Chapter 3 The Writing Class #2
“And creative writing is not me,” he says, with a quiet huff of a laugh. “So you can write stories for me. And I’ll beat people up for you.”
I grin. “Sounds like a plan.”
White button-down, dark flare jeans, brown cardigan, boots. It’s the perfect outfit for my first-ever appearance in a classroom. Not too overly academic, but also not so casual that it appears I haven’t tried to look put together.
“You’re beautiful,” Weston says when he drops me off at the college entrance on Friday evening. He’s wearing his usual boxing gym clothes: T-shirt, hoodie, and track pants. Definitely out of place among the historical brick buildings scattered across the campus.
“Hopefully I won’t be too awkward,” I murmur, looping my book bag over my shoulder.
“You’ll be great,” Weston assures me, leaning down to kiss my cheek. “If you need anything, just call me.”
“Thanks, Wes. Love you.”
“I love you, too.”
And with that, we part ways—him back to his idling truck, me down the long, winding pathways through the college campus.
For a diehard homeschooler, I’ve always been unreasonably obsessed with this place, especially in the autumn.
There’s something romantic about the red-brick lecture halls, oozing their Oxford charm among the old-growth trees and blankets of crisp orange leaves.
When I was a kid, in the summer, Grandma and I would have picnics under the big oaks with piles of books from the library.
I remember graham crackers and lemonade and falling asleep in feather-soft patches of sunlit grass.
Tonight, the lampposts are shining in the twilight, guiding me down the walkway towards Avery Hall, where the writing class is held.
Mom and I scoped it out ahead of time so I wouldn’t get lost in the mazelike campus.
It looked more imposing in the light of day.
Now, with the warm tungsten glow of the gridded windows, it looks like a cozy refuge for creative minds to escape the cold, dark unkindness of the real world.
As I approach, I see a group of people filing into the building ahead of me. Voices lift on the night wind as the door swings open and shut. The person at the back of the group hears my footsteps and pauses, holding the door for me.
“Thank you!” I say gratefully, rushing up the rest of the stairs to meet the boy who waited for me.
Perhaps young man is a better way to describe him.
He looks a few years older than Weston, but that might be due to his studious square glasses, which frame a set of intensely dark eyes.
His hair is chestnut brown and combed back in a way that echoes forgotten ’60s fashion, which pairs well with his blazer, plaid scarf, and Oxford shoes.
“After you,” he says with a bashful smile, gesturing towards the warmly lit foyer.
“Thank you,” comes my automatic reply, and as I step inside, I realize I already thanked him when he first caught the door for me.
So much for not being socially awkward.
I follow the sound of voices to classroom B, where a placard outside displays the class schedule and the professor’s name: Dr. Travis Middleton, PhD. I haven’t met him yet, but I’m hoping he’ll be less intimidating than his name and title suggest.
The classroom is bustling with students chatting and settling themselves behind desks. A whiteboard on one wall looms over an enormous mahogany desk, where an elegantly dressed woman with auburn hair sorts out some papers.
My gaze doesn’t linger on her as I pass, but when she glances up at me and says, “Good evening,” with a cheery smile, I can’t help but stop.
“Hello,” I say tentatively. “How are you?”
“I’m fantastic,” she replies, her voice buoyant and bright, as she circles the desk and extends a handshake. “Travis Middleton. And your name is…?”
My eyebrows jump in surprise. “Oh. I’m sorry, I thought Travis was—”
“A man?” she guesses with an easy laugh. “You wouldn’t be the first. You should’ve seen how confusing it was when I was in school. So many mix-ups with clubs and sports teams.” She sighs, rolling her eyes in a good-natured way. “I guarantee, whatever your name is, I will envy it.”
I grin. “It’s Tessa. Tessa Dickinson.”
“Oh! It even starts with a T. Why, Mom? Why couldn’t you have named me Tessa instead?” She clasps her hands together and moans the question dramatically at the ceiling, making me dissolve into laughter. “You share a surname with a great writer, too.”
I blush self-consciously. “Emily Dickinson is my favorite poet.”
She winks. “Mine too. I’m glad you could join us tonight, Tessa.
Please have a seat. Anywhere you’d like.
” Her beaded bracelets clink together as she swings her arm in a wide gesture, raising her voice for all the students to hear.
“In fact, everyone, feel free to move your desks around! Just make sure you’re not blocking anyone’s view of the whiteboard, okay?
We don’t want chaos, but we don’t want constriction—we want that fun gray area in between the two! ”
This is not the way I expected a traditional classroom to be run—especially by a professor whose name sounds sanctimonious enough to be a Charles Dickens character. But apparently, Dr. Travis is a free spirit who marches to the beat of her own drum. I like her already.
Being an “obsessive perfectionist” (Weston’s words, not mine), I decide not to rearrange my desk and instead keep it aligned with the back wall.
As we all settle down and pull out our notebooks and laptops, I scan the classroom.
I can tell that a lot of the attendees are college students cramming in extra studies in their downtime, which immediately makes me feel like both an amateur and an outsider.
“Looking for someone?” a girl stage-whispers next to me, dragging her desk closer to mine and tilting it at a slight angle.
She’s tall and lithe, with warm brown skin and a gorgeous afro, thick gold hoops swinging from her ears.
She plops a glittery MacBook on the desk in front of her and swings it open, fingernails flying over the keyboard as she types in her password.
“Who, me? No.” I laugh, my cheeks pinking as I fish my laptop out of my bag. “No, I’m not looking for anyone. I’m just…”
“Silently judging your fellow scholars?” she finishes with a covert wink.
“No, no, of course not.”
“It’s okay. I do it all the time. Makes for good story inspiration.” Her smile is dazzlingly white as she extends a handshake. “I’m Shoshanna, by the way.”
“Tessa.” I shake her hand. “Good to meet you.”
“Yeah, same. So now that we’re on first-name terms and everything, you can divulge who you were looking at.” Shoshanna swerves me a knowing side-eye. “Let me guess. Grayson Rhodes?”
“Who’s that?”
She tips her chin towards a student sitting a few desks in front of us. I don’t recognize the back of his head, but I glimpse a brown plaid scarf draped over his chair. The young man who held the door for me.
“Oh, him? No. No, I wasn’t looking at him.”
“I wouldn’t blame you, girl; he’s a total hottie.”
I bite back a surprised laugh. As if anyone could qualify as a “hottie” in my world other than Weston.
I’m a one-man woman through and through—however, I will admit that Grayson does have aesthetic appeal.
But just because a guy is nice to look at doesn’t mean I’m going to look. Not like that, anyway.
“So, what do you write?” Shoshanna asks me, pivoting the topic with the effortless grace of someone who is an expert at social interactions. “You seem like a rom-com kinda girl.”
“Close,” I admit. “I mostly write poetry, but I’m working on a historical romance. Sort of. What about you?”
“Fantasy series,” comes her reply. “High fantasy, Tolkien level. Like elves, faeries, dragons… and I have multiple languages and storyworld maps all over my dorm. It’s intense.”
“Sounds… intense.”
I can’t imagine having so many ideas I’d need maps to draw them out. It’s tricky enough to make the English language do what I want—but inventing other languages for the world of my characters? That’s mind-bending to think about.
“I have a feeling you all are much more serious writers than I am,” I confess meekly, opening up a Word document and fooling around with fonts just to give my fingers something to do.
“That’s crap,” Shoshanna returns with a swat of one hand. “You’re sitting here, aren’t you? You’re serious. I’m sure your story is awesome. Most of these people are probably here for the extra credit or job benefits for being a student. You’re here because you love writing. I can tell.”
Dr. Travis claps her hands together and calls the class to attention. All heads turn to where she stands at the front of the room. She’s written four words out on the whiteboard in tall, slanted letters.
YOUR STORY MATTERS. WHY?
“Welcome, everyone,” she greets the class with a sunny grin. “I’m so glad to see all your smiling faces tonight, and I’m honored to be able to be a guide to you in your creative writing endeavors.”
I feel a pair of eyes on me and try very hard not to let anything distract me—but after a moment, I can’t help letting my gaze drift to the one head that’s turned in my direction.
Grayson’s dark eyes lock on mine. A little smile twitches at one side of his mouth. I return the smile because that’s the friendly thing to do, right? Then I tug my gaze back to the professor, determined to stay focused.
“To begin our first lesson, I’d like to talk about why your story matters…”
The class finishes at seven forty-five, but I wind up staying later to let Shoshanna introduce me to a few of her friends—whom she refers to as the “Inklings.” Shamelessly stolen from C.
S. Lewis and Tolkien, she’s quick to confess, but I assure her that her literary heroes would approve of such theft.