Chapter 6
Sitting on my bed in the middle of my room, I fidget with a ruffle on my light pink comforter as I read through the syllabus for Anatomy. The class is set up simple enough. It’s broken down in a combination of lectures and labs. The final counts for 50% of my grade. That doesn’t make me want to vomit at all. I lay back for a moment and take a breath looking around my room.
My room has always been my comfort zone. The walls are lined with bookshelves that my mom’s friend Jacob built for me. He owns the local hardware store and helped Mom renovate the inn when she bought it. My room was included in that renovation. I have strategically filled them over the years. As one reached capacity, Jacob would build another. He jokes that he’ll have to put bookshelves under my bed at this point, but I love it. It’s like sleeping in a library. My own carefully curated library.
I have all the classics, history books, books on special interests, and even some of my favorite children’s books. One shelf is dedicated fully to fantasy. The shelves don’t only hold books. They also hold photographs of me, my mom, a few of me and Sarah Mae. There are some academic awards littered around too and small figurines from different fantasy novels I love.
As a journalist I write about the real world and call attention to problems in a new light, however, when escaping to my room isn’t enough, going into another world is just the fix. Unfortunately, there is no escaping the feeling that I’m in over my head.
I have read over the course description and syllabus for my Journalism class five times. The class is completely immersive. The school publishes a physical paper each week, as well as daily blog posts. Competitive doesn’t even begin to cover it. My stomach growls, reminding me that I do actually have to leave my room at some point tonight.
Mom should be finished up with the nighttime rounds by now. The thing about living at the inn you run is that you’re never really off the clock. It made for an interesting childhood. I got to meet people from all over, but it also makes for lack of privacy. Our apartment is separated from the guests’ rooms with our own private living area, and mom hires a weekend manager, so she has time off, but still. I can’t just go sit outside without the possibility of running into guests. I groan and lift off the bed. When I finally work up enough nerve to leave my sanctuary and enter our living room, I see my mom off the open floor plan in the kitchen area.
Mom is gorgeous in her own right. She is tall whereas I am short. She has long brown hair that always sits perfectly where I have blonde wavy hair that I have to put too much product in just to get it to behave. The Georgia humidity is no friend of mine. The only thing identical about us is our eyes. We both have bright blue eyes.
As I approach the kitchenette, I notice that she has a tray filled with all my favorite junk foods. Pizza bagels, tater tots, taquitos, and even a soft pretzel with cheese. So much for a nutritious dinner. If Gabriel the in-house chef saw this collection he would die, come back to life, and then immediately make me eat a pan-seared pork chop with honey-roasted green beans. There’s a reason my mom had to outsource that particular job. I smile. She looks up at me and says in her Smeagol voice, “The study troll has emerged, must feed it substance, so it doesn’t smash the village.” I just laugh.
“Really, mom? I’m not that bad.”
Moving with the tray to the coffee table she plops down on our faded blue sofa. At one time it was a bright royal blue, but no longer. The sofa, I’m pretty sure is older than me but is the most comfortable seat in the entire inn. “You’ve been locked in your room since you got home. I barely got two sentences from you before you came up.”
“I’m sorry, I just had a lot of homework.”
She gives me a pointed look. “On the first day? Is this homework assigned by the teacher or by Amelia to get ahead?”
“Both?” I laugh. “Am I really that bad?”
“Honey, you snuck your books home in first grade and completed an entire 9 weeks of work over a weekend.” She is teasing but there’s pride in her eyes. “I should have put you in a private school then, I just didn’t” She drifts off. She gets the same sad look she has every time we pull into my grandparents’ house. A combination of regret and longing.
“I know. You didn’t want me in that world.” I grab a pizza bagel off the tray and lay my head in her lap. “After today I can see why.”
She strokes my hair. “Bad first day?”
It takes time to formulate a response. I guess it isn’t all bad. I don’t want her to worry and think that she made a mistake pushing me to go. I don’t think mentioning my mentor situation is a good idea either. Boys are a sore subject. My mom isn’t anti-dating, she’s just anti-distraction. My one and only attempt at having a boyfriend didn’t end well. She’s still bitter from when I told her the reason for my breakup with the seemingly perfect small town guy. I don’t keep secrets from her, generally, excluding one aforementioned letter from my grandfather. She knows all the details as to why I ended my relationship with Tyler. As it turns out, small-town boys don’t match up with big dreams.
“Not bad, just different.” I pause. “Intense.” For a writer, I sure am struggling with words today.
“Intense how?” I figured that answer wouldn’t suffice. I come by my inquisitive nature honestly. I was left with no choice but to spill about the encounter with Lisa. I also mentioned that my mentor was male. I didn’t go into detail about his flirtatious nature or that I had let my determination of a distraction-free year waiver after only one class. On the bright side, her upset with Lisa distracted her from any questions about Ben.
We spent the rest of the night tearing through the tray of snacks. Mom talked me into staying out of my room long enough for an episode of Golden Girls, our go-to comfort show. After promising not to stay up too late reading through my course materials, I closed myself off in my room.
Back in my sanctuary, I send Sarah Mae a text promising to fill her in over the weekend of all the “Briar patch” as she calls it, tea. Having a best friend that gets I need to focus this week is the best. Even if I do feel like I abandoned her. She has been my rock.
Besides, she has her art friends to keep her occupied. Sarah Mae is one of the most talented artists I have ever met. She lives and breathes her work. While she specializes in painting, she has recently undertaken working with clay and has been known to go into a hole for days working on a piece. It’s why we work well together. The ability to be in a room for hours not speaking while she paints, and I read or work on my latest piece.
Finally ready to settle down for the night, I change into my pajamas. I suppose pajamas are a loose term. NYU sweatshirt and shorts. I’ve wanted to go to NYU since my mom and I took a trip to New York when I was 10. I fell in love with the city. A night owl, the idea of being in a city that never sleeps is more than appealing. It’s a love my mom and I share.
The only story she tells me about her childhood is when my grandfather took her to see her first Broadway play. The nanny had quit, and he was forced to take her on a business trip. The way she painted the city her eyes brightened. She said she knew she had to take me one day.
Despite having to fight the anxiety that comes with me moving far away, she’s always encouraged my big ambitions. She sees the way I come to life in the city. Don’t get me wrong, I love my small town, but I want to experience more than the corn husking festival and spring jubilee.
Laying in my bed staring up at the ceiling, I struggle to fall asleep under the uncertainty of what tomorrow brings. Usually, the first week of school I’m glowing with excitement, and I am about the classes. I just feel like finding my way around socially will be an educational experience in itself.
Eventually, I fall into a fitful sleep. Complete darkness encases me then a soft glow emerges. The thorns from the Briarwood emblem begin to wrap around my body slowly. I fight against them and as a struggle the thorns consume me. My breathing becomes jagged. This is the same dream I’ve had every night for the last week. Something is different this time, I can see a fuzzy shape emerging out of the darkness. Then a voice drowns out my ragged breath. “Don’t worry Dorothy, I got you.” Ben?