35. Are we even reading the same book?
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
are we even reading the same book?
“You’re a very talented writer, Ms. Viottolo,” Professor Rupert says as he passes my writing piece back to me with a perfect score circled at the top of the first page.
I hope I don’t look like a complete moron, staring stupefied back at him. He can’t take the grade back now that I’ve seen it, right?
“The ability to draw in a reader so fully and naturally isn’t a common ability, and you do it well,” he continues.
“Thank you, sir,” I answer, the rush of pride still unfamiliar.
I like to think I’m a hard worker, but I’ve always been average-ish at school.
Maybe I’d get a really good test grade here or do well on a project there, but Forrest was always the one who was top of our class.
I got by well enough, but the only time I’ve ever had a one-on-one with a teacher was when they were asking how they could help me excel.
Being told I’m already doing it is brand new. And writing the assignment that brought about this meeting felt easy. I’d loved it, and I even wanted to write more. I’ve never minded school, but I’ve never actively wanted to do more of it just for fun.
“I’d like to talk to you about the writing program at Desert City University.
The English department here is great, but the resources a larger school like Desert City would be able to offer you are on another level.
We have mentorship programs with authors and publishers in every genre and opportunities for student publication through both on-campus and off-campus programs. The body of professors in the department is comprised of published authors across multiple genres.
We’d be able to build a personalized curriculum for you based on what you’d like to do with your writing.
I truly believe you’d thrive in that kind of environment.
” While Professor Rupert speaks, I try to figure out if I’m dreaming.
The type of program he’s describing sounds incredible.
Ocean State College’s writing program is a certificate added to an English Lit degree that can be completed with four classes, and none of them is specialized in anything.
There isn’t the demand for more than that here, and while it might help point me in the right direction, I chose to go here knowing I’d have an uphill battle breaking into the industry.
It was a challenge I was willing to take on.
It is a challenge I am willing to take on.
Because I can’t accept Professor Rupert’s offer. My life is here. I’ve got a plan for a future I’m really excited for, and it’s not just mine alone.
“Thank you so much, Professor. I can’t tell you how much it means to hear you talk about my writing like this,” I begin, but when I pause, I see him frown, likely knowing the but is about to come.
“If you’re concerned about admissions or the transfer process, I can assure you that as head of my department, there wouldn’t be any trouble with that.
” He cuts me off before I can say no. “I’ve looked over your records and coupled with the skill I’ve seen from you over the past year, I can assure you the process would be smooth.
You’d be a great fit. And there are opportunities for financial aid for transfer students as well. ”
I feel guilty, and I wonder for a moment if I’m making the right decision. But Forrest and I have a plan. I can’t unwind that based on kind words about my writing. If it’s so good, I should be able to find another path that works better for us.
Right?
I open my mouth to decline.
“Don’t say no yet. Please consider it first. Talk to your family.
I’ll email you the contact information for some students in the program.
I promise they’re under no obligation to speak positively about me or DCU, so call them.
Hear what they have to say. Maybe you’ll be surprised.
” Professor Rupert stops me again, leaning forward in his chair now.
I can practically feel the energy coming off him. “Think about it,” he urges.
“I—” I guess there’s no harm in taking a moment before turning him down. It would be rude after all that to say no on the spot.
“I will think about it,” I agree. “When do you need an answer by?”
My professor settles back now. “The sooner the better. I’d like to get you in contact with some potential mentors as soon as possible. It’s rare to find a writer like you. Whether you accept or not, I hope you understand the gift you have.”
“Thank you, sir,” I say, wondering if he’s just trying to flatter me into saying yes.
There’s a knock on his door behind me, and I turn to see one of my classmates peeking in, his paper clutched in his hand. Professor waves him in, and I take that as my cue to stand.
“Think about it, Ms. Viottolo,” he says again.
I nod, thank him, and leave, my head swimming.
By the time I’m standing outside Forrest’s dorm room, I think I’ve replayed what Professor Rupert said at least a dozen times. I think I made it here entirely on autopilot, too focused on the meeting I just left.
Why does his program have to be all the way in Phoenix?
I try to school my face so it doesn’t show my disappointment before I raise my fist and knock. I don’t want Forrest to feel like I’m giving something up for him. What we want is also what I want.
“Cam!” Forrest exclaims before he’s fully pulled the door in. He kicks it aside and lurches forward to sweep me up in his arms. “I got the internship!” he says as he swings me around.
Forrest worked for weeks with his architecture professor and TA on an application for an architectural design internship in Boston for the summer.
The program doesn’t typically accept freshmen, but Forrest was determined.
The last few weeks have been torture as he interviewed and interviewed some more and waited for their decision, the prospect of going back to his old job at a coffee shop in Hingley hanging over his head.
“That’s amazing!” I say, squeezing him back. “Congratulations!”
I can’t help the twinge of jealousy of him being able to say yes to his perfect opportunity while I’m on the precipice of saying no to what could be mine. Then I feel like a terrible person for thinking that.
“I can’t believe they picked me,” Forrest continues as he sets me down.
He starts pacing in his small room, practically vibrating with this much excitement coursing through him.
“It’s going to be so good. I’m sure some of it will be getting coffee and organizing records and stuff, but I’ll get to see what architects at a real firm do.
I’ll get to be in the room when they plan buildings that are actually going to be made.
I can’t believe I have to sit through another six weeks of classes before I can start. ”
I’ve been enjoying watching him ramble, happy to see him so excited, but I frown when he says he’s starting in six weeks.
“Doesn’t it start in June?” I ask, specifically remembering Forrest telling me the internship started in June, leaving us enough time for at least a week-long trip to his aunt’s beach house in Maine.
We were going to travel to Canada for another week after before we both had to start work this summer.
Forrest stops pacing and rubs a hand on the back of his neck.
“Well, I’m not exactly what they’re looking for, as you know.
They usually don’t consider applicants who haven’t been in an architecture program for at least two years.
Part of the deal for me getting accepted was me committing to a full twelve-week internship.
That way I could be there early and learn what the other interns already know before they get there,” he says, suddenly unable to meet my eye.
“Oh,” I say, the vision of me sitting with my toes in the sand and a notebook on my knees dissolving. I was going to see something away from here. Granted, it wasn’t going to be very far, but it was a start, and I couldn’t wait.
I quickly count through weeks in my head. Unless I can’t count to twelve, his internship will probably end the week before orientation for our sophomore year. The entire summer.
I sink down into his desk chair.
Forrest circles his desk to lean against it in front of me. He cups my face and tilts it back, so I look at him.
“I’m so sorry, Cam. I know you wanted to go on our little trip.
Once I’m settled there, I’ll talk to them and see if I can take a Friday off in June or July.
Maybe we can drive up and have a weekend with my aunt,” he offers, and I try to feel grateful for it, but the sting of losing our summer plan—our first “little” trip—is fresh and raw.
“I know it’s not what we talked about, but this internship has a reputation of leading to more internships that become full-time jobs after graduation.
I’d be able to work every summer until I get my master’s and then have job security after.
Getting that locked down as a freshman is unheard of. I’d be settled.”
My head is swimming. Master’s? Full-time job? Settled? We’re only nineteen. All of this sounds so… old.
I can’t say that, though. Even in my head, it sounds so immature. Of course he’d want job security. His parents are still facing financial insecurity. I just thought…
I don’t know what I thought. If he can get this set and have paid internships ready for the next four years, it would give us more flexibility to travel.
“I’m happy for you,” I say, and I hope it sounds authentic.
I am happy for him. I’m just also sad for us.
“This will be good for us, and I’ll make it up to you. The money is really good. Maybe we can buy a house soon,” he says. “Before we graduate, even.”
And my stomach drops.
Buy a house? Buy a house where? Buy a house why?
“Would a house make sense if we’re going to travel?” I ask. What about Copenhagen? Vienna? Rio?
“I mean, we can still travel later. Wouldn’t that make more sense when we’re older anyway? A house is a good investment. Renting feels like throwing away money,” Forrest says, but he’s back to avoiding looking at me.
Renting feels like freedom. I don’t understand where all this came from. We’ve been talking about our plans for months, and there’s never been a hint that they were only my plans.
I try to look at Forrest with anything other than disbelief.
I might throw up.
“Oh,” Forrest says, like he’s just remembered something. I wait for the next bomb to drop. “What did your professor want to talk about?”
It feels like that conversation was years ago, not half an hour ago.
“Nothing,” I sputter. “I did well on our last assignment. He was congratulating me.”
“That’s amazing!” Forrest says, but I feel hollow.
Forrest wraps me in his arms and presses a kiss to the top of my head.
“Thank you for understanding,” he murmurs.
Usually, in Forrest’s arms is where I feel safest. But right now, I feel blindsided.