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I frown, noticing the students quickly dispersing to their classes. I look at my watch, noticing I have about thirty seconds before being marked tardy. “I’m sorry, Dad. I really must go. Can’t we talk about this later?”
“No, we can’t talk about this later!”
I grimace, pulling the phone away from my ear while striding down the hall, looking at the numbers and searching for Room 113.
“This is a complete waste of your time. You should be focusing on what will help you in grad school.”
“Uh-huh,” I say, stopping in front of my room. I look at the time, stifling a groan as I see I’m already two minutes late. I hear Dad going on and on, but I’m not paying attention.
I grab a gum wrapper from my coat pocket and rub it against the receiver on my phone. “Dad?” I shout. “Dad?”
I hear him shouting, but I continue rubbing my phone with the wrapper, a twisted smile taking hold of my lips. “Ah crap! I think something’s wrong with my phone. I can’t hear you. Dad? Dad?”
I quickly hang up and frown as I see him call back. I press the off button, waiting for my screen to go black before shoving my phone back into my pocket.
I should have thought of that sooner
I knock lightly at the door, cracking it open and cringing at the irritated look the professor shoots me. Not the greatest first impression, I think while pushing the door further open and stepping inside. The professor straightens her spectacles on her nose, her eyes narrowing on me. I look around the room, my face heating as all eyes turn to me. Some irritated, others curious. I drop my gaze to the floor, feeling instantly self-conscious.
“Sorry for being late,” I murmur, shoving my hands into my coat pockets to keep myself from fidgeting.
I stand there, not moving. A part of me wonders if she will kick me out and all my father’s hopes and dreams will come true. Instead, I hear her heave an exasperated sigh. “Just take a seat,” she says and I lift my head, watching her while she gestures to the seats in front of her.
I quickly grab a chair in the front, dropping my bag on the floor. There are only about fifteen other students in the small class and looking at the girls I’m sitting between, I notice a syllabus on everyone’s desk.
I look to the right, looking over a girl’s shoulder while trying to read what we will be going through when I hear the professor’s heals clacking on the floor. She hands me a packet, her eyes assessing me once more as she says, “Don’t make a habit of being late.”
I force a smile and nod. “Of course,” I breathe, taking the packet earnestly and flipping through its pages.
“Now, for those of you who were late-”
I grimace. She’s really not going to let this go, now is she?
“My name is Professor Wood, and this is Writing 301 with a focus on poetry.”
I nod while reading through the syllabus, taking note that we will have a project due each month. We’ll be learning about different styles of poetry. Most of our homework assignments will entail reading Robert Frost, William Blake, Emily Dickinson, and, of course Edgar Allan Poe. I notice a few other author names, yet I don’t recognize them.
“I also want to announce a writing contest taking place between now and April.”
My head perks up as I watch the smart board change, showing a simple caption of the Berkshire Prize. I scramble for my bag, quickly unzipping it and searching for a pen. I grab one and attempt to write the due date on my syllabus, but the pen isn’t working. I shake it, but no ink comes out. I scribble, but nothing.
“Here.”
I peak my head up, finding the professor standing in front of me again, offering me a pencil and my cheeks heat so much I fear I have caught fire. There are giggles behind me, which does nothing to ease my embarrassment.
“Thank you,” I murmur, taking the pencil and keeping my head down.
Ugh. In just five minutes I’ve turned myself into the class loser.
Stupid Dad calling me and throwing me off my game.
I write down the due date, happy to see I have until mid-April to send in my pieces. The contest is for a poetry book with a grand prize of $3,000. I have a notebook filled with little blurbs and writing exercises, but nothing I would call worthy of being in a book. I could probably use a few of the works I sent in to the English professors. But they aren’t perfect, and for something like this, I would need my best work.
As soon as I finish writing the information down, I frown, knowing there is no way I could ever win something this huge. I’m barely a writer. Just a wannabe. Eventually Dad will have his way and I will have to forget I ever tried to make a writer out of myself.
I lean back into my seat and try to focus on Professor Wood and not the ache in my heart, knowing this is all useless. I’m not a writer. This is just something I’m doing to piss my dad off.
I sigh and rub my head, feeling an ache sprouting near my temple as I think to myself, What am I doing with my life?
