is probably the most eccentric teacher I have, but she’s never been perky. And right now, that’s the only word I can use to describe her, and it’s kind of annoying. Her smile gets wider and I notice for the first time just how white her teeth are—they shine.
“Why yes, of course dear. I just am excited to see your face is all.” She reaches for my hand and gave it a squeeze, “I loved your latest essay about the price of untested virtue in Measure for Measure.
Your writing showed such maturity!” She walks toward me, her long jumper covering her bright yellow Crocs, a staple in her wardrobe. I wince at the fashion mishap and focus again on her teeth. At least her teeth won’t make me bite my lip to fight back images of What Not to Wear episodes.
I set my drink down on a desk and pull my bag off my shoulders before sitting down. “Um, thanks Mrs. Peabody.” I look at her and smile and rub my finger against my Moleskine resting on the desk. “I worked really hard on that paper.”
“Well, I most certainly noticed, and it isn’t the first time you have excelled in your assignments.
So. I took it upon myself to contact a few colleges heavy in the arts and I received a call back from USC.
Stephanie, they are incredibly interested in you coming and pursuing a creative writing degree! They even spoke of scholarships available.”
I stare at her lips, but am not sure what to think of the words coming out of her mouth. USC is in California. And expensive. My mind wanders to the possibility of scholarships and I can’t help but maybe feel a pinch of excitement in my bones. Creative Writing. I begin building images in my mind for a moment of mornings spent writing on the beach or allowing the sun to warm my blood. It seemed nice.
Too nice. I politely listen and refuse to allow myself the comfort of building hope—not for this. Not now.
Wait. The conversation with Kevin at breakfast rushes through my mind and I pause. USC. That’s where he wants to go. I’ve never allowed myself the ability to think about us after graduation. I’ve never really considered what could or would happen between us. I certainly never thought we could end up at the same school.
Mrs. Peabody touches my arm and I blink back into focus.
“Here’s their number. I went ahead and gave them your contact information. They mentioned they will be contacting you soon. I hope you pursue this. You are such a gifted writer. You write with a depth not many are able to achieve. I bet you have words in you the world needs to read. Write them. Share them.” She places her hand on my shoulder for a split second and moves on to greet the other students walking into the classroom. I slump into my chair, her words echoing in my head, and the only thing I can think is that I hope the admissions people don’t call when my dad is home.
My eyes slip to my Moleskine sitting resolutely on the top of my textbooks. I grab it and hug it to my chest. I need to spend some time writing, I think. Maybe I’ll hit up the coffee shop on my way to Emma’s, hole up in a corner somewhere and let loose on one of these empty pages.
And with that, my mind has completely left the classroom and is in a different world—one of peace and comfort and protection and mornings spent on beaches writing and watching the sun rise.
Chapter Nine
I get to Emma’s around six, completely spent emotionally from pouring everything I have onto pieces of paper. My hand is still cramping from writing my heart and tears on countless pages. I open the front door and collapse on one of her couches, thinking that maybe, just maybe, the beginning of the story I started to write may stick. I start to close my eyes before I hear his voice down the hallway.
“I’m telling you...you just need to be careful.” Jude’s voice is abrupt and matter-of-fact. I’m still reeling over the other voice, though. At first I think I may have been hearing things, but I hear him again, countering
“Why yes, of course dear. I just am excited to see your face is all.” She reaches for my hand and gave it a squeeze, “I loved your latest essay about the price of untested virtue in Measure for Measure.
Your writing showed such maturity!” She walks toward me, her long jumper covering her bright yellow Crocs, a staple in her wardrobe. I wince at the fashion mishap and focus again on her teeth. At least her teeth won’t make me bite my lip to fight back images of What Not to Wear episodes.
I set my drink down on a desk and pull my bag off my shoulders before sitting down. “Um, thanks Mrs. Peabody.” I look at her and smile and rub my finger against my Moleskine resting on the desk. “I worked really hard on that paper.”
“Well, I most certainly noticed, and it isn’t the first time you have excelled in your assignments.
So. I took it upon myself to contact a few colleges heavy in the arts and I received a call back from USC.
Stephanie, they are incredibly interested in you coming and pursuing a creative writing degree! They even spoke of scholarships available.”
I stare at her lips, but am not sure what to think of the words coming out of her mouth. USC is in California. And expensive. My mind wanders to the possibility of scholarships and I can’t help but maybe feel a pinch of excitement in my bones. Creative Writing. I begin building images in my mind for a moment of mornings spent writing on the beach or allowing the sun to warm my blood. It seemed nice.
Too nice. I politely listen and refuse to allow myself the comfort of building hope—not for this. Not now.
Wait. The conversation with Kevin at breakfast rushes through my mind and I pause. USC. That’s where he wants to go. I’ve never allowed myself the ability to think about us after graduation. I’ve never really considered what could or would happen between us. I certainly never thought we could end up at the same school.
Mrs. Peabody touches my arm and I blink back into focus.
“Here’s their number. I went ahead and gave them your contact information. They mentioned they will be contacting you soon. I hope you pursue this. You are such a gifted writer. You write with a depth not many are able to achieve. I bet you have words in you the world needs to read. Write them. Share them.” She places her hand on my shoulder for a split second and moves on to greet the other students walking into the classroom. I slump into my chair, her words echoing in my head, and the only thing I can think is that I hope the admissions people don’t call when my dad is home.
My eyes slip to my Moleskine sitting resolutely on the top of my textbooks. I grab it and hug it to my chest. I need to spend some time writing, I think. Maybe I’ll hit up the coffee shop on my way to Emma’s, hole up in a corner somewhere and let loose on one of these empty pages.
And with that, my mind has completely left the classroom and is in a different world—one of peace and comfort and protection and mornings spent on beaches writing and watching the sun rise.
Chapter Nine
I get to Emma’s around six, completely spent emotionally from pouring everything I have onto pieces of paper. My hand is still cramping from writing my heart and tears on countless pages. I open the front door and collapse on one of her couches, thinking that maybe, just maybe, the beginning of the story I started to write may stick. I start to close my eyes before I hear his voice down the hallway.
“I’m telling you...you just need to be careful.” Jude’s voice is abrupt and matter-of-fact. I’m still reeling over the other voice, though. At first I think I may have been hearing things, but I hear him again, countering
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