Thankfully, I find a parking spot right by the building. My teacher, Professor Marie Dumas, may be carefree and encouraging and all sorts of weird (which I personally love), but she’s a stickler for tardiness and academic excellence. When you’re late, or you half-ass an assignment, she takes it personally. I’ve seen her tear up over giving a low grade before. But Writing Fiction 200 is one of my favorite classes and I give it everything I’ve got. After all, the writing program is my future, and a way to still get an education and my parents off my back while doing what I love. It’s like a piggy bank for my dreams, ensuring that no matter what happens in my future, I’ll always have this to back me up. It’s a reminder that I’ve fought to stay true to myself, even if my life doesn’t go to plan.
After I park and run into the building, I pass my classmate Ali on the stairs, though she’s running away from class instead of going to it.
“Where are you going?” I ask her.
She pauses on the stairwell and gives me a sharp look under her razor-cut bangs. “I’m not feeling well,” she says, even though she sounds more pissed off than sick.
I watch her go and then shrug to myself before reaching the top of the stairs. My friend Rio is hanging outside the door to class texting someone, leaning against the wall and twirling her curly dark hair around her finger like someone out of a John Hughes film.
“Thought you weren’t going to show,” she says as I approach, snapping her gum between her teeth. “I just texted you.”
I pull my phone out of my suede saddle bag and glance at the text blazing on it.
Where you at? We’re getting our final assignment today. Also, I lost my bra last night so I’m wearing Saran Wrap instead.
You’d think I’d be shocked by a text like this but not when it comes to Rio. I glance up at her, my gaze going directly to her boobs. “Uh, what?”
“She’s giving us our final assignment.”
“Yeah, but more about the Saran Wrap in place of a bra…” I point out.
“Long story,” she says, then leans in closer, her dark eyes dancing. “But it works. Just in case you end up sleeping with some guy who keeps comparing your vagina to the Rio Grande. I don’t think he realized he was being insulting, especially after we finished off a bottle of Crown Royal while playing a Game of Thrones drinking game, but needless to say, I got out of his place and didn’t think about the bra until now.”
I frown, trying hard not to laugh. “But you have other bras, I’m sure.”
“Oh, I didn’t go home after that,” she says, and I don’t press her on it. If she wants to share the details, she’ll share. “Anyway, I hope Marie gives us something more exciting than our last assignment.”
“No kidding,” I tell her, even though I’m lying. Honestly, I liked our last assignment, which was to write a short nonfiction story about ourselves without embellishing a word. My description of high school was like a less entertaining (and less murderous) version of Heathers. And even though this last project is the equivalent of our final exam, I can’t wait to tackle it. I’m a total nerd, I know, but every assignment Marie has given us has really challenged me and keeps improving my prose. Plus, not to toot my own horn, but I have aced every project so far. Her edits and notes on my writing are like a drug, validation that I desperately crave, especially when no one else in my life seems to take my writing seriously.
I look around. “Hey, I saw Ali run off. Is she okay?”
Rio shrugs, adjusting her laptop bag on her shoulder. “I don’t know. She stepped in the class, said something to Blake, and then ran off.”
Ugh. Blake Crawford. Pretty much the worst human to ever grace this earth. No exaggeration needed.
“Were they dating?” I ask. Ali wears a permanent scowl, is super intelligent, and is pretty much the last person I’d imagine going after the fuckboy, manwhore, jackass that is Blake.
She rolls her eyes. “Fucking, Amanda, not dating. What else is new? He probably broke her heart and her vagina. Or vice versa.”
“I wasn’t aware Ali had a heart to break.” I don’t comment on her vagina.
“Guess she does. Serves her right. You can’t play the player without getting played.” She says this gravely, even though when it comes to Rio I’m not sure whether she’s the ultimate player she seems to be or she’s been screwed over once or twice. She has this bright, bubbly personality that masks anything that gets too close to heart. It’s probably why, when I first met her in our writing program, we hit it off right away. She lightens me up and forces me to see the glass half full. At least, she’s trying.
We take our usual seats near the front as I scan the room. Sure enough, Blake is in his corner, headphones on, and grinning at his phone. Probably watching a YouTube video on how to be a douchebag.
I can’t stand his grin. In fact, I hate everything about him. I know, I don’t really know him and hate’s a strong word, but I have my reasons. He’s the type of guy who would have made my high school years a living hell, only now I get to deal with his immaturity in university. Thank god I only have one class with him, otherwise all my time would be spent thinking of witty comebacks to his insults and insinuations.
I don’t even know why he’s in the class at all, mind you. He’s a third year student and transferred from England last year, getting his business degree. Not sure how writing plays into any of it, but however it does, he doesn’t take anything seriously. It’s like writing and books and literature are one big joke to him, and I’m not the kind of person to take that lightly. Sure, maybe I get a bit too serious at times, whether it comes to writing or school, but that’s because, well…I need to.