps between words by jabbing her with the butt of his heel on the shoulder, then her belly, the hip, culminating with her forehead.
To Milla, it seemed kind of violent. And a little erotic.
After class he called her to the podium and said. "Well done. It was challenging for you, I know, but you got it in the end."
She blushed a lovely shade of apricot. "Thanks."
"Last class, the other students were assigned to pair up and choose a scene to perform next week from a handful that I handed out. That means you will have to do the only scene not chosen. This one," he said, floridly handing her a photocopy of a stage scene. "And you will be performing it with me, I'm afraid."
She felt the bottom fall out of her stomach, but she tried her best not to show it. She needed to memorize the lines of the character Andrea and figure out a time to practice with Harrison. "Okay, thanks," was all she managed to blurt out.
* * *
Milla walked across the Quad -- a beautiful, shady expanse of green -- to the shops on Walton Street, where she met up with Linda, the only person so far at school who felt like a friend to her. She was a bit older, a junior who had helped Milla carry her things up the stairs to her dorm room.
"We have got to get you some new clothes," Linda had said while Milla unpacked. "That hippie vibe doesn't do a thing for you."
She spotted Linda in front of a shop called Campus Casuals, and admired her honey-toned Latina coloring and curvy figure. If Milla could have swapped bodies with her new friend, she would have. What she didn't realize is that it would have been a trade that Linda would have okayed.
They tore through the store looking at everything -- and each had selected fifteen or so items to try on. The store employee manning the fitting rooms told them, "Only one room is vacant, do you guys mind sharing?"
Linda answered "No" without hesitation. Milla had hesitated, but she was curious to see more of Linda.
As Milla took off her t-shirt exposing her breasts, Linda said, "I wish I could do that -- not wear a bra."
Milla looked at the underwire-and-lace tan bra Linda was wearing. Her breasts were larger than Milla's, more pendulous-looking in the bra, but not by much. "Why can't you?" she asked.
"I don't know," Linda said a curious expression on her face, part shame, part wishfulness. "The idea of it freaks me out a little."
