Chapter 2

Three years later

"A C+!" I gasped when I got my essay back. My eyes instantly welled with tears, an embarrassing reflex that had plagued me since I was in second grade and had missed a word on a spelling test. I had been sure that my paper was A material, or at the very least, worthy of an A-.

I sat quietly through the rest of class, trying and failing to focus on what my English professor was saying. At the end of class, I approached her.

"Professor Dawes? Can I talk to you about my paper?" I asked tentatively. I was a freshman in college and still nervous about approaching my professors, who always seemed like they were in a hurry for something.

"Of course, Clare," she replied.

"I don't understand why I got a C+ on this paper. I used complex sentence structures. I investigated my topic thoroughly and used a variety of resources that balanced each other. I have perfect grammar!" I said, ending more angrily than I had intended.

"The goal of this class is to write about something or someone important to you and explain its significance. And although gun control is certainly a worthy topic for discussion, it wasn't quite what I had in mind," Professor Dawes explained. "I understand that you're just a freshman, but you need to make your writing more personal so it will resonate with the reader."

I flushed, the tears coming back to the corners of my eyes. I didn't think anyone had ever critiqued my writing before, not since my creative writing class my freshman year of high school.

Professor Dawes noticed my reaction. "Clare," she said in a gentler tone. "I think you are a good writer. I really do. But you have some things you need to work on, like any other writer. Have you considered finding a writing partner? We have an excellent program here."

I shook my head. "I don't like sharing my writing."

"Maybe that's the problem. I can tell that you're used to being the best writer in your class, but this class is full of people who have worked just as hard and love English just as much as you do," said the professor. "If this isn't something you want to work on, you'll have to accept that you will always do slightly above average – and that's what a C+ is in college."

I kept my eyes trained steadily on the ground. I had never been so humiliated in my whole life, even though I could tell Professor Dawes was truly trying to be helpful. "Thank you, Professor. I'll see you on Monday."

I made it to my dorm room before I started to cry.

…..

I spent the weekend thinking about what Professor Dawes had said, in between trying to catch up on readings and studiously avoiding my roommate, Sabrina. Sabrina had seemed nice enough at the beginning of the semester, but she was so nosy that it made it hard to want to spend time with her. My room wasn't the refuge it was supposed to be, with her persistent questions. Instead, I spent much of my time in Ali's room across campus or in a small café on the outskirts of campus where I could do my homework in peace.

By the time I returned to English 289 on Monday morning, I felt invigorated. I didn't need a writing partner necessarily; I just needed to approach my ideas freshly.

Professor Dawes clearly had other ideas. "Class, I'll be assigning you to work in pairs today," she said in her loud tone. "I have chosen these pairs purposefully, so there will be no switching. You will be working closely with each other throughout the semester, so I suggest you become friends now."

She began to read off the pairs and I scanned the room, looking to see who would be my partner. There were lots of girls who seemed friendly that I wouldn't mind working with.

"And finally, Clare Edwards and Elijah Goldsworthy. Please go find your partner and have them read your first draft of the new essay topic."

Ugh. I did not want to work with Eli Goldsworthy. He had been a year ahead of me at Degrassi High and, though we had never spoken, I could tell that we would not get along. He had always been scribbling in a notebook by himself and constantly fixating on symbols of death in literature during our shared English class in Grade 11. I had even heard that he had overdosed on drugs, crashing his hearse in a suicide attempt.

I glanced across the room at him. He looked just as unhappy as I felt. Suddenly, he looked over at me, catching me staring. As our eyes met, I flushed and quickly looked away.

Gritting my teeth, I crossed the room to where he sat.

"Hi," I said ungraciously.

Eli raised his eyebrows. "Well, well, well. Clare Edwards. Isn't this an unexpected surprise?"

I ignored what I was sure was a jab. "Well, here is my first draft. Tell me what you think."

Taking Professor Dawes' advice, I had written about something a little more personal for my second essay – my relationship with my mother.

Eli flopped down his essay in front of me. "It's the second chapter of my book."

"Your book?" I rolled my eyes. How pretentious.

"Yeah, it's called Death of an Angel," continued Eli. "Professor Dawes loved it. Said it was a little wordy though, so you could help me with that, I guess."

His tone implied that I wouldn't be able to help with much else.

I flushed again, this time with anger, but I began reading Chapter 2. To my chagrin, it was actually really good. The plot was tight and exciting. Obviously, I hadn't read Chapter 1, so at first I was a little lost, but I was quickly engrossed with the characters. However, Eli hadn't been kidding when he said it was wordy. Sometimes, I had to reread whole paragraphs to understand what was happening.

When I was done, I looked up. Eli was staring at me, arms crossed and a smirk across his face. "Pretty good, right?"

"Yeah, actually. It definitely could use some cutting down, but I thought the plot was great," I said begrudgingly. "What did you think of mine?"

"Honestly? I thought it was kind of boring," he replied.

My mouth dropped open. "What? I wrote about my mother. That is definitely not boring! We have a difficult relationship!"

"That's not really how it sounds. Like, you fought once in four years of high school, but still love each other no matter what? Not exactly thrilling."

I looked away. My eyes were welling up again, the third time in a week.

Eli seemed to sense that he had been too harsh. "Hey, Edwards. I do think you are a good writer," he said in a softer tone. "You just need to write about things that you actually care about."

Glancing back at him, his green eyes seemed sincere. "Okay," I said. "I guess I can try. But, hey, what about you? Death of an Angel isn't exactly your deepest, darkest secrets. It's fiction."

This time it was Eli who seemed uncomfortable. "It's an allegory. For letting down someone who trusted you the most."

Before I could answer, Professor Dawes called out, "Class is done for today, everybody. Final drafts are due next class. See you Friday."

"Bye," I said, pushing back my chair. I couldn't wait to leave.

"Edwards?" said Eli.

I looked back.

"I know you can do it," he said and then left.