Chapter 8 Verity
EIGHT
Verity
January
“So when we gon’ meet this boy?” Aunt Roz asks. “You spent half Christmas break on the phone with him.”
“You’re exaggerating.” I adjust my earbud as I cross the yard at a brisk pace. I’m running late for my screenwriting class. As if I didn’t already dread going. Being late won’t help. Things have been so hectic, squeezing in a call with my aunts while I walk to class is the best way to catch up.
“And you went to see him over break, but he never came to see you,” Aunt Grace reminds me. “Is he a gentleman or what?”
Technically, we met at a hotel halfway between Georgia and Virginia. Twice. Three weeks of break was too long to go without seeing Monk. It was two days each time and we barely left the cheap hotel room because we were so consumed with each other.
“You’ll meet him soon,” I say, giving in to a smile. “You’ll love Monk.”
“What kinda name is Monk?” Aunt Grace demands.
“It’s actually Wright Bellamy. His middle name is Thelonious and so… never mind. We call him Monk.”
“His mama named him Wright,” Aunt Roz says. “I’mma call him Wright.”
“Okay. Whatever, Auntie.”
“And when did you say you started seeing him?” Aunt Roz presses.
“Early November.”
“It’s only January, so not long,” Aunt Grace muses. “Don’t get distracted. You just found your footing again. You don’t want… well, we just don’t want what happened in California to happen again.”
My heart rate picks up speed and sweat dampens my palms. I don’t have words for a few seconds.
“Verity?” Aunt Roz asks sharply. “You there? Grace was saying she—”
“Doesn’t want what happened in Cali to happen again,” I say, my voice flat. “It happened to me. Pretty sure I’m the last person who wants a repeat of it.”
It’s silent on the other end for an extra beat, and I envision the two of them in our small, bright kitchen at home, sitting at the counter, phone on speaker as they exchange a worried glance.
They’d shot those same looks my way over Christmas break.
And last summer before I transferred to Finley.
And when I returned from USC. So much worry.
So much failure. Sometimes I can let it roll off me, but today something scrubs like Brillo just under my skin.
It feels like I’m poised on a knife’s edge of agitation, and at one wrong word or look, the sharp point punctures the surface, slicing through my last nerve.
“We know it happened to you,” Aunt Roz finally replies, striking that maddeningly careful tone they use with me now. “But it was hard for us to see you like that, and we—”
“I’m fine.”
“You taking your medication?” Aunt Grace probes, the compassion, but also the gentle firmness she believes it takes to “handle me,” clear in her voice.
“Yeah.” I sigh. “Every day.”
“Remember they have resources on campus,” Aunt Grace adds. “People there you can talk to if—”
“I gotta go,” I say abruptly.
“Wait!” Aunt Roz all but shouts. “We love you, Vee Tee.”
The childhood nickname brings to mind Aunt Roz and my mother pushing me on the tire swing in our front yard, summer days of picking cherries and bicycle rides on country dirt roads.
“I know you do,” I say, swallowing my tears. They saw too many of those last year. “But please don’t worry about me. I feel better than I have in a long time. Certainly better than I did back in Cali.”
Days of not showing up for class. Days when I couldn’t get out of bed.
Days with no shower, no food. No energy.
Failing grades. Dark thoughts that drove me back to Georgia.
I haven’t told anyone at Finley about the debilitating depression that ruined my junior year at USC.
I’d never experienced anything like it before, and with medication, it feels like such a distant memory.
I don’t want to revisit that bewildering chapter of my life.
I’m writing something new here, but sometimes it feels like my aunts won’t let me turn the page.
Walking across the campus, where I’ve found my fresh start and someone like Monk, I feel downright euphoric, but they’re trying to kill my vibe.
“Before you hang up,” Aunt Grace says, her tone deliberately brighter, “don’t forget we’re putting money in your account next week to cover the first part of your tuition. They did work with you on a payment plan, right?”
“Um, yeah.” Guilt twists my gut. It’s a double helix.
The first strand is guilt that they’re allotting money I know they can’t spare for my education on their modest income from the small store they own together.
And the second is for snapping at them when I know they simply love me and are concerned.
“And financial aid is giving you an extension on the balance?” Aunt Roz presses.
“Yeah,” I say, slowing my pace as I cut through the arboretum. “I didn’t mean to sound ungrateful. I know I blew a full scholarship at USC. I don’t want you spending all your money on me. I could try to—”
“Hush now,” Aunt Roz chides gently. “We’re family and we take care of each other. Ya hear me?”
I nod, blinking back tears. Aunt Roz never hesitated when my parents died. She took me in and gave me a home even more stable than the one that had burned to the ground.
“Yes, ma’am.” I sniff and swipe under my nose. “I hear you.”
“Good.” Aunt Roz’s smile reaches across the line. “That money should show up next week. And we look forward to meeting this Thelonious boy.”
I don’t even bother to correct her, but grin through the last of my tears.
“Sounds good.” I glance at my phone to check the time. Even later than I’d thought. “Hey, I really gotta go. I’m running behind for class.”
“We love you,” they say in unison.
“Love you, too.”
Once I disconnect the call, I shift my backpack to the center of my spine and pick up the pace.
Professor Rollins does not tolerate tardiness, and I think he has it out for me.
The misogyny on that man goes back generations.
Or maybe it’s that I’m a transfer from USC.
He seems to assume I think I’m the shit because I was in that program, one of the most prestigious film schools in the country.
If only he knew how lucky I feel to be here.
To be alive. If only he knew Finley saved my life in more ways than one.
I dash up the stone steps of the fine arts building and rush through the double doors.
My class is on the third floor, and even though I’m running late, my feet detour to the exhibit hall.
For some reason, even on days when I don’t have a class here, I find myself standing in front of Chap Brody’s Flame sculpture.
The hall is empty, but the sculpture seems to take up the entire space.
I don’t even realize I’ve walked over to it, huddling close as if it’s an actual flame on the coldest of nights.
“Glad to see you enjoying the exhibit, Ms. Hill,” Dr. Garrison says from the entrance.
Startled, I turn, my eyes meeting the professor’s.
“Sorry.” I cross the room to get to the door. “I was just looking, but I’m running late. I better go.”
“It’s nice to see someone appreciate Brody’s art.” Dr. Garrison nods to the sculpture. “Come by anytime to see it.”
I glance back at the copper installation. I don’t know how to tell her it’s not appreciation that draws me to that piece every time I’m in this building. I can’t articulate it, but it’s the opposite.
I hate it, but I have to see it.
Every time I stand before it, irritation bubbles to the surface. When I stand close, my skin feels hot and prickly. I know it’s my imagination, but I can never shake the sense that one day, this thing that Chap Brody made will set me on fire.
“Thanks. See you later,” I tell Dr. Garrison, and run for the stairwell, taking the steps two at a time to the third floor.
I peek my head around the corner into the class, assessing how deep into the lesson Professor Rollins has gotten. Looks like all thirty students showed up today, and the room is packed. Of course, the only seat available is in the front row.
Maybe I could listen from here in the hallway…
“Ms. Hill,” Professor Rollins calls from inside. “How kind of you to join us, albeit five minutes late. Though ‘join’ may be a loose term for whatever it is you’re doing out in the hallway. Class is in here. So should you be.”
I close my eyes, push away from the wall, and enter.
“Sorry, Professor Rollins,” I mumble, avoiding his censorious stare and making my way to the single empty chair on the front row.
“Not as sorry as I am,” Professor Rollins says, his tone long-suffering. “You’re just in time. I’ve asked everyone to share an update on their project. You may go first.”
Shit.
“Of course.” I set my backpack on the floor and root around inside for my notebook. “The project.”
“You did remember that everyone is to present an overview of their term project today, yes? You’re prepared?
” The disdainful look Professor Rollins rakes over me says he doubts I’ve been prepared for anything a day in my life.
“I’m not sure how they did it at USC, but here at Finley, we expect our film students to come ready. ”
“Yes, sir.”
He leans against his desk, arms folded across his chest and brows lifted. Waiting. “Will you be miming your presentation, Ms. Hill? Or do you have actual words to describe the project?”
“Sorry. Yes, of course.”
At the front of the class, I stand behind the podium, braced for the anxiety that usually ties my tongue and muddies my thoughts, but it doesn’t come.
Instead confidence floods my system, bliss in my veins.
It’s like every word is waiting on my lips, and my voice sails through the classroom, strong and steady.
I take my time, basking in the spotlight, enjoying everyone’s rapt attention.
They’re hanging on every eloquent word. I depart from my rehearsed comments, telling jokes off the cuff and relishing their laughter.
I’ve never felt so bright, so unfettered.
I am sunshine and they revolve around me.
It’s like shackles fall from my mind and body.
My thoughts soar, and my muscles, my blood, the very cells of my body—all fluent and flowing.
I venture from the podium, strolling through the room and doling out smiles like this is a Vegas show instead of my college class.
They laugh at every joke, their goodwill pouring over me, and finally everything aligns just right.
Where has this version of Verity been all my life?
The reticent girl who abhors public speaking is nowhere to be found.
Good riddance.
When I reach the end of my presentation, the students whoop and applaud. Professor Rollins actually nods, the closest I’ve ever come to approval from him.
“That was excellent, Ms. Hill,” he says. “I think—”
“Oh!” I interrupt. “I forgot one more thing.”
“You can save it for—”
“In the last act,” I tell the class, the words tumbling out from sheer excitement.
“I could leave them in their own tragedy, right? But what if I redeem their love? She thought she had nothing to live for, but through his love, which is so unexpected, he proves her wrong. She’s never experienced anything like this.
Not in her deeply tragic childhood. Not when she was bullied in school.
Not even when she fell in what she thought was love years ago.
Even back in the second act—Wait. I did tell you what happens in the second act, right? ”
Ohmygodyouguysaregonnalovethis!
“The betrayal and the infidelity and the breakup. It’s not permanent, but they need to grow and mature, to find themselves.
There’s a pivotal scene in the third act that I’m still working out dialogue for, but it will come to me.
The whole thing has been so clear, unlike anything I’ve written before. I believe that—”
“Ms. Hill,” Professor Rollins cuts in, his voice snapping to its usual curtness. “We don’t need this play-by-play. Whatever your point is, I think you’ve made it. Now sit down.”
Who the hell does he think he is? Truth be told, I should be teaching this class.
I could write circles around this man. Around every student in here, matter of fact.
They’re looking at me with new admiration.
It’s obvious they want to hear more, but he’s too self-absorbed to notice.
While Professor Rollins and I stare at each other for a few stretched-out seconds, a million unused sentences vibrate in the walls of my throat.
Consonants and vowels war in my jaws, fighting to slip between my lips if I even part them but to breathe.
I force it all down, clamping my teeth against the next wave of words and taking my seat.
“Now,” Professor Rollins says brusquely. “Who’s next?”
That dismissal would normally sting, but today it rolls right off me. My skin is slick and thick. I’m armored with this new confidence that not even Professor Rollins can rob me of.
God, it’s great being me.