8 | Georgia
“WHY DO YOU think Dr. Randie wants to see me? Do you think it has anything to do with the literature column?” I glance in Patrick’s direction as we walk hastily across the center of campus.
The literature column has been a personal project of mine since freshman year – the only section in the TU Tribune focused entirely on classic novels, poetry, book recommendations, you name it. Although Dr. Randie, my advisor and the head of the TU Tribune, is, herself, an English professor, she has repeatedly denied my requests for a book column.
“There wouldn’t be enough interest from the students at TU,” she says. “They only care about sports.”
“How should I know?” Patrick responds, gruffly, as he glances at his phone and his eyes widen, just slightly.
“Hey, Georgia, um – I’ve gotta go. Just got a text from my lab partner. I have to meet them in the Chem building to help prep beakers.”
“Right now?” I look at him, confused. “I thought you said you have Calculus at 10 on Thursdays. It’s already 9:50.”
I look at my watch, just to make sure.
Yep, it’s 9:52.
“Oh, yeah, um, it got canceled. Just now – I got an email. I’ll see you tonight.” He gives me a rough kiss on the cheek before hiking his backpack higher onto his shoulder and heading back in the direction we came, towards the Chemistry building. I watch him make his way through the crowd of students until he’s no longer visible, becoming more and more aware of the blistering heat with every second I haven’t moved.
“What the hell was that about?”
Eleanor.
I turn to look at her. Her sleek brown hair is pulled half-up, half down with a tortoise shell claw clip, and she’s dressed casually in a light blue tank top with matching leggings. She boasts a familiar scowl on her face.
“I-I really don’t know. Things have been weird,” I admit.
“He ran off like you have some sort of disease.” She pauses. “Do you?”
I roll my eyes, clearly not in the mood for jokes.
“No… he said he had to meet a lab partner in the Chem building. I didn’t even know he had a lab partner.”
“I’m sure everything’s fine, Georgie – are you ready to head to the Tribune?”
“Yeah, Dr. Randie is waiting for me. She emailed me this morning that she needed to meet with me pretty urgently. I’m hoping it’s about–”
“THE LITERATURE COLUMN!” Eleanor exclaims, a beaming grin lighting up her face. “I knew she’d come around! You’ve been waiting for this for YEARS!”
She envelopes me in a side hug and jumps up and down – a difficult feat when the object of your hug isn’t moving.
“Get off me!” I laugh. “I hope that’s what it is. But I really have no idea. Wish me luck, I guess.”
I step in front of Dr. Randie’s mahogany office door and take a deep breath. If she approves my literature column, everything I’ve worked for over the past two years will have been worth it.
Don’t get too excited, Georgia. Just knock and see what she wants to meet about.
“Come in,” she calls, her voice muffled by the solid wooden door.
I find Dr. Randie sitting at her desk, surrounded by neat stacks of paperwork, sticky notes, and computer monitors. Her jet-black hair is placed neatly in a French twist near the crown of her head. Her lips, painted red and matte, are pursed in concentration. Always the over-dresser, she wears an elegant burgundy wrap dress that enhances the ballerina-like wispiness of her figure. Her small glasses sit perched at the end of her nose as she squints to read the paper in front of her.
“Good morning, Dr. Randie,” I say, setting my backpack down and sitting myself quietly in front of her desk.
“Hello, Georgia – how are you? I suppose you’re curious as to why I called you in here.”
“I’m doing good. Yeah, I was going to ask you…” I trail off, doing my best to suppress a smile.
It has always been my dream to write. As a TU Tribune columnist, I have spent countless hours on articles about the weather, local events, scholarships, student drama – you name it. This literature column would be the perfect opportunity to finally write about something I’m truly passionate about.
Dr. Randie clears her throat, gently placing her glasses and paper on top of her desk and folding her hands neatly.
“Georgia, do you know Coach Bryer?” She looks at me with an eyebrow raised, her lips still pursed.
Do I know the TU football coach? What on earth does that have to do with anything?
“Do I know him? No, ma’am, but I know who he is. The football coach.” I bring my thumbnail up to bite it – a nervous habit – but quickly stop myself.
“Yes, the football coach. He recently contacted me and brought to my attention that his team, for the first time in many years, is in the running for the NCAA national championship this season.”
So?
“He says, more than ever, they are needing student support to encourage the players through their games. He asked that the Tribune run a multi-week piece over the football team – what they do at practice, how they play at their games, biographies on the players, et cetera, to draw interest from the study body. And I’d like you to write it.”
My throat goes dry.
“Weeks with the football team? But I… what about my literature column?” I plead, before I can stop myself.
She smiles at me, in her own Dr. Randie way – just barely a half smile.
“I really need you to do this, Georgia. Coach Bryer rarely asks favors, and I’m afraid we’ll lose funding if we don’t listen to what he wa-”
“So, we’re just going to let him control the Tribune?! How is that fair? Coach Bryer doesn’t run this school! Other things matter that aren’t football!”
My cheeks flush hot with my temper and a lump forms at the base of my throat. It’s not about the fact that I need to write a football column – it’s that my literature column is still a figment of my dreams and that the TU Tribune, which I have worked so hard to make successful, could apparently be gone in the blink of an eye if Coach Bryer isn’t satisfied.
“Please calm down, Georgia. If you do this for me, which allows the TU Tribune to continue receiving funding and, therefore, continue to exist… I will grant your wishes for a book column.”
My heart starts to pound, my eyes lighting up with excitement.
Is she being serious right now?
“But,” she finishes, “only if you do what Coach Bryer asks and write about the topics he requests. I know you can do this well, Georgia.”
She looks at me with sympathy, her expression softened. “You’re the best writer we have.”
I know that I have no choice.