Page 41 of Trust Again
I was fumbling nervously at the elastic cords on my backpack when the heavy door to the academic advising office opened. Immediately I crossed my hands over the backpack and sat up straight.
“Ms. Edwards,” the advisor greeted me and sat facing me.
I swallowed. “Um, Mrs….”
“Perkins,” she offered.
“Mrs. Perkins.” I tried to smile. “What happened in Professor Walden’s class was a mistake due to my nerves. I’d like to do my presentation over.” I’d practiced the sentence that morning in front of the mirror.
“That’s very nice, Ms. Edwards. But unfortunately, your regrets won’t change anything. Professor Walden made it absolutely clear that he would prefer not to have you in his class anymore.”
My throat constricted. “So what are my options?”
Mrs. Perkins pushed her glasses up on her nose. She turned to look at the monitor on her desk and clicked several times on her mouse. “I’ll check to see which courses you could transfer into.” After a brief pause, she announced, “I found two other similar courses: a writing workshop on elements of style, and ‘Poetry: The art of the word.’”
If a class still had space available after the registration period, there was usually a good reason for it: like an unpopular instructor, too much work, or a dull subject. Everything in me resisted taking a poetry course—it had been one of my least favorite subjects in high school, and I always got bad grades. And there must be a reason why there were still places available in the writing workshop. I’d need to share my writing with the class. The idea of reading my own work to a lecture hall full of people was like having to do a slow striptease. It was terrifying, but if these were the only two possibilities, the workshop was preferable.
“The writing workshop sounds like a good alternative,” I said with a forced smile.
“Great!” said Mrs. Perkins, beaming at me. She clicked a few more times on her mouse and her printer started to rev up. Rolling backward in her chair, she grabbed the printouts from the tray and handed them to me. “Here’s the room and the time the class meets. The second sheet you should give to Professor Gates on your first day.”
Looking at the paper, I gasped. “That’s right now!”
Mrs. Perkins shot a glance at the clock over her door. “If you hurry, you’ll make it.”
I ran like a maniac, my backpack flapping against my rear end. By the time I reached the classroom I was a ball of sweat. It took a while for me to catch my breath. I knocked on the closed door and, hearing nothing, opened it and tried to slip unnoticed into the room.
Five pairs of eyes turned to meet mine.
Hard to say who looked more surprised—but it was probably me because all the students were standing on tables and staring down at me. The only person not on a table, but instead standing on the ground with his back to me, was who I assumed to be Professor Gates. Instead of turning, he bent down and peered at me through his legs.
“Hi,” he said. The fringe of his scarf got caught in his mouth and he spat them out. “Who are you?”
The situation was so odd that it didn’t even occur to me to feel embarrassed or hesitant. “Dawn Edwards. I just came from the academic advising office and will be taking your course from today on.” Tipping my head to the side, I added, “At least, if you are actually Professor Gates.”
He jerked upright and turned to me. “Kids, what’s my name?”
Two of the students audibly exhaled from their perches.
“Nolan,” they all droned in unison.
Professor Gates extended his arms. “Welcome to the writing workshop.”
All I could do was stare. The first thing that struck me was his shoulder-length blonde hair, which was pulled back in a short braid. Strands had come loose all over and were standing out from his head, charged with the static electricity from his odd-patterned scarf. He looked like a male Medusa. He seemed to go for the layered look: his gray, knee-length coat hung open to reveal a loose, green cardigan, and under that he wore a yellow shirt with the word “Virgin” woven into it. My gaze lingered there a bit too long and it was hard for me not to burst out laughing. Looking at his face, I couldn’t help thinking: He seemed so young for a professor! At most, in his late 20s. He had pleasant, even features and gray eyes with laugh lines at their corners.
“Don’t just stand there; grab a table,” Professor Gates said, waving toward a jumble of empty tables and chairs.
Hesitantly, I obeyed, and took the chance to survey the other students in the room. There were six of us. One of the two other girls—the one with short, dark hair—shot me an encouraging smile. The other one had folded her arms over her chest and was staring at the ceiling. Two of the guys looked kind of shy; they stared at their shoes while the third guy was busy swiping the screen of his cell phone.
Still a bit out of breath from my mad dash, I made my way between the tables and set my stuff down next to the dark-haired girl. And then I climbed up on an empty table.
“Who’d like to tell Dawn what we’re working on?” asked Professor Gates. “Blake, put down your phone or I’ll take it away and call your mother.”
Blake paled and shoved the phone into the back pocket of his low-hanging jeans. “Sorry, Nolan.”
“Say hi to your mother for me later and tell Dawn what our assignment is so we can continue,” our instructor replied, snapping his fingers impatiently.
“Okay, so last week Nolan had us pick pieces of paper out of a hat; each one had the name of a character on it and we had to write a monologue from that person’s point of view.” Blake cleared his throat and bent down to pick up his notebook. “We’re supposed to read the monologues out loud now and afterward everyone has to guess which monologue fit which character.”
