It's her. Her steps falter, and the clicking noise that had previously annoyed me ceases. The room is so quiet I can hear her sharp intake of air.

I stare, drinking her in. My whole body seems to respond, alert and buzzing and feeling again. She looks startled, petrified even, like the first time we met. She reminded me then of an injured butterfly, beautiful and graceful, but fragile and broken. I expect her to fall apart again and my first instinct is to rescue her. But I don't because I'm entirely immobile as I try to piece this together. She's a student. Or she wants to be, anyway. I run my fingers through my hair and look down at the table, releasing a shaky, frustrated breath. Even if I had anything to offer her, I couldn't.

I look back up and, it turns out, she doesn't need to be rescued. She recovers almost as quickly as she faltered, her uncertainty replaced with an air of determined confidence. Her demeanor shifts so quickly I wonder if I'm the only one that sensed her moment of panic.

She extends her hand, her shoe clicking against the tile floor with every step. "Hello, I'm Ms. Evans," she announces while flashing a disingenuous smile that doesn't quite meet her eyes. She's pretending we haven't met. Well played, Ms. Evans. I play along. I take her hand in mine and feel the same electric pull as I did that morning on the bench. I don't miss the small intake of air and slight widening of her eyes, and wonder if she feels it, too.

"James Bradford, Director of Admissions." I respond, "Very nice to meet you." She rewards me with a slight squeeze of her hand and a knowing half smile and moves to my left to introduce herself to the rest of the panel.

My eyes roam over her figure again and I quickly snap my focus back to the folder in front of me. This woman has occupied my thoughts for months, an enigma, a mystery, a curse, and I am now equally horrified and elated about the wealth of information I now have on her. It's concerning, given my obsessive tendencies.

I take out her application and try to keep my eyes on the paper. Emily Blaise Evans. She's a transfer student from a community college in Ohio. The college isn't prestigious, but her perfect grade point average indicates she's smart and works hard.

I glance over her list of extracurriculars, internships and work history. Nineteen year-old sophomore. Shit, she's much younger than I would have guessed. Social work major, criminal justice minor. She interns at a drug rehabilitation center, teaches self-defense classes at a local women's shelter, and founded a nonprofit that sends care packages to soldiers stationed overseas. Impressive. Of course all of the applicants today have been impressive.

I flip to her essay, and I recall reading this one last week. The students were all asked to write about the most influential American woman in the past hundred years. I was prepared to read another biography of Hillary Clinton or Eleanor Roosevelt, or even worse some sappy, sentimental bullshit about her mom, but I was pleasantly surprised to see she wrote about Betty Ford and her influence on America's perception of addicts and addiction therapy.

As expected, she turns to take her seat and as she does, Dr. Sharp, the head of the engineering program, holds out his keys, and releases them.

"What just happened?" he smugly asks. The young man who we just interviewed launched into a scientific explanation about mass and gravity, as the rest of the applicants today have, but not her. Just as the keys are about to hit the floor, she gracefully swoops down and catches them. She gently places the keys on the table in front of Dr. Sharp.

"You almost dropped your keys," she responds, the corner of her lip twitching as she tries to stifle a smile. Jennifer and I laugh, but Dr. Sharp is not as amused. He clears his throat. "Yes. Well. But why? What happened?"

"Does it matter? Why waste energy and effort analyzing the whys and hows of a minor problem that's already been solved?"

"Touche," he responds.

"Nice move." Jennifer, a senior biology major and student ambassador on the interview panel, praises with an appreciative head nod a friendly smile.

"Thanks. I've been waiting tables since I was fifteen. I've saved quite the few falling forks. And plates, and even a mug full of coffee once, didn't spill a drop."

I can't help the grin that spreads across my face. Everything about this woman has surprised me today.

The room is awkwardly silent. Jennifer and Dr. Sharp are looking at me expectantly. Oh, right, of course. It's my turn to ask questions. I clear my throat.

"Emily, may I call you Emily?" I ask.

She sits up and squares her shoulders. "I prefer Blaise, please." I haven't gone by 'Emily' since the second grade."

"Oh. That's how you pronounce it. Blaze, like fire?" Jennifer asks.

"Exactly." She responds and smiles.

"A family name?" I ask.

She laughs. "No, my dad's family is very Catholic and he wanted to give me a Saint name. Saint Blaise was a martyr; he was a doctor, or something, and apparently performed a miracle on a choking child. Every February the priest at my grandmother's church did a blessing of the throats where he crossed burning candles over our throats and said a prayer."

My eyes fixate on the creamy skin of her neck as she talks about her throat. I imagine resting my hand on the side of that ivory column, feeling her skin prickle and pulse increase as I kiss her. I imagine what she would smell like, sound like, taste like if I ran my tongue from the hollow of her throat to the tip of her ear.

God, stop being such a creep.

"So why choose Blaise over Emily?" I ask. Jennifer and Dr. Sharp look at me quizzically. I know this is a strange deviation from our usual line of questions. 

"I, um," she looks away for a minute, focusing her eyes out the window. "Sometimes you just need a change, you know?" she says, her voice quiet, her eyes down. I wonder what happened to second grade Emily that made her want to be a different person. "Besides, every other girl in my class was named Emily. It gets confusing after a while."

Jennifer and Dr. Sharp laugh and nod, charmed by her, but I'm not as easily fooled. She's trying to use humor to diffuse and deflect from her sincere admission. I would know.

"You're a transfer student, correct?" I ask, sitting back in my chair and peering over the folder in my hand. She seems relieved I changed the subject and nods her head slightly.

"Yes, sir." she responds quietly.

I sit up and forward again and shift uncomfortably in my seat. "Okay," I clear my throat, and my mind, "Can you tell me about the high school or college experience that has had the biggest impact on you?"

The interview continues and she answers my questions seamlessly. She is smart, funny and charming. By the end of my questions I'm not the only one smitten by her. Dr. Sharp and Jennifer are practically eating out of the palm of her hand. We are almost out of time, so Jennifer leans forward and clears her throat.

I glance at my watch and realize we are already over time. "My last question, what do you think about the Kardashians?"

Blaise pauses, and her face changes. Jennifer has asked this question to all the applicants today. It's a subtle way of testing the students' morality, something this private, Christian college cares a little too much about, in my opinion.  Most students became more animated and expressive when they heard this question, but Blaise looks almost annoyed. She composes herself and begins.

"Respectfully," she starts, the rehearsed mask back on her face, "I think that's a bad question." I exhale and peek at Jennifer from the corner of my eye. She wears a shocked expression that matches my own. Bold move, Blaise.

"And I understand the risk in saying that. But let me tell you why. My granny used to say 'Great minds discuss ideas; average minds discuss events; small minds discuss people.' I think it was an Eleanor Roosevelt quote." 

It was an Eleanor Roosevelt quote. I read approximately twenty-seven thousand essays on Mrs. Roosevelt this week. Give or take.

"But the point is," she continues, "I'm not small minded. So I'd like to throw the question back to you. What do I think about the Kardashians' what? Their businesses? Multi-billion dollar empire? Marketing strategies? Product quality? Entrepreneurship? Charitable causes and donations? Their public opinions on important policy issues?" She stares at us. We sit silent, stunned. She continues, unbothered by our reactions, or lack thereof. 

"What do you think about their ethics? The example they set for other young women?" Jennifer asks.

"I feel like I probably operate my life under a different moral and ethical code, and I don't think I would have made the same choices they've made. It's really none of my business. And respectfully, it's none of your business either." She raises her right hand in the air like my mama does when she's really praising Jesus. I don't even like the Kardashians and I'm suddenly on their side. She's quite the advocate.

"If we're really honest with ourselves, it's not their sexuality that bothers us. It's not even that they profit off it. Womens' sexuality has always been for sale. Men have been exploiting and selling women's bodies since the beginning of time, but now we have a whole family of women who exploit their own sexuality for their own benefit without a man in sight directing or profiting. And as a society we just can't wrap our heads around that. So we do what we always tend to do when we don't understand something. We judge it." She pauses, winded, her right leg ferociously swinging across her left.

"If you want me to discuss ideas or events, let's do it. If you want to ask a direct, relevant question of import about a celebrity, I'm happy to answer it. But I won't sit here and judge other women for sport."

She blinks and her eyes suddenly go wide, like she only now recognizes she's lecturing us. She recovers quickly, uncrossing her legs, folding her hands in her lap demurely and smiling at us sweetly. The room is completely silent for a beat.

"Well said," Jennifer almost whispers, a pleased smile on her face.

I just sit there with a big goofy smile, unable to conceal just how much this woman impresses me. She is unapologetic about her bold opinions, even when they're unpopular, yet she can express them with a grace and maturity far beyond her nineteen years. I stick my hand in my pocket and run my thumb over the cool metal of the bracelet I've been carrying for weeks, even more certain that it's hers. She is a little mad. But damn, she's also magic. This girl breathes fire. I pegged her all wrong. She's not a butterfly, she's a dragon.