I am so relieved that the person I’ll be studying with all semester has a sense of humor,” he told her, adding as he rolled his eyes heavenward, “You’ll probably need it, once you start helping me with my reports.”
Nicole shook her head.
“Oh nonsense, the thought never even occurred to me,” she countered, simultaneously waving away his concerns as she also waved him in to the chair nearest her own. To her immediate left, as a matter of fact. “As long as you make it to each of our weekly sessions along with all of your classes, we’ll get you through this semester of English comp—and with flying, or at the very least passing, colors.”
Spyder nodded.
“Well I hope so,” he told her, adding with a deep sigh, “I really don’t mean to be such a screw up in class, Miss Moore—I mean, Nicole—but my night job takes up most of my evenings and I get very little sleep. It seems like I have very little energy or concentration left over for school.”
Nicole arched her eyebrows.
“Your night job, ay?” she asked, adding silently this time, “Is he a stripper, maybe? One of those male companions, like I hear about on the talk shows? A gal always can hope.”
Seemingly oblivious to the train of thought that was quickly turning obscene in nature, Spyder told her, “I’m a rock star. Well, not a star exactly, at least not yet; but rest assured that I’m not wearing a T-shirt with my own name and picture because I’m a complete egomaniac,” he paused here, adding with a teasing wink, “Or even because I’m cute.”
Nicole rolled her eyes.
“Something tells me that my earlier assessment of your masculine beauty is bound to follow me around for the duration of my association,” she muttered.
Spyder laughed.
“I love the way you talk, Miss,” he praised her, adding as he pinned her with a pensive stare, “It’s so, I dunno, smart. And I just know that you can help a struggling speed metal musician pass English comp.”
Nicole nodded.
“Yes, I do believe I can,” she told him, adding as she stroked her chin in a show of thoughtfulness, “So you say that you’re a musician. Do you happen to write your own songs?”
Spyder nodded.
“I sure do,” he said with a proud smile. “As a matter of fact, I write all of the songs for my band, the Lightning Rods.”
Nicole smiled.
“Well that’s great!” she affirmed, adding with a broad gesture, “If you can write a song, then surely you can write a composition.”
Spyder gritted his teeth.
“Yeah, well, I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” he told her, adding as he averted his gaze to the table beneath them, “The last two grand compositions that I happened to pen were titled ‘Saturday Night Party, Sunday Morning Hangover’ and ‘Sexy Sally’.”
Nicole chuckled.
“Well now let’s take a closer look at these two titles,” she suggested, adding as she leaned across the desk, “The phrase ‘Saturday Night Party, Sunday Morning Hangover’ shows a strong grasp of cause and effect concepts. And the title ‘Sexy Sally’ has a nice lyrical flow—provided, of course, that the song accompanying said title is not overly sexist or vulgar in terms of its lyrical content.”
Spyder shook his head.
“Oh no, not at all,” he assured her, adding as he raised a finger for emphasis, “Rest assured, Nicole, that I have the upmost respect for chicks—that is, ladies—that is, people of the female persuasion…” he broke off here, showing by the way he shuffled his sneaker clad feet beneath the table that he still wasn’t sure he had it right.
Nicole chuckled.
“Look, I can tell already that you’re an intelligent, well-spoken dude with a sense of humor and a creative spark,” she assured him, adding as she inclined her head in his direction, “Now all we have to do is take all of that mental clay and form it into some strong, cohesive compositions.”
Spyder thought a moment, then grinned.
“You know, until today
Nicole shook her head.
“Oh nonsense, the thought never even occurred to me,” she countered, simultaneously waving away his concerns as she also waved him in to the chair nearest her own. To her immediate left, as a matter of fact. “As long as you make it to each of our weekly sessions along with all of your classes, we’ll get you through this semester of English comp—and with flying, or at the very least passing, colors.”
Spyder nodded.
“Well I hope so,” he told her, adding with a deep sigh, “I really don’t mean to be such a screw up in class, Miss Moore—I mean, Nicole—but my night job takes up most of my evenings and I get very little sleep. It seems like I have very little energy or concentration left over for school.”
Nicole arched her eyebrows.
“Your night job, ay?” she asked, adding silently this time, “Is he a stripper, maybe? One of those male companions, like I hear about on the talk shows? A gal always can hope.”
Seemingly oblivious to the train of thought that was quickly turning obscene in nature, Spyder told her, “I’m a rock star. Well, not a star exactly, at least not yet; but rest assured that I’m not wearing a T-shirt with my own name and picture because I’m a complete egomaniac,” he paused here, adding with a teasing wink, “Or even because I’m cute.”
Nicole rolled her eyes.
“Something tells me that my earlier assessment of your masculine beauty is bound to follow me around for the duration of my association,” she muttered.
Spyder laughed.
“I love the way you talk, Miss,” he praised her, adding as he pinned her with a pensive stare, “It’s so, I dunno, smart. And I just know that you can help a struggling speed metal musician pass English comp.”
Nicole nodded.
“Yes, I do believe I can,” she told him, adding as she stroked her chin in a show of thoughtfulness, “So you say that you’re a musician. Do you happen to write your own songs?”
Spyder nodded.
“I sure do,” he said with a proud smile. “As a matter of fact, I write all of the songs for my band, the Lightning Rods.”
Nicole smiled.
“Well that’s great!” she affirmed, adding with a broad gesture, “If you can write a song, then surely you can write a composition.”
Spyder gritted his teeth.
“Yeah, well, I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” he told her, adding as he averted his gaze to the table beneath them, “The last two grand compositions that I happened to pen were titled ‘Saturday Night Party, Sunday Morning Hangover’ and ‘Sexy Sally’.”
Nicole chuckled.
“Well now let’s take a closer look at these two titles,” she suggested, adding as she leaned across the desk, “The phrase ‘Saturday Night Party, Sunday Morning Hangover’ shows a strong grasp of cause and effect concepts. And the title ‘Sexy Sally’ has a nice lyrical flow—provided, of course, that the song accompanying said title is not overly sexist or vulgar in terms of its lyrical content.”
Spyder shook his head.
“Oh no, not at all,” he assured her, adding as he raised a finger for emphasis, “Rest assured, Nicole, that I have the upmost respect for chicks—that is, ladies—that is, people of the female persuasion…” he broke off here, showing by the way he shuffled his sneaker clad feet beneath the table that he still wasn’t sure he had it right.
Nicole chuckled.
“Look, I can tell already that you’re an intelligent, well-spoken dude with a sense of humor and a creative spark,” she assured him, adding as she inclined her head in his direction, “Now all we have to do is take all of that mental clay and form it into some strong, cohesive compositions.”
Spyder thought a moment, then grinned.
“You know, until today
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