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“No.” I shake my head, instantly nervous. “Why? I have him for a class this semester, too. Is he awful?”
My roommate stares at me, appalled.
“They call him the Soul Collector. Dude made a student cry last year because he didn’t like the subject of her final paper. Britta said the girl ran from the auditorium where the class was being held and bawled like a baby for five hours in the car. Girl’s boyfriend had to come and pry her hands off the steering wheel.”
I shake my head at the impossibility of such a story. Even if it were true, that would only be one instance. And I am definitely not that weak. “The girl was probably overworked or just couldn’t hack it. That’s not me.”
“No, Aly. He’s called the Soul Collector for a reason. They say he takes whatever you love, your hopes and dreams, and he crushes it.”
“He has to be firm. You can’t expect to make it unless you work hard for something. I’ve had teachers like that before. I’ll be fine.” Though a little part of me is starting to question my dedication to those words.
What if he really is as horrible as everyone says? What if he picks apart every detail, banishing one idea after the next, until I no longer have a paper discussing the topic I wanted? Or worse still, what if he doesn’t recommend me for the program? What if whatever papers I turn in, no matter how thoughtful and thought-out they really are, will never be enough to meet his approval?
“I don’t know.” Lyndsey shakes her head. “All I’m saying is we have a ninety percent retention rate at Berkeley, and I’m pretty sure he accounts for at least half of that ten percent that we lose.”
Great! This is just what I needed to hear.
The apprenticeship of my dreams and I am saddled with the one man who can make my life a living hell.
Soul Collector, huh? What are the odds?
Chapter Four
Zach
Istare at the blueprints in front of me, trying to see what Derek sees.
These scrawlings may as well be Greek lettering for all I can make of them. Grand ideas and schemes all roped into one massive building project. It looks good on paper, I guess. But in practice, there’s no way this could possibly work.
That’s Derek for you. The man never sees the flaws. He just sees the dream. I guess that’s why he’s the visionary. I’m just the money guy.
I cringe.Damn it.That girl really got to me.
Is it genuine?For three days, those words have been whispered in my ear. Taunting me. Reminding me that I am nothing like the man I once was. That bright-eyed student, fresh out of college, thinking he can conquer the world with just a little hard work and determination.
Where did he run off to? Would he question my motives, too?
“So, what do you think?” Derek asks, appearing beside me and bending over the open roll of building plans.
I shake my head. “It’s a lot of work. I mean, you’re talking about a multi-tiered project here. I know you guys bring in your own funding, and I can make up the difference. But where are you going to get the workers for all of this? Not even mentioning the time?”
“We’ll have to scope out volunteers,” Derek says. “We’ll post information about it at the university. You can make it part of a social study. It’ll be fine. We’ll make it work.”
I pass back the blueprints and begin scribbling out a list of supplies in the notebook. “You dream too big, my friend.”
“You don’t dream big enough.” Derek claps me on the back, squeezing my shoulder and forcing my eyes back down to the prints. “These are families, man. Some displaced after the brush fires, some who never had a home from the start. We’re the lucky ones, you know. Some of us don’t get that life lottery. And some of us get more than we know what to do with.”
I scoff, trying to play it off like a laugh before he gives me one of his world-famous lectures.
Some lottery. I grew up with every material possession I could ever want, the best schools, and a new car for every occasion. I have a house in Bay City, a house near campus, and a house in Monte Carlo for vacations. But these people will have something I never will, and they are the truly lucky ones.
Home.
What does that even mean? Is that the place where your mother cries every night because your father is out screwing one of his mistresses? Is that the place where your father tells you that you’re one semester away from being cut off unless you pick a career that actually matters? An empty threat I have learned to ignore throughout the years, but at the time, I was terrified of having nothing.
I was terrified of leaving my mother alone.
With him.
