Chapter 10 #2
“That would look even more pathetic,” I counter, not bothering to tell her I considered that already.
She opens her mouth to reply but closes it when the classroom door shuts. I look up, and in walks a woman with a stern countenance. Dressed in a red power suit, she carries a thermos in one hand and clutches a binder to her chest with the other.
I looked her up, so I know this is Professor Travers, better known in the literary world as Jessica Travers.
She’s a graduate of the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, and her short stories have been published in several national journals and magazines; one was featured in the 2007 edition of The Best American Short Stories.
It’s kind of shocking how similar she looks in person to her author photo. The same serious expression, her dishwater-blond hair in the same soft waves. Even the same red suit. Put a bookcase behind her, and I’d swear the photo had been snapped mere moments ago.
She takes a seat at the desk in the front of the class and starts to assemble her papers. I stare at her, my back straight, the epitome of a good student.
I will not look at Ellie.
Professor Travers begins the class, and I’m so focused on making it seem like I’m paying attention to her that I find it difficult to actually pay attention.
If I were actually paying attention, I would probably allow my gaze to do what it naturally wants to do, which is to wander just a little bit over to—nope.
Right now, looking like I’m paying attention is the more important task.
Helen gently nudges me in the side. Frowning, I turn to her. She darts a pointed look at Professor Travers.
Oh shit.
Professor Travers is staring at me. How the hell had I missed that while looking directly at her?
She offers me a tight smile that doesn’t reach even the general ballpark of her eyes.
Off to a great start.
“Josephina Vasquez? Why don’t you stand and tell us a little about yourself. Where you’re from, your major, and your favorite novel is what we all shared on the first day.”
My face heats, and I take a deep breath, willing my nerves to calm down. I had to do this in Two-Dimensional Design earlier too, but I felt nowhere near as anxious—for one very obvious reason.
I stand, eager to get this over with, smile at the room, and say, “Hi, my name’s Joey. I’m from San Diego. Major is… to be determined. My favorite novel is—”
Every single novel I have ever read escapes my recollection.
I glance around the class, taking care to glide my eyes over Ellie without feeling, and I wonder what the others said.
Not Ellie—he said The Catcher in the Rye, obviously—but everyone else.
Did they flounder like me, or did their answers come easily?
Do they know enough to know their answers will probably change?
That years from now, they might barely recall the plot of their current favorite book.
That sometimes, you pick a favorite of something, and it becomes your automatic answer for years to come, but every once in a while, you pause and wonder, Is that my favorite still?
But when the next time rolls around, you give the same answer again, because to have a favorite anything feels intrinsically tied to your identity.
Yank at one thread, and the whole fabric unravels.
What would I have said at eighteen?
I envy these kids, I realize. They’re still figuring out who they are. Deciding who they want to be. They could be anyone. Their lives could go any which way.
They have yet to meet both the best and worst parts of themselves.
I say the first novel that comes to mind: Haruki Murakami’s 1Q84.
Shit. Why the hell did I say that?
I move to sit back down, but Professor Travers halts me.
“Interesting choice. What about that novel in particular appeals to you?”
Now that it’s too late, plenty of other novels come to mind.
I should have gone with The Hunger Games.
Or Twilight. I exerted a lot of energy in high school and college defending both those books and their movie adaptations, and I felt downright vindicated when Kristen Stewart and Robert Pattinson began getting the critical respect they deserved.
But no, I went with 1Q84. A novel I have never read.
I wrack my brain for anything, any piece of knowledge at all, about this novel, but the only thing that comes to mind is the cover of the book I saw in Alex’s hands the other day, the one where the woman seems to stare directly at the reader.
I blink at Professor Travers, focusing on that crease just between her eyes.
God, I’m going to hate this class, aren’t I?
This is a professor who loves to Challenge her students.
Challenge with a capital C. And that was all well and good when I was eighteen the first time, taking classes for my business degree on the pre-law track, because I knew that those professors’ Challenges would serve me well as I prepared for law school and my career.
But this is a creative writing class, and I don’t even want to be a writer. Being Challenged with a capital C—and also Embarrassed with a capital E—on my first day sucks.
And then I remember—there was a man on the back cover.
And I remember even more, the one and only thing I know about 1Q84: It’s a love story. And something about a parallel universe?
Damn. Now that I think about it, maybe I should read 1Q84.