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She wears her dark hair back in a tight bun and rocks a killer long skirt and jacket combo, her tasteful cream-colored pumps clacking against the hard floor.
After a brief introduction, she gets down to business.
“I’m glad that you all completed the first pre-class assignment and sent me over a brief summary of what your post-graduation ambitions are, and what kind of organization you’d like to be match with to closely align with those goals. Of course, I’d expect nothing less from students at your level of progression in your majors.”
She pauses for a moment, before continuing.
“One thing that all of you will learn sooner or later, is that your career paths will not go exactly as you expect them to. You won’t get the exact job you want. The organization you’re working for may suddenly, dramatically change its trajectory or its strategy. You may find your dream job, only for that business or organization to fold years later, forcing you to reinvent yourself. Especially in social media, you may develop a strategy that works perfectly on one platform, only for a hot new platform to come out of nowhere and totally change the game. All these things, and many more, have happened to me during my career.”
Another pause. A sense of expectation hangs heavily in the classroom, each of us wondering where exactly Dr. Hoover is going with this.
“Which is why I read each of your summaries and took to heart what kind of organizations you’re all hoping to work with—and assigned you to very different organization for this class.”
There’s the hammer drop.
“Flexibility is key in this industry. Adapting yourself is key. Tailoring the work you do to the goals of the specific organization you’re working for, rather than your own preconceived notions of what kind of workyouwant to do, is key. The experience you gain in this course will be very relevant for whichever organizations you end up working with, whether they be your exact dream job, or the furthest from it.”
The whole class is a little bit stunned. I imagine this is something that a lot of my fellow classmates don’t appreciate; and as for me, it definitely feels like a blindside hit—but, at the same time, I can appreciate the philosophy behind Dr. Hoover’s decision.
Considering her experience and reputation in the industry, I’m not about to second guess her decision-making. I’m going to take whatever assignment she gives me and knock it out of the park.
Dr. Hoover places her laptop on the lectern at the head of the class and opens it up. After a couple clicks of the keyboard and mousepad, she announces, “In your university email Inbox, you should all now have your assignments for the semester.”
With a mix of trepidation and excitement, I take out my phone and open my university email. Sure enough, a message from Dr. Hoover sits at the top of my unread messages.
But when I open it, all the excitement drains from my emotions—the trepidation, however, increases tenfold.
Not this. Surely there’s still time to …
“And before anyone gets any ideas,” Dr. Hoover says, “there will be absolutely no switching or trading of assignments. The point of this is the learn how to play the hand you’re dealt. Assignments are final.”
My stomach sinks. I close my eyes tightly for two seconds, hoping against hope that the letters spelling out my assignment on my phone’s screen will magically change when I open them again.
No such luck.
All semester long, I’ll be working with my dad’s hockey team.
8
LIAM
Ifeel forlorn as my hand traces out a new sketch on my sketchpad. I’m sitting on my bed, back against the headboard, sketchpad resting against my curled-up knees as I bring to life a memory that hasn’t left my mind in three months.
The scene of the club on Halloween night from my point of view. The moment I first laid eyes on Zoey from across the room.
So far, I’ve filled in a rough, impressionistic sketch of the background and all the people crowding the scene. There’s a blank space in the middle of it for her.
I place the point of my granite pencil onto the rough sketching sheet and begin. I start with the mask she wore that night. Then I fill in the details of her face; with long, firm strokes, I sketch out her raven-black hair. My hand seems to be on autopilot as I draw the rest of her. Drawing her comes so naturally, and the result is so faithful to my memory that I feel my heart beating faster as I add the finishing touches and flourishes of detail.
A knock sounds against my door. I shut my sketchpad and quickly slip it under my pillow.
It’s stupid. I’m so stupid to still be hiding one of my greatest passions and talents from the guys who are like brothers to me. I know that I shouldn’t—I know that I don’t have to. Not anymore.
But I learned early on to hide parts of myself that didn’t fit in with the preconceived notions certain people had of who I was supposed to be. I learned that drawing and art aren’t part of that package.
Even though I don’t have to anymore, I guess once you’ve gotten good at hiding parts of yourself, it becomes a second nature.
“Yo,” I call out, setting my pencil down on the bedstand beside me.
