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7
LUCAS
I blink my exhausted, weary eyes as I walk through campus, trying to avoid falling on my ass with all the ice covering the sidewalks. I’m practically ice skating my way to class, which is pretty dangerous considering I barely got any sleep last night. Between Hunter being a fucking asshole to us and Seth and I trying to cheer Rachel up, all while operating on a completely different sleep schedule, this first day of class is really going to blow.
Which sucks, because I’ve been looking forward to it all vacation long.
I stop in front of the liberal arts building, taking a moment to gaze up at the marble stone, its windowsills covered in pristine white snow with naked trees surrounding the area. I inhale deeply, allowing the fresh air to seep into my body while I look around at the area. It’s completely different from the Political Science building I’m usually accustomed to going to, where the building is more brutalist and there’s no greenery around. It’s like I’ve walked into a completely different world, surrounded by students shuffling past, who are dressed in black beanies and rumpled coats.
The art building isn’t far from here, probably about a five-minute walk, and I briefly wonder if I can meet with Rachel after class some day for a quick coffee. While looking around I imagine the place in spring; imagining the trees covered in leaves and blossoming flowers. There’s even a patch of grass in front of the building with benches overlooking the campus. I imagine myself sitting with Rachel, her talking about photography, me talking about my poetry all while drinking coffee and looking at the beauty of Aurora University.
I sigh, feeling overwhelmed with excitement and nervousness. This is my second writing class this year, this time focusing on poetry. I don’t know how I did it, but I was able to talk my councilor into skipping Writing 201 after showing a flimsy portfolio of my work to several English professors. I guess they liked what they saw, which surprised me. A part of me wonders if they somehow made a mistake, but I don’t plan on asking them.
I frown, wondering how this is going to go over in the Brent household. It was already hard enough explaining the first writing class to my father. I originally told him it was good for future lawyers to be able to craft an eloquent speech.
I doubt he would be so reasonable with me taking another writing class.
But I don’t want to be a lawyer. I never wanted to be. It’s something he wanted for me; to follow in the footsteps of all the Brents before me. Become a lawyer, make tons of money, settle down with a perfect wife and have perfect children I barely know. And repeat.
I shake my head as I enter the building, the warmth hitting me immediately. I smile up at the long hall in front of me, a staircase to my right. I’m finally here, about to pursue my dream in becoming a poet. And fuck my father. I’m not him. And I don’t ever want to be him. One of these days, I’m going to become a writer.
He just doesn’t know it yet.
I feel my cellphone buzz in my back pocket as soon as I take a step towards the hall. Grabbing it, I move away from the entrance as students push past me, finding a corner out of everyone’s way. I frown at the time before I groan. Not only is my class starting in about five minutes, but my caller ID reads: Rich Bastard.
It’s my dad.
Speak of the devil.
I inhale deeply, counting to ten and reminding myself the asshole pays for my bills so I shouldn’t be a complete jerk. And I want him to keep paying for my luxurious lifestyle. I haven’t worked a day in my life and I plan on keeping it that way for just a bit longer.
Forcing a smile, I answer, “Hey Dad.”
“Why are you taking another writing class?”
Ugh.
I knew he was going to find out eventually, but why now? It’s like the guy stalks each and every one of my moves.
“Can we talk about this later?” I ask, trying to sound calm and reasonable, which is easier said than done. “Class is about to start.”
How did the guy even access my school account?
I close my eyes as I recall saving my password on my laptop at home. He probably found a tech guy to break into the computer and accessed it that way.
Great.
“I know it’s about to start,” I hear him say on the other side. He sounds like he’s trying very hard not to shout at me. I realize he’s probably known for a while. Maybe Mom talked him out of calling me and he finally reached his breaking point. “That’s why I’m calling.”
I grind my teeth to keep myself from saying anything, knowing it will only make things worse. I hear Mom in the background saying, “You should have waited until tonight.”
Ah, Mom. Always the mediator.
“I thought we agreed you’d be taking that American Foreign Policy class.”
I wince. He is still on that whole thing. That class looks, and probably is, absolutely boring. “Yeah, I remember us talking about it.” However, I didn’t say anything about actually taking it.
“It will look better on your transcript rather than-”
