Dr. Fuller pushed the box of tissues across her desk, closer to Sara Bollinger. Sara snatched a tissue from the box, blew her nose, and dropped the tissue into the nearby wastebasket. Still sniffling, she reached for another tissue and dabbed hopelessly at her leaking, reddening eyes. She focused absently on the engraved "Dr. Michelle Fuller" plaque at the front of her therapist's desk.

"I'm ss... ss... ss... sorry, doctor." Sara took a deep breath, trying to calm herself. "You know I'm t... t... t... trying."

Dr. Fuller nodded, maintaining a patient smile. "I do know, Sara." She paused in making notes and rested her chin on her folded hands, her elbows propped on her desk. "Sara..." She paused, obviously searching for words. "I'm not completely sure that... I'm the right kind of doctor for you. The kind who could really help."

Sara's head jerked up to look at Dr. Fuller, a shocked look on her face. "But you're a ss... ss... speech therapist! What other kind of d... d... d... doctor could help me?" She gave Dr. Fuller a pleading look, as if the doctor was her last hope.

Dr. Fuller leaned back, letting her chair recline, looking to the ceiling for inspiration for speaking the right carefully chosen words to a sensitive and fragile patient. In a quiet voice, she said, "We know that stammering is often caused by a specific psychological distress. Not always, but sometimes. In your case, I think it's become clear that the distress has a name: Cherise."

Sara blinked hard at the mention of the name. As always, on hearing it or even thinking of it, a wave of warmth shot through her body, striking the shore with explosive force between her legs, leaving its wetness there. The direction the doctor's words were taking filtered in behind the wave. "Do you m... m... mean I should talk to a psy- k... k... k... chologist??" She was suddenly angry. "Dr. Fuller, I'm not k... k... k... crazy!"

Dr. Fuller straightened up quickly and leaned forward, shaking her head. "Sara, it's not like that." She paused for further inspiration, looking to the diplomas on the wall for it this time. "Life often puts up roadblocks to our happiness. Sometimes we find these roadblocks pretty formidable. We may need help getting over them. A psychologist can be good at helping with that." With a gentle gesture, she cut off a reply Sara was starting. Stopping Sara from speaking was never the problem. "Let's think about what we've learned. You didn't have any problem speaking until the beginning of the tenth grade. And it turns out that's the same time you first had a class with Cherise Marteau. You developed a considerable... attraction to her." The doctor avoided using the word "obsession." "That was four, nearly five years ago. You finished high school, working hard to get into the university, winning a scholarship even, so that you could go to college with her. Yet in all this time you haven't spoken a word to her."

Sara made a gesture of helplessness. "I k... k... k... can't! When I t... t... try to make myself t... t... t... talk to her, I get this feeling inside that I know my m... m... mouth won't work. And when I try to m... m... m... make myself talk anyway, I just k... k... k... k..."

Dr. Fuller saw the look of complete panic come over Sara's face, and knew she'd reached a major blockage. Very quietly, she said, "You can't say any words at all."

Sara nodded miserably. Crying again, she moaned. "She just looks at me like I'm k... k... k..." She shifted to a different word, as Dr. Fuller had taught her. "Nuts." She paused, and gave Dr. Fuller a rare look straight into her eyes. "I love her, Dr. Fuller! I n... n... need her to know that!" Sara never seemed to get stuck on saying "I love her." It rolled easily off her tongue. Her feelings for Cherise were the one thing she knew for sure.

Dr. Fuller gave Sara a slight headshake. "Sara, you don't really even know her, and that's the first requirement for love. For example, you think she's attracted only to boys -- men -- unusual though that would be, and so you upset yourself about how you can never be her lover, but you don't even know that for a fact. That's my point -- that you don't know that about her. If you knew for certain she was strictly heterosexual, you might accept her being that way because you love her, you might reject it and still go on loving her, but you just don't know. To love someone, you need to know them first."

Sara shook her head violently, her anger building, then suddenly felt calm wash over her. It's not important if Dr. Fuller doesn't understand my love for Cherise, Sara told herself. It doesn't threaten my love. Nothing can.

She still resisted the idea of seeing a psychologist, because she knew there was nothing wrong with her. But something about the way Dr. Fuller had put it suddenly spoke to her. What if, she thought, a psychologist could help me over that roadblock? What if I learned how to stop freezing up when I try to talk to Cherise? What if I could finally tell her how I feel about her?

She nodded, at last, to Dr. Fuller. "I think I'll m... m... m... make an appointment with a psy- k... k..." She paused. "...with a doctor like that. But k... k... k... could I keep seeing you?"

Dr. Fuller smiled. "As long as you need to, Sara. It doesn't have to be an either-or kind of thing."

Sara stood, picking up her purse and grabbing one last tissue. "Th... th... th... thank you, Dr. Fuller. I'll ss... ss... see you next week."

Sara stepped out of the shower and toweled off, starting with her hair. She kept her light brown hair very short, just over her ears, parted in the middle and brushed back at the sides. It still looked feminine, and people had sometimes told her they thought it looked cute the way she had it. Sara assumed that, since Cherise preferred men, she might like Sara better if her hair was short.

Sara closed her eyes and took a slow, deep breath, letting the endorphins from her afternoon workout do their work. Free weights this time, for her arm muscles, followed by two laps around the quarter-mile track, the first at a jog, the second a sprint. Sara always felt happy and energized after a workout, not least because she believed building up her muscles would make her more attractive to Cherise.

Sara refused to deny her femininity -- being a woman was important to her, with the promise that she, like all of her gender, would be eaten eventually. But if her body took on a few male characteristics, her theory ran -- the short hair, the firm muscles -- it couldn't hurt her chances with Cherise. It would also make her meat more savory, she always reminded herself. She had never liked girlmeat with a lot of fat. At five-foot-nine, her own 130 pounds included very little fat.

Sara had actually been approached once in the gym by a man who gave her his business card and offered to coach her for body-building competitions. She'd thanked him politely, and promised to think about it, but she never really considered it. Assuming that a strong body did appeal to Cherise, Sara wanted the effect to be subtle, almost subliminal. Competitive body-building would be taking it too far.

Sara had to admit to herself that she was, indeed, not sure Cherise didn't have any attraction to women, but she did constantly see Cherise flirting with male students, and she strongly suspected something was going on with one of the male professors as well. Cherise had run through numerous boyfriends, the relationships lasting a few months at the most. Sara took medications for the tightness and grinding she experienced in her stomach whenever she saw Cherise holding hands with one of the boys, and she could only imagine, in despair, what Cherise and her current significant other would be doing that night.

If only, Sara told herself, as she did many times daily, there was some way to make sure she could end up in Cherise's stomach. Part of her, at least. She wanted desperately to have a life with Cherise, as she knew she was meant to: to wake up beside her every morning, to eat breakfast with her and laugh over the comics in the morning paper, to be coworkers and share lunch in a company cafeteria, to go home together for dinner, with wine, and afterward watch a movie, holding hands and exchanging comments about the film, and then go to bed and make passionate love until they both fell asleep from exhaustion. Then start over with breakfast the next morning.

And in the end, after their shared lives, perhaps fifteen years following graduation, Sara wanted so, so, so badly for Cherise to eat her, so Sara could always after be inside the woman she loved.

Reality began to intrude on Sara's reverie. Final exams were in three weeks. College was so much harder than high school. Last year, freshman year, Sara had barely kept her grades up, just high enough to keep her scholarship at the end of the year. As her exercise high wore off, Sara began once more to fret about the upcoming tests. So far, her grades in her classes were not nearly high enough -- she was failing one class, and just squeaking by in another.

If she lost her scholarship, her life was ended. Her father certainly couldn't afford to keep her in school. Out of school would mean out of Cherise's life. Sara couldn't just wander around the campus, trying to stay in proximity to Cherise, if she wasn't a student. Campus security would think she was a stalker, and probably bar her from campus completely.

Loss of her student status would also mean the end of the free use of the student health services, for speech therapy and, if she went ahead with it, psychological counseling. But that, Sara reminded herself, wouldn't matter. It was important now, but pointless if the goal of speaking to Cherise was made impossible.

Without Cherise in her life, she had no life.

Sara's stomach clenched again.

Wrapping the towel around herself, she stepped out of the bathroom, and pulled up short with a small gasp of surprise. Melissa, her roommate, was back from the library already.

Melissa gave Sara a cheery smile, and something Sara thought might be a yearning look, on seeing her roommate dressed in a towel and nothing else. "Hi, sweetie!" Melissa called everyone with whom she was on friendly terms "sweetie." "How was the session at the gym?"

Sara shrugged. "It was g...g... good. I benched w... w... w... one-twenty."

Melissa's eyebrows shot up. "Bench -- is that the thing where you're on your back and..." She pantomimed lifting weights overhead with her arms.

Sara nodded. She never tried using words when a gesture was sufficient.

Melissa shook her own head. "Jeez, sweetie, you can lift me over your head! You know that?"

Sara snorted, gave Melissa a small smile and nodded. She hadn't exactly thought of it that way before. She crossed the room to the dresser beside her bed, quickly grabbed panties, a bra, t-shirt and shorts in her right hand while awkwardly holding the towel closed around her with her left, and turned back towards the bathroom. She heard Melissa sigh.

"Sweetie, you don't really need to go in there. I'm just going to sit here at the desk, and get going on homework. I won't look, I absolutely swear."

Sara had never let Melissa, or anyone else without a medical degree, see her undressed. That was something only Cherise was allowed to see, though she never had so far. Sex, of course, was even further out of the question. A few weeks into freshman year, Melissa, feeling lonely and a little overwhelmed, had started to crawl into Sara's bed one night. Sara, awakened instantly, had shaken her head violently, and then, to soften the rejection, had conversed quietly with Melissa for a solid hour, across the gap between their beds. Talking that much was very hard for Sara, but she'd felt the effort was important, so that she could stay on good terms with her roommate. Melissa had thanked her profusely in the end for helping her feel better. Since then, they had kept their relationship on a good-friends level. Sara could see signs that Melissa would jump into Sara's bed again at the first sign that such a move was welcome, so Sara was careful not to give any.

Sara had never been with a man, nor wanted to, but in adolescence she had experimented with sexual play, with a couple of female classmates separately. She'd enjoyed it, and had planned to continue. She didn't feel ashamed about it now. It wasn't a betrayal of Cherise, because Sara hadn't met her yet. Sara divided her life cleanly into BC and AC -- Before Cherise and After Cherise.

Sara shook her head. "Really, Mel, the b... b... bathroom is only a f... f... f... few feet away. Not a big d... d... deal."

Melissa threw her hands up in exasperation, but smiled. None of her roommate's quirks surprised her anymore. Melissa herself always hung her towel on the rack in the bathroom as soon as she was dry, opened the door to let the steam out while she blow-dried her hair, and walked across the room to her dresser, still naked, in front of Sara, with no sign of self-consciousness. She gave Sara a resigned look now. "Suit yourself." She suddenly burst out laughing. "I guess you could interpret that a couple of ways. Both appropriate."

Sara laughed as well, and headed for the bathroom.

Sara usually studied in her room, but wanted the quiet of the library now to improve her concentration, hoping for Statistics to click. Stats was the class she was failing. She knew it was an important class for her Sociology major, with so much of the research in sociology depending on statistical analysis. The professor was good, as far as she could tell, speaking clearly, sometimes entertainingly, with lots of examples. At least that seemed to be the case during the limited time Sara could devote her attention to what the man was saying. With Cherise sitting in the same classroom, it was hard.

Sara remembered, so clearly, the first time she had seen Cherise, on that first day of sophomore year in high school. Sara had come into the classroom after checking the door to make sure she was in the right place for History class, had picked out a row with several empty seats, and passed by the first student in the row without really noticing her. The second student was Cherise.

It wasn't just that Cherise was the most beautiful girl Sara had seen, or even imagined, in her life: the black-as-night hair, the high cheekbones, the gently incurved nose, the dramatic upswept eyebrows above it, the mouth with full lips that curved naturally upward at their edges, all formed by utterly perfect skin; below all that, a body with gentle curves, accentuated by already-large breasts. A body that screamed for you to touch it, stroke it, hold it, lips that called out for another pair to meet them.

It was so much more than all that. Sara had been struck, almost dropped to the floor, by a sense that her own life was permanently, inextricably tied together with that of this girl whose name Sara didn't yet know. Sara had stumbled, there, in the aisle between rows of seats, had somehow managed to keep her feet under her, and had seen that wonderful face turn upward to look at her, heard the voice for the first time, asking softly, musically, wonderfully, "You okay?"

Sara had opened her mouth to give a standard reply -- sure, no problem, I'm just a klutz -- but had been unable to force out a word. It was partly that she had stopped breathing, but she couldn't really blame it on that. She could sense, without testing it, a complete disconnection between her brain and her mouth, so that it went beyond being simply unable to speak. It was as if she had forgotten how.

Sara had taken a seat a few places behind the unknown girl, and absently shoved her backpack under the seat without taking a notebook and pen out of it. The important thing was to breathe, which she was finally able to do by the time she'd started feeling faint from lack of oxygen.

Later, when the teacher had called on her to answer a question, Sara had stammered for the first time. Yes, she told the now-absent Dr. Fuller in her mind, you were right, without me telling you. It did start with Cherise.

Sara walked past the Sociology Department message board, as she did several times daily recently, biting her lip, hoping the list was posted now but not sure if she was prepared for what it might say. Or not say.

The feeling of hopelessness about her final exams was growing. She had to pull her grades up in three different courses, and no matter how much she studied, all the ideas in Statistics seemed just to whirl around in her head out of reach -- there was just too much to fit it all together! -- and her chemistry class, taken to fit the university's general studies requirement, just seemed to make no sense.

She had to get that summer internship. She had to. The fact she was about to lose her scholarship wasn't a problem for that purpose. For those chosen, the Amy Cameron Foundation would pay all travel costs and provide room and board all summer. Even if Sara lost her scholarship she would still, through the summer, be a student, and eligible for the internship. That would give her three months to be close to Cherise. Surely something good would happen in those three months. Sara had learned a lot from Dr. Fuller. She knew that, given time, she could make her mouth say something to Cherise. If they could get to be friends, just friends to start with, then Cherise would stay in contact with Sara even when Sara wasn't in school.

For the internships, ten female students would be chosen, from the departments of Anthropology, Sociology, Psychology, History, and Education, those most relevant to the opportunities for learning that the internship provided. In addition to the Amy Cameron Foundation paying their expenses, they would also be getting ten upper division elective credit hours applicable towards their majors, as well as an important experience to record on their resumes when they went job hunting after graduation. Well, thought Sara, the ones who do graduate, that is. Not me.

Sara knew Cherise had applied for the internship, and was sure she would be one of the ten. Cherise had the grades, the right personality, everything they were looking for -- including being physically attractive, a requirement vaguely hinted at, a criterion for which Cherise went well beyond the bare minimum.

Sara thought she herself stood a reasonable chance. Her grades, through the end of the previous semester, had barely cleared the minimum for the internship, but she understood that grades were not the most heavily-weighted factor. There had been a written test, covering the relevant history and basic social principles, on which Sara thought she had done well. There had been a questionnaire, and no one had come right out and said exactly what sort of responses were needed, but it seemed to Sara to be exploring her attitudes towards other cultures, and Sara thought she had demonstrated the orientation they wanted. Sara couldn't judge objectively how attractive she was, but she did try to look nice for Cherise, beyond the body-building program, and Melissa wasn't the only girl Sara had seen giving her that what-would-she-be-like-in-bed look.

Most nerve-wracking of all for Sara in the application process, there had been an interview with that woman, Steffi Bloom Cameron ("You can call me Steffi if you want"). Any speech impediment would be a significant problem for this particular internship, but Sara had spoken slowly and carefully, using several of the tricks Dr. Fuller had taught her, and she thought perhaps her stammering had been put down to perfectly understandable nervousness.

Sara had to get this internship. If she didn't, Cherise would be two hundred miles away across the water for the entire summer, on Purity Island, a place that was otherwise impossible for Sara to reach. And by the time Cherise returned, Sara would in all probability no longer be a student at the university, unable to pay tuition for fall semester. If Sara failed to get the internship, her remaining time with Cherise in her life was very likely down to its last few weeks now. That was unacceptable. It was terrifying.

And there was the list, now, on the bulletin board in front of Sara. In large letters at the top, Sara could see from where she was standing, "Students accepted for summer internship on Purity Island."

Her heart pounding, Sara stepped closer to the announcement on the board. She could now see the words underneath the heading: "The following students should report to an orientation session in room 109, Becker Hall, on Monday at 8 a.m."

Sara's eyes went directly to the middle of the list, and she immediately saw the name "Cherise Marteau." Not at all surprising. Sara asked herself why she had even bothered to look, but she knew she did get a rush between her legs just from seeing Cherise's name in print.

Only then did she look up to the top of the list for "Sara Lynn Bollinger." There was no name between Andrews and Chase.

Breathing faster, Sara looked down to see whether her name might have accidentally been put under S. At last she started from the top, saying each name slowly under her breath as she read it, to make sure she didn't miss any, unconsciously shaking her head. At the end she began repeating softly, "No, no, no, no," with a rising inflection as if asking the world how it could be so cruel. Her body was shaking. She thought she might be about to lose control of her bladder. She closed her eyes, and drew a deep, shaky breath.

She was half aware of footsteps coming up behind her. And then, almost subliminally, she smelled a familiar perfume. Her first real conscious knowledge of who was standing beside her came from sensing that her lips, tongue, palate, throat, everything she used to voice sounds, seemed no longer to be part of her body. It was a very familiar sensation.

Cherise, on Sara's left, leaned in towards the list, saw her name, and broke into a smile. On the other side of her from Sara, her current boyfriend, Toby -- how Sara hated the sound of that name in her head! -- said, "Hey, you made it! That's great!"

Cherise giggled, turned, threw her arms around him and kissed him. Breaking off the kiss, she said, mock-reproachfully, "You trying to get rid of me? You know this means I'll be gone for three months."

Sara felt an electrical surge all along her left side, the side nearer Cherise, in addition to the usual buzzing in her crotch. She rarely stood this close to Cherise. Signals went to her muscles, trying automatically to initiate a movement across Cherise to Toby to peel him away from Cherise, to throw him to the floor. She struggled to remain motionless.

She jumped when Cherise suddenly spoke to her. She hadn't even realized Cherise was done kissing Toby. That sweet voice said, "Did you make it, Sara? Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to startle you." As always on those rare occasions when she spoke to Sara, Cherise's voice sounded tentative, as if not quite sure she should be speaking to Sara, knowing from experience Sara was unlikely to answer back.

Sara turned her head to look at Cherise. Seeing that amazing face this close was almost more than her body circuitry could bear. She realized she had tears streaming down her face, and momentarily worried that it made Cherise see her in a non-masculine light. Sara suddenly understood that it probably didn't matter anymore. Cherise was on her way out of Sara's life, forever out of reach. Yet Sara still, standing this near Cherise for perhaps the last time, couldn't get a word out. She simply shook her head, as if Cherise couldn't see the answer already by looking at her face.

Cherise's face grew softer, if that was possible, and reaching up -- she was three inches shorter than Sara -- she put her hand on Sara's shoulder and gave it a consoling squeeze. Sara nearly collapsed. It was the first time Cherise had ever touched her, an event that would have made Sara explode with excitement if it hadn't been overbalanced by a sense of loss so profound it went deeper than her soul. Giving Sara's shoulder a slight rub, Cherise said, "Listen, remember you can apply again next year. And you'll be a year farther along in the program, and that's probably going to help. You'll get it the next time."

Sara tried her best to smile, drawing on the happiness she always felt within when Cherise was near. She nodded. She saw Cherise wrinkle her nose slightly, a reaction Sara had seen before that she read as "What a strange girl, I've seen her so many times but she never talks to me." Sara knew Cherise had heard her speak, in her halting way, both in the classroom and in conversations with friends. She always supposed Cherise assumed Sara was just very shy with people she didn't know, but there was always a "how odd she is!" feeling that Sara perceived running just under the surface.

Sara wanted to walk away, but that was purely impossible as long as Cherise was still there. It was much, much more important to feel the warmth of Cherise standing beside her one last time.

Cherise turned back to Toby and kissed him again. He wrapped his arms around her and let his hands drop down to cup her buttocks. "How should we..."

Sara suspected the next word was "celebrate," but Cherise softly made a "shhh" sound, making a head gesture back towards Sara, obviously concerned with the feelings of the girl behind her who had no internship to celebrate. That's Cherise, thought Sara miserably. Never wrapped up in herself the way so many gorgeous girls are, still thinking about others even in the midst of her happiness.

That characteristic sweetness, along with so many wonderful things about her, is about to leave my life forever, Sara thought.

Cherise turned back to Sara and said, "I really hope you get it next year." Sara thought that surely it ought to be simple enough to say "Thank you," but only managed a tiny smile and a nod of her head.

Cherise walked away with her arm around the hated Toby's waist, leaning her head against him. Sara thought she saw Cherise make a slight move that might have been intended to initiate a turn to look again at Sara, but she never completed it.

Sara, at last, walked back to her room, alone. She assumed she must have, anyway, because she found herself there, not remembering going there. She threw herself on her bed, her body wracked with sobs. She wished it was possible that her heart could break literally, not metaphorically, and save her from all this misery.