Chapter 5
Guinevere
T he lecture room is big, yet stuffy since it’s so old. The desks span each half of the room, with an aisle down the middle. There’s a desk at the front of the room, and next to it stands a podium with a small microphone. The only thing in this room that’s modern is the smart board behind the desk.
There’s an old, musty smell that fills the air, and the large windows that overlook the west side of campus are smudged and slightly dirty from age.
The professor is almost always late but she’s great at her job, and she loves me. I’m always one of the first ones here since I have a very particular ritual for when I arrive. I choose the same seat every single class. The end seat right near the aisle in the first row. This way I’m right in front and I can see everything without having to squint.
I take my seat and begin to empty my bag of everything I know I’ll need. After a few moments, my laptop is in front of me, my pen and pencil are placed neatly on one side, my notebook and water bottle on the other.
I rub my hands on the jeans covering my thighs and adjust my blouse. My breasts sit nicely in my cotton push up bra, and the shirt definitely shows them off. The light sky-blue color makes my blue eyes pop.
My long brown hair is pulled back into a ponytail that lands at the middle of my back, and I didn’t put on a ton of makeup this morning other than some mascara and blush, so I didn’t look like I was dying.
As I begin typing my notes, more students file into the large room. This class isn’t that popular, and most don’t take it voluntarily like I did. Many people find it boring since it’s just reading and then talking about it, but I find it thrilling to read new things all the time and I love debating with other points of view.
My best friend Lainey calls me a nerd because I can sit and talk for hours about a good book.
Everyone takes their seats in their typical spots, and my friend Damian takes his seat next to me, setting all of his things on the table.
His smile is contagious as he throws an arm around my shoulders, tucking me into his side.
“Hey Gwenny,” he teases. He knows I hate that nickname, but he loves to annoy me. I’ve known Damian since we were in middle school. We met in seventh grade and have been inseparable ever since. His family moved into my neighborhood, and we hung out practically every day.
Everyone always thought we were dating, or we were going to get married one day. We did try to date once in high school, but we both decided that we were better off as friends.
When we graduated, we both applied to the same colleges, and when we were both accepted to Ellington, it made the decision easy. We take completely different classes since our majors are completely different.
Damian is a business major and I’m an education major. We wanted at least one class together so we’d always be able to see each other, even if we were too busy. So, when I suggested literary criticism, Damian agreed to enroll too.
“You know I hate it when you call me that. It’s bad enough that my mom still does it,” I roll my eyes at his smug expression. He loves to push my buttons. He pinches my cheek and I swat his hand away.
“What were you up to last night? You didn’t answer my text,” Damian pouts.
“I was working on the paper due today.”
His eyes go wide.
“Shit,” he mutters under his breath. Well, safe to say Damian forgot about the assignment. He’s really very good at school, but since we got to college, he’s been big on partying. I can’t help the chuckle that escapes my mouth.
“Good morning, everyone. Sorry I’m late. Traffic was crazy this morning,” Professor Whitely scurries down the steps and sets her belongings on her desk. She pulls out some stacks of paper and her laptop.
Professor Whitely is pretty young for a college professor. She can’t be more than twenty-seven or twenty-eight. She’s a small woman, probably around five foot one, and her dark brown hair makes her hazel eyes stand out.
She’s almost always dressed in a long pencil skirt and a tight blouse which gives her this whole ‘sexy librarian’ look, and I’m sure that’s why ninety percent of the men in this class are here.
“Alright. Let’s talk. What did you all think about the book?” she pauses and looks around the room, waiting for someone to answer the questions. When no one responds, she continues. “Okay… who actually read it?” About less than half of the class raises their hands causing Professor Whitely to chuckle.
“Well, thanks for being honest, I guess. Okay, so someone who actually did the homework, tell me what you thought.” Again, no one answers. I raise my hand since clearly no one is going to get this conversation started.
Professor Whitely smiles, relief taking over her features.
“Yes, Guinevere. What did you think? Romance, or tragedy?”
The book was a romantic tale about a young woman traveling the world on her own and finding the love of her life, but eventually she has to leave and go home.
Instead of going with her, the man who supposedly loved her decided to stay there and not go with her. She was heartbroken.
He ended up coming back to her, realizing she was more important than where he lived. But in the end, the woman dies, and the man is left alone in a place he doesn’t know. It definitely wasn’t a happy ending, and I sobbed like a baby.
“I believe it was a story of romance. A testament to what true love can overcome.”
Professor Whitely smiles.
I hear a loud scoff come from somewhere behind me and my shoulders tighten. I whip around in my seat to find a face I recognize. It’s the asshole from the hallway. “Is something funny?” I ask, my tone impertinent.
The guy brings a hand to his chest as if to say ‘who, me?’. “I just think it’s odd that you think this story is anything but a tragedy,” he leans back in his seat, folding his arms across his broad chest.
“She finds the love of her life. He leaves his home to be with her. How is it not a romance?”
The guy rolls his eyes as if he’s already over the conversation which only makes my annoyance with him grow.
Leaning forward and placing his forearms on the table in front of him, he steeples his fingers. I can already tell this guy is an arrogant dick.
“So, it’s romantic that the woman dies in the end? It’s romantic that the man moved away from his home and everything he ever knew to be with a woman who died soon after? That’s not romantic, that’s tragic,” he argues.
I can partially see where he’s coming from, but I don’t want him to think that he’s won.
His brows lift as if daring me to say something that contradicts his statement. A strand of his dark black hair falls into his face.
“Maybe you’re just looking at it wrong. Maybe it’s your cynicism that makes you think that this story is about anything other than love and devotion.”
His eyes narrow and it seems like I struck a nerve.
“You don’t know me,” he growls.
“I don’t need to know you to see how you view the world. Your pessimistic and bleak outlook on this story proves that you don’t know anything about what it is to love or be loved.”
It comes out so fast I can’t even stop myself.
I don’t think I meant to say it, but the way he was arguing with me made my blood boil. He just stares at me, no reply, nothing. Just a glare that causes a shiver to run down my spine.
Professor Whitely clears her throat. “Okay. Well, now we can see the story from different sides. Great job guys.”
The rest of class goes by in a blur. After we turn in our essays, Professor Whitely dismisses us.
Damian and I pack up our things and head for the stairs, away from this nightmare of a situation I just caused.