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“What do you mean you’re not cooking dinner tonight?” Clea asked with a frown while I shoved some lunch meat and crackers into my mouth while I finished my homework for the evening.
It was already half after six and I was skirting with being on time instead of early if I didn’t get a move on.
“I already told you,” I muttered, watching cracker dust fly out of my mouth while I tried to chew and talk at the same time. “My new job.”
“What kind of TA job makes you work nights?” she demanded, frowning.
Ok, it was more like pouting.
The girl really hated cooking.
“Sorry. I’m not sure how often I’ll be out in the evening. When I know my schedule better I’ll let you know and we’ll adjust the cooking calendar, ok?” I promised, digging for some mint gum in my desk drawer before packing my bag.
What did a woman need to take to TA a class? I had no freaking clue.
The school was deserted by the time I went through the main entrance; the halls had never seemed so big. The few individuals that lingered were the night school crowd, an elusive group I’d never mixed with before.
Professor Harlo wasn’t in the classroom when I arrived, so I found a little chair sitting in the corner of the room and situated it beside the desk before I sat to wait.
And wait.
And wait.
The class filled up over the next twenty minutes, and all the while, I wondered where the heck the professor was who'd insinuated that 'on time' was late?
Well, he strolled in after everyone had been seated, plopped his briefcase on the desk and proceeded to lean his rear against the front edge before sticking his hands in his pockets and looking around.
“You know,” he started, jumping right in. “It's been said, ‘Learn the rules like a pro, so you can break them like an artist.’ Have any of you ever heard some variation of this quote before?”
Silence.
“We’re not sure who said it first, some say it was Picasso, or the Dahli Lama, the list goes on, but I have always found it important and concise, no matter who said it first. Why is it important and concise, you ask? That is simple. Writing is art. You’ve all taken the prerequisite English 101. You’ve begun to learn the rules of writing. Now, in this class, you'll begin to learn how to break them.”
He got up and went to his briefcase where he pulled out a stack of papers. For the first time since stepping into the room, his eyes alighted on mine and my chest tightened for some inexplicable reason.
“Pass these out to the class, please,” he said, handing me the papers.
I did as he said, trying to understand why I was having what felt like a freaking heart attack just by meeting his eyes.
I took little stacks and passed them out to the first person in each row, who sent it back from there.
Professor Harlo went on for a while, discussing the merits of creativity versus rules, and when to use both. I soaked it all up, breathing in the richness of his experience like a whore snorting a line of cocaine. It was beautiful, the way he talked, in an odd sort of way. Nobody should sound like they’re reciting poetry while listing the ideology of breaking rules in art.
When class ended, I jumped, startled as the chairs all scraped back in unison.
“Next week, I want every one of those papers turned in with your three page short story,” he called out while everyone filed out. And tomorrow we’ll have a short pop quiz.”
I watched, still sitting on my butt.
“Well, that was a successful class if I do say so myself,” Professor Harlo said as he went back to his briefcase.
I wasn’t sure if he was expecting an answer, but he didn’t really leave me time in which to decide if he was.
“Come along. There are papers to scratch at and tests to grade,” he said to me, waving me after him.
I followed like a puppy dog.
“So, Miss Miller,” he started as we made our way back to his office. “What brings you to the English department? Why not math or some other drudgery-filled subject?”
