Okay, time to play contentious college student.
“Sure,” I muttered, picking up my book bag and moving my desk over to join the three other students who had already started talking amongst themselves.
“Hi, I’m Casey,” redheaded, big mouth said. Everyone nodded as though we cared what her name was.
“I’m Davis.” A skinny kid with big ears spoke up after Casey was finished introducing herself. What was it with this group and big body parts? Because the next guy, who said his name was Andrew had a nose as long as my arm. Well, not really, but you get the picture.
Now that the three of them had shared their names, they looked at me expectantly. I supposed this was my cue to play nice.
“Um, yeah. I’m Ellie,” I said, plastering my fakest smile on my face. I think my efforts were perhaps a bit over the top and my smile more closely resembled a psychotic grin, as I watched the slight recoil from my fellow students.
“Hi, Ellie!” Casey chirped, clearing her throat. Obviously she had deigned herself our unofficial group leader.
“Let’s have a look at the syllabus and then we can decide which one to focus on.” Casey cleared her throat again, which was really annoying.
I looked down at the list again, knowing I had nothing to contribute.
“Well, I’ve read the Margaret Atwood short story and the Milton stuff,” Davis piped up.
“Cool! I’ve read those as well in my high school AP class!” Casey enthused.
“I’ve read the Milton and the Keats poem,” Andrew offered.
And then they were looking at me.
“Uh…” I started, making a show of looking at the syllabus.
I must have taken too long because Casey started pointing to the different reading selections.
“Have you read the Atwood story?”
“No.”
“What about Milton? Have you ever read Paradise Lost?”
“No.”
You get the picture. Casey kept asking and I continued giving her my monosyllabic response. My face began to flush red the more it became apparent that I hadn’t read a thing on the list.
When Casey had gone through the entire syllabus, she gave me a puzzled look. “Haven’t you read anything?”
I understand that she most likely didn’t mean for this to sound as condescending as it did. She seemed like a nice, corn fed country girl with her pretty red hair and mouth the size of a football. But she had just royally peeved me off.
I crumpled the syllabus in my hand and leaned toward her. “No, Casey. I haven’t read anything,” I grit out.
Casey blinked a few times, clearly not understanding my aggression.
“Well, you have to have read something in high school. What about the Robert Frost poem? Everyone reads Robert Frost. It’s like sophomore stuff,” Casey said, again putting just enough arrogance in her voice to trigger my anger reflex. Andrew and Davis were keeping quiet. Too bad Miss Too Big Smile didn’t have their common sense.
I brought my fist down on my desk with a loud bang. The classroom went instantly silent. I was used to being the center of unwanted attention, so I didn’t even bat an eye about causing a scene.
“No, I haven’t read any of these stupid f**king stories on this stupid f**king list! While you were sitting in your nice little AP classes, my ass was in juvie, trying not to get raped by a gang of dykes with a thing for blonde girls!” I yelled. I grabbed my book bag and wrenched upwards out of my seat.
“Miss. Wait a minute! Miss!” Professor Smith called out as I slammed out his classroom.
I was breathing heavily by the time I walked back out onto the quad.
I knew there was more than anger bubbling up like acid in the pit of my stomach. I was embarrassed. Ashamed that in a room full of eighteen and nineteen year olds, I was the most ignorant person in the room. Sure I had my fair share of street smarts, but I could never compete in this setting.
This wasn’t a place where knowing how to hotwire a car and evade the police would get you far.
My skillset was limited and most times illegal.
But I wouldn’t feel sorry for myself.
I would just leave. Head home. Get something to eat before going to work and carrying on with the life that had been there this morning. And the day before. And the week before that.
This was a lesson learned. It had been an unrealistic hope. And the sooner it was dashed in the dirt the better.
I raised a hand I hadn’t realized was shaking and swept my hair off my face. My skin was flushed and hot to the touch. My mortification still blazing bright.
I took a deep breath and hoisted my book bag up on my shoulder.
And there he was.
Flynn walked down the sidewalk, his head down. Always down.
And then I was following him. I walked into the manicured grass, stepping over landscaped flowers as I pursued him.
I don’t know why I bothered. What did I hope to gain by stalking him across campus? But I kept going.
Perhaps I was looking for someone to focus my frustrations on and Flynn was a comfortable target.
Or maybe it was something else entirely.
My anger simmered. Just like it always did. It was my constant companion. I was a bitch with one hell of a chip on her shoulder. It’s what flavored my experiences and shadowed my thoughts. It’s what made me follow the man shuffling his feet ahead of me.
But the anger wasn’t the only thing I was feeling. There was something else. Something I had forgotten how to identify. It was a bubbling in my stomach. A fluttering of my heart behind my ribcage. A strange sort of anticipation.
And I had felt it before.
With Flynn.
He slipped into the side door of a building on the far side of campus. I entered the door behind him, staying far enough back that he wouldn’t notice me. Though I shouldn’t have worried. Flynn rarely noticed anything. He lived his life oblivious to everyone and everything around him. He had always been a person of single-minded focus.
Flynn entered the door at the end of the hallway and I hurried after him. A long window looked into a crowded art studio.
I could see a pottery kiln and several wheels. Easels lined the wall and tables were covered in a variety of art tools. I hung back and watched Flynn make his way to one of the tables containing a slab of dark grey clay.
He dropped down onto a stool and immediately picked up a long wooden stick with a metal tip. He bent down over the clay and started pulling it apart and remolding it. His hair fell down on either side of his face, his shoulders hunched as he worked.
I couldn’t see exactly what he was doing, but watching him like this was very familiar.