4. Skylar
“It’s still dark outside.” Poppy padded into the living room, still in her pajamas, blond hair piled on top of her head in a messy bun. She followed Skylar’s gaze to the untouched box. “It’s a really nice camera, Sky. Like, really nice.”
“I know.” Skylar rummaged through her bag for her bus pass.
“So?”
“So I can’t accept a thousand-dollar gift from your boyfriend.”
“Charlie feels terrible.” Poppy rubbed her left eyelid. “This is him trying to make things right.”
“I don’t need his charity, Poppy.” The words came out sharper than intended. Skylar tried again. “I appreciate the gesture. I do. But I can’t keep the camera.” Poppy opened her mouth to argue, but Skylar was already at the door. “Text him and tell him to return the thing.”
The September morning was cool and dim, the first hint of autumn sharpening the air. Skylar walked quickly toward the bus stop, pulling out her phone to text her grandmother.
Skylar:
Morning Grams. How’s Gramps today?
The reply came before she reached the corner.
Grams:
Good morning sweetheart. He’s being stubborn as usual. With the insurance inspection next week he wants to get to the shop and make a stab at cleaning out the storage room.
Skylar’s jaw tightened. Her grandfather had been “stubborn” for two months now.
ever since the small stroke in July. The dizzy spells had never fully gone, and the doctors said the same things on every visit, slow down, less stress, fewer hours under the hood, a list Hanson Hartley nodded along to and ignored the second he reached the shop.
The hospital stay had eaten what little cushion the business kept, and the follow-up appointments kept eating, which was its own kind of pressure nobody in the family said out loud.
The truth was Hanson Hartley should have retired five years ago. Would have retired, if life hadn’t had other plans, leaving him with funeral costs, legal fees, and a twelve-year-old to raise on a mechanic’s salary.
As she jogged down the tree-lined street packed with houses that had stood for over a hundred years, she typed quickly.
Skylar:
Tell him the shop can wait an hour. His health can’t.
Grams:
You sound just like the doctor. He doesn’t listen to her either.
Grams:
We miss you sweetheart. The house is too quiet.
An ache settled behind Skylar’s ribs. Three weeks back at Thorndale and she still wasn’t used to being eight hours away from the only family she had left.
Skylar:
I miss you too. I’ll video call tonight after my shift at the diner.
Grams:
We’ll be here. Love you.
Skylar:
Love you both. Make him rest.
She pocketed the phone as the bus rounded the corner, already running through the day ahead. Hospital until ten. Sprint across campus for a journalism lecture. English comp. Then the workshop she’d been nervous about all week.
Thursday’s writing section met at 2:00 p.m. in the basement of Havencrest Hall.
Skylar arrived with ten minutes to spare, her body running on caffeine and four hours of sleep. The hospital had been chaos that morning, the ER overflowing with a bus accident’s worth of minor injuries, and she’d barely made her journalism lecture on time.
The classroom was smaller than she’d expected.
A long rectangular table dominated the space, twelve chairs arranged around the polished wood.
She chose a seat with her back to a window that looked out at a grassy lawn and a sliver of gray sky.
If she couldn’t escape, she could at least force herself to focus.
The lecture portions of Creative Writing met Monday and Wednesday, a hundred students crammed into an auditorium listening to Professor Whitmore discuss narrative structure.
But Thursdays were different. Thursdays, the class split into small workshop sections of ten students each, led by graduate TAs.
Students filtered in. A girl with pink hair and a nose ring took the seat across from her.
A guy in a fraternity sweatshirt dropped into a chair at the far end, scrolling through his phone.
A quiet woman who might have been thirty settled near the window, arranging her notebook with careful precision.
At 2:14, the door opened and the hairs on the back of Skylar’s neck raised. She looked up as Charlie Carnell strolled into the room.
Skylar’s spine stiffened. She angled her body toward the table, fixing her gaze on her laptop, willing herself invisible. Of all the sections, all the time slots—
“Charlie.” The frat guy perked up. “Dude, great game last week. That fourth-quarter drive was insane.”
“Thanks.” Charlie emitted the easy warmth and effortless charm of those used to being liked. “Couldn’t have done it without the line.”
Skylar scoffed internally and looked down at her keyboard.
Footsteps approached. A chair scraped against the floor beside her and the scent of fresh-cut grass drifted her way.
“Hey.” His elbow brushed hers.
She didn’t look up. “Hey.”
“I didn’t know you were in this section.”
“I didn’t think you’d be interested in a creative writing class.”
A pause. “I’m full of surprises.”
At exactly 2:15, a man in his late twenties entered, messenger bag slung across his chest, coffee cup in hand. “Good afternoon. This is the Thursday workshop section of ENG 350.” With a tap on his tablet the screen at the front of the room lit up with a course outline.
“Let’s talk about what this class is and what it isn’t.
This isn’t a lecture where you take notes while I talk about narrative structure.
This is a workshop, which means you’ll write, share, and critique each other’s work.
By semester’s end, you’ll know each other’s writing better than you know your own. ”
Across the table, a pretty blond girl in a field hockey sweatshirt tucked her hair behind her ear and smiled at Charlie. His mouth curved, wide and easy and perfectly symmetrical.
Skylar rolled her eyes and turned to the syllabus. Four major assignments, each worth 25 percent of the grade.
“Assignment one is a personal narrative. A moment that changed how you see the world. Due week four.” The TA paused, letting the words settle.
“I’ll warn you now, surface-level work won’t pass in this class.
The best writing comes from the places we’d rather not examine.
The fears we don’t want to name. The memories we’ve tried to bury.
I’m not asking you to trauma dump, but I am asking you to be honest. Real.
If you’re not uncomfortable while you’re writing, you’re probably not digging deep enough. ”
Skylar’s grip on her laptop tightened. For two years she’d kept Thorndale separate from Ironwood, a place where no one looked at her with pity or shock. If she wrote about her life story, that protective layer would vanish.
“Assignment two is a character study, due week eight. Someone you know. Someone who wants something they believe they can’t have. This is where you learn to write real people honestly.”
Charlie shifted beside her. She didn’t look.
“Assignment three is collaborative. You and your critique partner will choose a moment and each write your own version of events. Same scene, same dialogue, different internal experience. Then you’ll write a joint reflection on what you learned about point of view. Due week twelve.”
Critique partner. The words landed heavy in Skylar’s gut.
“Assignment four is your final piece. Open genre, open topic. Due week fifteen.” The TA advanced the slide. “Questions so far?”
No one moved.
He reached into his bag and produced a deck of cards, fanning them across the table. “Come up one at a time and draw a card. You’ll be partnered with whoever draws the matching number. Fate decides.”
Charlie went first. He crossed to the table with that easy athletic grace, drew a card, and showed the seven of spades to the class before returning to his seat.
Three more students drew, one pair finding their matches. She watched the girl with the pink hair show the five of diamonds to the room. Skylar approached the remaining cards, fingers hovering. She hesitated on the card in the middle, begging the fates to give her any spade.
She plucked up the card and turned the thin piece of plastic-coated material over.
Seven red hearts stared back at her.
Her shoulders dropped. Of course she’d be paired with the golden boy of Thorndale. Luck had never been on her side. Keeping her face neutral she showed the class her card.
“Hearts and spades,” the TA noted. “Excellent. You two will either write something beautiful together or destroy each other trying. Should be interesting.”