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All she wanted was a chance to write, all he wanted was her but there are secrets. Ch2 |
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What I Wasn’t Looking For Ch: 2 Nicholas Duke The next morning was a jumble of nerves, but for a different reason. I had found employment, which was my first concern and priority but now that, that was done I had other things to worry about or anticipate in this case. I stood, regarding myself in the bathroom mirror, ashamed to admit that I really had picked out my outfit the night before. Well not really, you didn’t try it on…just selected it. I smiled inspecting my purple converse shoes, a product of my recent lottery winnings, well in truth everything was a product of my lottery winnings: the apartment, the university course, the move, even my hand bag. Some part of me regretted splurging my money on clothes and accessories. It was so stereotypical of what women are supposed to do, but I had spent years saving and mending clothes, scraping to make loan repayments and saving to buy professional dress for work. So after I had paid off my loans and decided exactly what it was I wanted to do with the rest of my small fortune I divided it out and went for a shop. You certainly don’t look twenty-five. And you definitely don’t look like a writer. I frowned at myself, pulling my brown hair up into a haphazard twist, making sure a number of the highlighted portions hung down. Then opting for glasses, instead of contacts, I inspected myself again. The red frames were quite quirky, and as usual brought a grin to my mouth. That’s better Bec, but don’t you put a pencil or any other type of writing implement in your hair. That’s just overboard. “What’dya think Puck?” He bobbed about in his bowl, which could only mean that I must look superb. “Thanks, you’re a pretty cute number yourself,” I called on my way past the kitchen and out the door. I was off to school, for the first day…again. St. Charles was bigger by far than my old university. It had taken me two goes to find the building class was in, let alone my room. Now, pushing and jostling with the hoard of other students I removed myself from the tide and rested my bag against the wall. Next to me, a number of other students had managed to extract themselves from the river of bags and bodies. I began to sum up my classmates. As predicted, I was the oldest so far, and like me, they all must have chosen their outfits in advance, intent on communicating as much of their personality as possible. In front of me stood a boy, no older than eighteen, with spiky hair and an outfit that came from the American Eagle catalogue. Leaning against the wall in front of him, stood a girl dressed in black, with dark makeup under her eyes and knee high red boots. She gave me a smile when she noticed me. Our class ran the whole gamete of styles and personas, seemingly. One other mature age student, god, I can’t believe I just used that phrase, showed up with what looked like baby spew down the front of her top. She seemed friendly enough and I chose a set next to her in the middle after the professor arrived. Professor Duke looked to be in his mid sixties, but he acted as if he was in his thirties. I instantly liked him, even though I sometimes found it difficult to focus on what he was saying. His grey hair had a bad habit of following him in a strange wispy dance. This effect, combined with his overly high pants and flannelled button shirt, which he kept dropping pens, and pointers and a thousand other things out of, reassured me that this would be a pleasant term. Looks like Creating a Narrative: Unit 1 is going to be a good unit, I surmised opening my laptop and preparing to take notes. Then it began. Professor Duke had asked us each to bring a sample of our work. For most of the class this meant past assignments, prose, poetry, creative essays; the most I had ever written was an essay on the moral responsibility of a pharmacist in researching and safe guarding that a patient’s medicines don’t overlap or combine in a deadly way. But after listening to a number of pieces about ‘my dog’, ‘my cat’, ‘reviews of Shakespearean plays’, and several ‘no one understands me’, pieces I was beginning to believe that the pharmacy paper might just have been fine. Unfortunately I didn’t bring that one in. “Miss Heart?” Professor Duke looked about the room, trying to identify which of his new pupils could belong to such a name. I tentatively raised my hand. “Ah, good morning Miss Heart. Would you care to share with us the sample of writing you have brought?” Suddenly my palms were sweaty, and my throat very dry. At least these people had been writing before this class, I had spent the majority of my time adding figures and researching medicines and known side effects. I cleared my throat. “Um, well, I don’t really having anything…ah, because I’ve been a pharmacist until now so I can’t really say I’ve written anything too spectacular…um, but I did bring in a sample from my diary,” I finished lamely. Professor Duke smiled encouragingly. “Well, lets hear it then,” he prompted leaning back against the desk at the front. Opening my laptop so that I could read from a standing position, I made a hasty excuse about poor hand writing and began: “Today was a good day. I thank God for that. There in the park, with the sunshine speckling her face she seemed almost to remember me, almost. On days like today, she loves to tell me about, of all things strangely enough, me. I wonder if she speaks of me this way to those at the home? I wonder if her face lights up as it did this afternoon, and she whispers about me, as if I were some cherished secrete. Even now, I find myself clutching, willing this thought, this idea to sustain me. She knows me. She knows me. How can she not? I am her daughter.” I had thought it was an acceptable selection, but I did not anticipate how those last words would move me. Sitting down, I noted the sympathetic looks directed my way and resolved that I should never read a piece like that again. Stupid idea, Bec. After a few more pieces Professor Duke clapped his hands together, a sign that the first class was over and quickly scrawled a short homework assignment on the board. “Now, the key to an interesting narrative is creating among other things characters,” he drawled scribbling on the board. I typed furiously. “Observation and transferring that observation into the written form, and doing it in an interesting way, are paramount to engaging your reader. So, by Thursday I would like each of you to observe two separate individuals. We shall find out how good your eye is, and I want at least a page description on each.” He turned back to the class making sure we had understood. “And,” he added almost as an after thought, “please, try not to bore me with your descriptions. Although I’m sure some of you won't,” with that he gave me a quick wink. As soon as he had finished speaking the class moved immediately to the exit, eager for relief either in the way of toilet or caffeine I’m sure. I stayed behind for a moment to shut down my laptop when I noticed the Professor was watching me. “Yes, Professor?” “Rebecca right?” he moved forward and offered me his hand. “Yes, but most people just call me Becky, or Bec,” I shook his hand and he sat down on the desk across from me. “You shouldn’t be embarrassed by your lack of experience Becky, believe me, it’s no hindrance for this class. If anything, I’d say you’re better prepared than the majority of my students to make the most of this unit.” He leaned back regarding me thoughtfully. “How’s that Professor?” I asked dropping my computer into my bag. He chuckled. “Please, call me Nicholas, Professor’s reserved for undergrads and middle class students who ride in on the backs of their parents, and constantly lament about how no one understands them,” he chuckled. I found myself laughing. “I bet you get a lot of those types of works.” He moved to the front of the class to collect his brief case. “Yes, I do. But what I don’t get a lot of, and what I’d like to see more of, is your type of work,” he finished pointedly, holding open the door for me. I could feel myself blushing as I squeezed past him and into the rushing tide of the hall. “See you on Thursday,” he called out to me as he cut through the crowd, like a sailboat skimming effortlessly across the water, and was gone. Things were looking suspiciously positive, I reasoned as I waited in line at the student center for a coffee and croissant. In just two days I had found myself a job, impressed my professor and managed to escape enduring another unpleasant phone call from my brother. I was feeling pleased with myself, I had put all my eggs in one basket and so far things were coming up trumps. Until, that is, I went to work. |
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