My favorite part of the school year—other than those rare moment of
ecstasy when I end but sitting beside Heath Ledger look-a-likes in World
Literature—is the beginning of it. You know, before things settle into
their general stagnancy. A week after classes started, everything is still
fresh, but I've got a pretty good feel for the way things are working out:
Chemistry is going to be hell. I'm not sure exactly why I, an English major, am in this class, except that I needed a science credit and my advisor said it would "stretch my horizons." Personally, I think my horizons are large enough, and would've opted for something like Physics for Poets (this is actually a class) or Earth Science or something. Another unfortunately circumstance is that I ended up lab partners with this Luke Emerson character, who is the most nervous person I've ever met and dresses like a farmer. Seems smart though, so maybe he'll pass the class for both of us.
On the flip side, Creative Writing looks like it's going to be just up my ally. No hot guys in the class as of yet, but there's always hope for a transfer student.
Sorry, I'm trying to work on that coming-off-as-shallow thing. Sometimes these things just slip out of me and I can't seem to stop them.
Creative Writing is on Wednesday mornings at nine. Today Dr. Heleska starts class by giving "prompters," as she calls them. Prompter are apparently extremely cliché lines that all begin with "You are like" and are supposed to inspire poetry.
"You are like a post-it note."
"You are like a cloud."
"You are like a diary."
Our assignment is to choose one of these prompters and write a spur- of-the-moment poem. We all begin scribbling crossly in our notebooks. I'm not having much luck with any of these prompters. Hopefully no one else is either. Dr. Heleska begins going around the room, making us read our poems out loud.
"You are like a star. You are beautiful and brilliant and out of my reach." The whole class suppresses a gag reflex—that was the worst poem I've ever heard. I look up to see who wrote it, and my eyes land on a meek- looking redhead. She's nervously twisting a strand of her short, curly hair around her finger and glancing hesitantly around the room. When she looks at me I smile, and she smiles back, looking relieved. Nice girl, probably. Just can't write.
Most of the spur-of-the-moment poems, however, are not so much better than hers. Finally it's my turn and I get ready to read my slightly-above- average composition, but a voice behind me cuts me off before I've started.
"You are like a silver spoon." Oh God. Why is he in this class? "Sleek, polished," Elton slips into the seat behind me, and leans in close. "And definitely high maintenance," he finishes, saying this last line more to the back of my neck then to the classroom. Everyone laughs at Elton's performance, except for Dr. Heleska who says dryling, "You're late, Elton."
"And I assure you it won't ever happen again," Elton replies, lounging back in his chair so he is again a reasonable distance from me.
Why oh why is Elton in Creative Writing? What have I done to deserve this? It must be some cruel form of punishment God is inflicting on me—maybe he's been talking to Christian too much lately.
The key to maintaining a healthy level of confidence in situations such as this is to act like nothing is bothering you at all. I am very carefully making sure to show no visible signs that Elton as effected me. Suddenly, I'm actually inspired and I say, "You are like a tree—just a fire hazard, and definitely not worth recycling."
The class laughs at my performance, too. "Good comeback," Elton whispers to my neck again.
"I wrote it before you got here," I lie, wishing he'd maintain a distance from my body. Elton laughs like he doesn't believe me, but then I wouldn't believe me either if I were him,
Later in class we par off to do some poetry workshop. Elton is leaning on the back of chair like he's already got dibs, but I purposely stand and walk to the other side of the room where the redhead girl is sitting.
What is wrong with Elton anyway? He's acting like we never broke up—or even dated—in the first place.
"Hi," I say to the redhead. "I'm Becka. Need a partner?"
"Yes," she says, breaking into a smile that's really quite pretty. With a little make up and some decent clothes, this girl could look pretty damn good. "My name's Jennifer...Jen," she adds after a moment as if she's not sure which I should call her, so she's leaving it up to me to decide.
Jen, at first, is very quiet and timid, but by the end of class I've got her talking. She's nice, and pretty funny in this Bridget-Jones-sort-of- ridiculous way. Although sometimes I feel like I'm laughing at her rather than with her, which makes me feel a little guilty, but not guilty enough to stop laughing.
She not from the same side of the tracks as me—went to public high school where as Elton and Christian and Taylor and me are all prep school kids. She's basically relying on loans and grants and some distantly- related uncle to pay for her college, too. Daddy's paying for mine.
I could really do this girl a favor. What someone like Jen needs is the right people (right people meaning me) to help her ease her way into the in-crowd. Someone to take her shopping, buy her make-up, teach her how to write good poetry. I'd love to help her out. It would be like a mission or an experiment or something.
By the time class is over, she's agreed to come to a party with me on Saturday night. We're going shopping first, off course. She's going to look good when I introduce her into society.
Chemistry is going to be hell. I'm not sure exactly why I, an English major, am in this class, except that I needed a science credit and my advisor said it would "stretch my horizons." Personally, I think my horizons are large enough, and would've opted for something like Physics for Poets (this is actually a class) or Earth Science or something. Another unfortunately circumstance is that I ended up lab partners with this Luke Emerson character, who is the most nervous person I've ever met and dresses like a farmer. Seems smart though, so maybe he'll pass the class for both of us.
On the flip side, Creative Writing looks like it's going to be just up my ally. No hot guys in the class as of yet, but there's always hope for a transfer student.
Sorry, I'm trying to work on that coming-off-as-shallow thing. Sometimes these things just slip out of me and I can't seem to stop them.
Creative Writing is on Wednesday mornings at nine. Today Dr. Heleska starts class by giving "prompters," as she calls them. Prompter are apparently extremely cliché lines that all begin with "You are like" and are supposed to inspire poetry.
"You are like a post-it note."
"You are like a cloud."
"You are like a diary."
Our assignment is to choose one of these prompters and write a spur- of-the-moment poem. We all begin scribbling crossly in our notebooks. I'm not having much luck with any of these prompters. Hopefully no one else is either. Dr. Heleska begins going around the room, making us read our poems out loud.
"You are like a star. You are beautiful and brilliant and out of my reach." The whole class suppresses a gag reflex—that was the worst poem I've ever heard. I look up to see who wrote it, and my eyes land on a meek- looking redhead. She's nervously twisting a strand of her short, curly hair around her finger and glancing hesitantly around the room. When she looks at me I smile, and she smiles back, looking relieved. Nice girl, probably. Just can't write.
Most of the spur-of-the-moment poems, however, are not so much better than hers. Finally it's my turn and I get ready to read my slightly-above- average composition, but a voice behind me cuts me off before I've started.
"You are like a silver spoon." Oh God. Why is he in this class? "Sleek, polished," Elton slips into the seat behind me, and leans in close. "And definitely high maintenance," he finishes, saying this last line more to the back of my neck then to the classroom. Everyone laughs at Elton's performance, except for Dr. Heleska who says dryling, "You're late, Elton."
"And I assure you it won't ever happen again," Elton replies, lounging back in his chair so he is again a reasonable distance from me.
Why oh why is Elton in Creative Writing? What have I done to deserve this? It must be some cruel form of punishment God is inflicting on me—maybe he's been talking to Christian too much lately.
The key to maintaining a healthy level of confidence in situations such as this is to act like nothing is bothering you at all. I am very carefully making sure to show no visible signs that Elton as effected me. Suddenly, I'm actually inspired and I say, "You are like a tree—just a fire hazard, and definitely not worth recycling."
The class laughs at my performance, too. "Good comeback," Elton whispers to my neck again.
"I wrote it before you got here," I lie, wishing he'd maintain a distance from my body. Elton laughs like he doesn't believe me, but then I wouldn't believe me either if I were him,
Later in class we par off to do some poetry workshop. Elton is leaning on the back of chair like he's already got dibs, but I purposely stand and walk to the other side of the room where the redhead girl is sitting.
What is wrong with Elton anyway? He's acting like we never broke up—or even dated—in the first place.
"Hi," I say to the redhead. "I'm Becka. Need a partner?"
"Yes," she says, breaking into a smile that's really quite pretty. With a little make up and some decent clothes, this girl could look pretty damn good. "My name's Jennifer...Jen," she adds after a moment as if she's not sure which I should call her, so she's leaving it up to me to decide.
Jen, at first, is very quiet and timid, but by the end of class I've got her talking. She's nice, and pretty funny in this Bridget-Jones-sort-of- ridiculous way. Although sometimes I feel like I'm laughing at her rather than with her, which makes me feel a little guilty, but not guilty enough to stop laughing.
She not from the same side of the tracks as me—went to public high school where as Elton and Christian and Taylor and me are all prep school kids. She's basically relying on loans and grants and some distantly- related uncle to pay for her college, too. Daddy's paying for mine.
I could really do this girl a favor. What someone like Jen needs is the right people (right people meaning me) to help her ease her way into the in-crowd. Someone to take her shopping, buy her make-up, teach her how to write good poetry. I'd love to help her out. It would be like a mission or an experiment or something.
By the time class is over, she's agreed to come to a party with me on Saturday night. We're going shopping first, off course. She's going to look good when I introduce her into society.