I had never been a very good student when I was in school, but that hadn’t been an indication of my intelligence. It was because I had never bothered to try. School had been a place to pass the time. Somewhere I could count on at least one warm meal and didn’t have to worry about avoiding my foster dad’s overly feely hands.
School had been safety. Security. It had offered me a way out.
And I had hated it. Every single moment of my time there, I had fought against it. I had focused on the wrong things. The wrong people. And I had paid the price for it.
Maybe this time could be different.
Maybe this timeIcould be different.
I walked with my teeth clenched and my hands curled into fists at my side. Like a soldier heading to the battlefield, I was ready for anything. I headed straight for the Dunlop building where my class was held. I didn’t pay any attention to the groups of students congregated outside. I wasn’t there to chitchat and make friends.
Though the truth was, I wasn’t sure what I was there for.
Inside the classroom, I found a desk towards the back, and I headed straight for it. I hoped to blend in with the wallpaper and avoid attention. The class was mostly comprised of kids just out of high school. They were noisy and annoying and I felt my jaw tick already.
Had I mentioned I wasn’t a people person with some major anger issues?
The professor breezed in a few minutes later and dropped a pile of papers on his desk. He was nondescript as far as people go. Bland facial features beneath boring brown hair. Perfectly groomed beard and blah wire rimmed glasses.
He was appropriately named Professor Smith. An uninteresting name for an uninteresting man.
We were given the syllabus and I looked it over, not recognizing any of the books on the list. I wanted to kick myself for not paying more attention in high school. But the books I tended to read were of the non-fiction variety. I loved reading biographies and true account stories. I enjoyed immersing myself in other people’s lives. Because they were usually a hell of a lot better than mine.
“Hello everyone! I’m Professor Smith. I’ve been teaching here at Black River Community College for ten years. I graduated with a Masters degree in English Literature from the University of Virginia…”
I tuned him out around that point. I could care less about his life history or what brought him to little ole Wellsburg. And looking around the room, I wasn’t alone in my complete and utter disinterest.
I stared out the window, already zoning out. Classrooms and teachers had an almost Pavlovian affect on me. Sitting in a desk had me mentally checking out in less than thirty seconds. So much for trying to change.
I only snapped out of when someone patted my arm. I wrenched backwards, startling the person who was trying to get my attention.
“Sorry, but we’re supposed to be getting into small groups to talk about what we’ve already read on the syllabus. Then we have to choose one and discuss the plot and themes,” a young girl with pretty red hair and an overly large mouth said nervously.
Okay, time to play contentious college student.
“Sure,” I muttered, picking up my book bag and moving my desk over to join the three other students who had already started talking amongst themselves.
“Hi, I’m Casey,” redheaded, big mouth said. Everyone nodded as though we cared what her name was.
“I’m Davis.” A skinny kid with big ears spoke up after Casey was finished introducing herself. What was it with this group and big body parts? Because the next guy, who said his name was Andrew had a nose as long as my arm. Well, not really, but you get the picture.
Now that the three of them had shared their names, they looked at me expectantly. I supposed this was my cue to play nice.
“Um, yeah. I’m Ellie,” I said, plastering my fakest smile on my face. I think my efforts were perhaps a bit over the top and my smile more closely resembled a psychotic grin, as I watched the slight recoil from my fellow students.
“Hi, Ellie!” Casey chirped, clearing her throat. Obviously she had deigned herself our unofficial group leader.
“Let’s have a look at the syllabus and then we can decide which one to focus on.” Casey cleared her throat again, which was really annoying.
I looked down at the list again, knowing I had nothing to contribute.
“Well, I’ve read the Margaret Atwood short story and the Milton stuff,” Davis piped up.
“Cool! I’ve read those as well in my high school AP class!” Casey enthused.
“I’ve read the Milton and the Keats poem,” Andrew offered.
And then they were looking at me.
