Walking the Crimson Road

by Perrie Patterson

  36

  #Savagenotaverage

  The alarm goes off excessively early, making me want to stay in bed longer. I’m just not quite ready to get back into the swing of things. I turn on “Midnight Memories” by One Direction for motivation as I shuffle around the room. Bella and I walk out together, and I wave bye to her as I cross the street to Phifer. Classes go well, practice goes well, and I’m feeling good about performing the new dance at the basketball game tomorrow night. Lane and I text back and forth throughout the day. He reminds me of the SGA party, so I log into the anonymous Twitter account and post it.

  By Tuesday morning I’m more chipper when I get up, but it’s raining, so I put on my Hunter rain boots, grab my raincoat, and make my way to the lecture hall. My journalism class and my Spanish class are the only classes that stayed the same since those are one day a week classes and cover different material each semester. All my other classes are new. By continuing Spanish, I now have a minor in it. By the end of this semester, I’ll be close to a minor in journalism, too.

  I slip my raincoat off before walking into the lecture hall. When someone grabs my hand, I turn to see Lane, who’s wearing a pullover rain jacket with a hood and he’s dripping wet.

  “Good morning on such a lovely day,” he says.

  “It’s a good morning now.” I smile.

  He leans close and whispers, “Good job on the video interview post. It’s gotten almost 2,000 views. I’ve heard lots of good buzz about the upcoming party, too.” He smiles and squeezes my hand as we walk down the stairs to take our seats.

  When Professor Brigg walks to the front of the room to begin class, he greets us with “Happy New Year” which causes cheering and whistles and a few “Happy New Year’s” yelled back. After everyone settles, he continues with normal announcements then tells us something very interesting.

  “I’ve selected three stories from the assignment. I’ve made copies of the stories, removed the names of the authors and added discussion questions to each. You will each take a folder with the stories and questions with you when you leave today. Your assignment will be to read each, and answer the discussion questions, which will be our lecture for next week. Please be prepared to answer and discuss in class, each question per story. You will also select which story you feel is the best. There will be a voting link on the class website where you’ll cast your vote for the story of your choice. I will collect your notes and discussion questions in class next week. I do have final say on the chosen story but will certainly take into consideration the votes. Remember that the one selected will be published in The New Yorker. Good luck to the three authors.”

  When Lane and I receive a folder, we open them and find my story and his to be two of the three. We give each other a side-glance and a smile. This should be fun. I get to critique and discuss Lane’s story in class next week, and he gets to do the same with mine. This should be interesting. I am so excited that I’m in the running for The New Yorker.

  After class ends Lane says, “I’ve added another writing class to my schedule this semester, so I’m in Phifer for my next class. I don’t have to ride my bike across campus today.”

  I perk up, “What other class do you have?”

  “News writing and reporting.”

  “Oh, yeah, I’m taking that next year,” I say, nodding. “I’ll see you tonight after the game.”

  I give him a quick hug and a kiss on the cheek, getting a good whiff of his cologne, which causes my eyes to close in dreamy contentment.

  Our rainy Tuesday lets up a little by game time, and I’m thrilled our new half-time dance goes over well. We lose the game to Auburn by 3 points, so that sucked, but Lane is waiting for me after. He takes my hand, and we walk together out to my car.

  “You did great tonight.”

  “Thank you. I’m glad you’re here.”

  We stop next to my car. He leans on the side of it and pulls me to him, his hands around my waist.

  “What are your plans for tomorrow?”

  “Mmmmmmmm, I can’t think of anything special.”

  “How about we get together at the library and work on the story assignment?”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  “Let’s meet at the Gorgas library at 2:00.”

  “Great, I’ll meet you then.”

  “Goodnight, Rebecca.” He kisses me before he turns to leave.

  In a lustful state, I watch him walk to his car before I throw my bag into the back. Amanda walks up, smiles a knowing smile as if she now approves of Lane. She gets in, and we drive back to the house.

  After a shower, I sit on my bed and pull out the folder for my creative writing class to read through the stories and discussion questions. It looks like we have to answer six discussion questions for each story. The third story is called “Freedom of Speech—Freedom of Choice. As I read it, it occurs to me that this may have been written by Olivia, one of the editors for The Crimson White. It reminds me of the discussion she and I had a month ago when I accidentally overheard her and another girl discussing their feelings of injustice toward the SGA elections and the machine’s interference. I read a portion of the story.

  …There seems to be a sense of entitlement when it comes to the involvement of the Greek’s and the secret society known as the machine. They have controlled the votes on campus for years and even some state elections. It’s a new age, a time for us to take a step forward in voting our conscience. Let’s put forth an effort to stand together, united but unique and unsolicited in our thoughts, decisions and our votes. We are each individuals with thoughts, abilities, and judgements. We have no need for only the mere illusion of democracy. We don’t care for dictatorship or controlled elections. Let freedom ring, and the machine hear our cry…

  I finish the story and read a few of the questions that Professor Brigg has added.

  1.) Is this simply an opinion from an Independent or is this story true for all students Greek or other?

  2.) Does the story appear too biased?

  3.) Does the story engage the reader until the end? Yep, this will be an interesting discussion with Lane tomorrow.

  I switch to the next story titled “Storm before the Sun.” I know this one is Lane’s. It’s a true story, that much I know. It’s engaging until the end, and it reads almost like fiction. One portion strikes me, and I read it again.

  …The fog rolls in and the glassy surface of the sea shines light like a mirror. I anchor out just far enough from shore that it’s a distant horizon. I lie on my back flat on the deck and feel the silence of the sky staring down at me. Just before the break of dawn, the only sounds are the lapping waves against the side of the boat.

  I feel the pressure of family, school, friends, and demands ease from every pore of my body. I can feel the knots untying from my mind. I’m lulled to sleep, wrapped in a sense of security, my blanket is the sea. Suddenly, I am awakened by pelting rain hitting my face that feels like needle pricks on my skin. The wind is blowing hard, and the swells of the waves are crashing over the sides of the boat.

  I’ve sailed in Regattas many times with my father and uncles, so my decision to venture out alone was not irresponsible of me, but the fact I never told anyone I left to take the sailboat out was certainly a mistake. I make it to the emergency radio and signal for help. I use my phone to dial 911, then I call my dad. He doesn't answer, so I leave a quick message. I’m in the harbor, four miles south west, and a storm has come up; need help. I work quickly to adjust the sails, but the strong winds break the mast, and I have to use the jib sail.

  There’s an order and a sense of discipline to sailing as well as a calmness to it. Rough storms can prove how strong a sailor you are and prove how tough you are. I wasn’t expecting a storm or a rescue before dawn that day. I was only after the comfort and peacefulness of being on the sea, but I got more than that. I gained knowledge that confronting a storm on the ocean can be like fighting God and having the universe against you. It gave me t
he courage to see truth, the security of calmness to feel safe, and the ability to understand twenty years from now I know I won’t be disappointed by something I didn’t try. Instead, I’ll face things head on, try new things, and live without regrets...

  His story is so good. I’m almost in tears reading it. I feel like I’ve climbed into his soul, his person and his spirit, that causes me to feel something tangible and honest. I read the discussion questions for Lane’s story, so I’m prepared for our study date in the library tomorrow. Study date…this is going to be the most fun studying I’ve ever had.

  37

  #OTP

  I’m totally looking forward to my study date on this wonderful hump day. After my last class ends, I head back to my room to freshen up and gather my things to take to the library. Bella wanders in while I’m packing my stuff.

  “Hey, where are you off to?” she asks, getting a Coke out of the fridge, before landing on her bed.

  “Lane and I are meeting at the library to work on an assignment that’s due on Tuesday. By the way, are you planning to go to the party at Heat Pizza tomorrow night?”

  “I don’t think I’m going. I’m definitely voting for him. He seemed like a great guy from what I could tell when you were interviewing him but I’m not sure I want to go to a campaign party.”

  I step closer to her. “I get that, but I think it’ll be a lot of fun, and you get tickets for free drinks. I think everyone gets at least two. If you change your mind let me know. I’m going with Lane.”

  “Yeah, okay, sounds good-- I’ll think about it and let you know tomorrow. Have fun on your study date,” Bella says, with a Cheshire cat grin.

  As I near the library, I see Lane walking up the sidewalk, and I run to catch up. He sees me, smiles, and takes my hand.

  “How was your day?” he asks.

  “Much better now that I get to spend it with you.” I lean my head into his shoulder.

  We get on the elevator, get off on the third floor, and find a quiet table in the back corner. We pull our chairs next to each other. I get out my folder, notebook, and a pen. I silence my phone and set it on the edge of the table and throw my backpack underneath.

  Lane asks, “So, did you read the stories and answer all the questions?”

  “I did read the stories, and I read all of the discussion questions, but I didn’t answer anything yet. I figured we would go over it together.”

  “Do you want to start with “Freedom of Speech,” my least favorite?” he asks.

  “Sure, I figured that one would be the hardest for us maybe. Well, maybe not hard, but you know what I mean.” Since it’s a blow to the secret society. I laugh and giggle. I’m feeling a little bit silly right now and find it hard to be serious and study next to Lane. He looks so good and smells divine.

  He pulls out the “Freedom of Speech-Freedom of Choice” story questions and reads the first question aloud.

  “To answer this question, I’d say it’s absolutely the opinion of an Independent and non-Greek student.”

  “So, you think the story is totally biased?”

  “Yes, our elections are democratic. We allow everyone to vote their own choice. The elections are not rigged. We are not padding votes. If they’re complaining that the Greek campaigns are more impressive or we spend more money to promote our candidates, then they should do the same. They have the same campaign options we have. This is America, and though it may be true that one team has the upper hand with spending more money or has more influence, it doesn’t mean that the election is unfair. Everyone has the opportunity to vote their choice. I also don’t think they can complain that the campaigning is unfair. This is a political office, and this is simply politics.”

  I remember Lane’s mother was the Lieutenant Governor and ran for Governor when they lived in Washington D. C. before they moved to New York. I feel like he probably knows a lot about politics. Even with all the rumors about the machine controlling politics on campus, so far, I haven’t seen control, only campaigning. I decide to agree with him on his answer. I jot down some notes for the first two questions, and we move on and finish the last two.

  “For the third question I thought it was well written, and it held my attention to the end.”

  “I agree with that, too,” he says.

  “Does it get your vote?” I look at him with a big smile.

  “Nope. I have another story in mind that will be getting my vote.”

  I start laughing again and put my hand over my mouth to keep from being too loud, since we’re in a library.

  “You really have the giggles today, but it’s super cute.”

  “I know, I’m sorry, I can’t help it. You smell amazing. Have I ever told you that before?” I lean in close to him and nuzzle his neck with my nose.

  He kisses the top of my head. “It’s going to be really hard for me to keep my hands off of you if we keep this up,” he says, taking a deep breath.

  I pull away and straighten my posture. “Let’s get back to business,” I say, sitting up straight and tall.

  “Shall we move on to the story titled “Storm before the Sun,” I ask, getting serious again. “I loved this story. It brought me to tears, and I felt like I could feel your soul. It’s so well written. It’s dramatic and scary but has so much feeling and emotion. I know it was scary for you having gone through the experience of being close to death.”

  Lane looks at me and says, “Yes, it was scary, and I was afraid at the time, but I had gone out there to clear my mind of stress. When I was rescued and back on shore, I felt a sense of accomplishment and a drive that made me feel I could do anything. It was a bad thing that lead to a good thing. It helped me get through my sophomore year of high school and allowed me to pursue things I felt unsure of doing before the boating accident. You could say it was a major turning point in my life. I’ll never forget it. It gave me confidence, and it made me who I am today.”

  I’m stare at him, speechless and in awe. A feeling of pride fills me. I reach over and hug him.

  Lane gets very serious, “Okay, this is a study session not a make out session.”

  I start laughing again and snorting. I put my head down and cover my mouth to keep the laughter stifled. I jerk my head up and flip my hair out of my face. When I do, I hit my phone, and it slides off the table and onto the floor and continues sliding across the slick floor under the table next to us landing with a thud against the wall.

  “Oops,” I say, meekly.

  I crawl under the table on all fours to get to my phone. When I get to it, I notice Lane has crawled under the table with me. My giggle fit starts up again. He presses a hand over my mouth to keep me quiet. I can tell he wants to laugh, too. He pulls me close, pulls his jacket off, puts it over our heads like at tent, and we start making out. Our library date has turned into a hot make out session after all.

  While under the table, we hear voices and hurried walking. It sounds like two men talking to each other about finding someone. I start to crawl out from under the table, but Lane pulls me back and puts his finger to his lips and makes the “Shhhhh” sound. We’re huddled close together quietly facing each other, and I’m trying so hard to keep all my giggling quiet. Lane takes the jacket off of our heads and crawls out from under the table. I follow behind him. When we sit in our seats, I notice two guys with long lens cameras get on the elevator and some guy standing next to our table. He has reddish blonde hair shaved at his neck and above his ears, but the front is long and hanging down over one eye. He whispers something to Lane then leaves.

  I ask, “Who was that? His hair reminds me of the lead singer for Coin. Your hair might look cute like that, too.” I reach up and play with his hair and move it to hang down in front of one eye. We both start laughing again and he pulls me close and shushes me.

  “Read the first question. You can play with my hair later. I want to finish this assignment before 10:00 tonight.” He gives me a sideways glance when he says that.

  “
Okay, so the knots being untied in the author’s mind could be like the knots that you tie a boat to the dock with or even the knots that calculate the speed that the boat is going. Those could both be symbolism.” Lane nods his head in agreement.

  “And the glassy surface of the sea shines light like a mirror could be the writer baring his soul to the sky just before the storm approaches.” Lane nods again.

  “Question two you’ve answered for me.”

  For question three I say, “The story has a dramatic feel but also emotional elements, and the storm reflects the emotions that the writer was facing before he lay down on the deck and fell asleep. The storm could also be symbolic for the troubles the author was trying to get away from by sailing out onto the sea, in the first place. I don’t think anything needs to be changed or improved. In my humble opinion this story is perfect, and it’s getting my vote, for sure,” I say, lightly rubbing my nose against his.

  “Babe, your making me want to crawl back under this table with you again, but we need to finish these last questions, and we saved the best for last.” He gives me a sexy smile.

  I make a face and pretend I’m sliding down my chair back under the table.

  Lane grabs my arm and says, “Uh, uh, uh.” He remains serious and gives his answer for the first question. “I liked the switch from Spanish to English. I thought it was clever, and you are minoring in Spanish, so I thought it was a good use of that.”

  I say, “Mucho Gracias.” and try not to laugh. I hold it in, but it’s hard. Lane moves on to the next discussion question.

  “The story reminded me of JFK, Jr., his wife Carolyn Bessette, and his former assistant Rose Marie. I find it hard to answer question three. I like the cliffhanger, which gives readers an option of guessing what happens in their own mind. I also agree it does have the makings of a novel. I could see where the cliffhanger ends, and the story picks up with the main character arriving in New York. And the final question, yes, this story gets my vote. I think you should vote for your own story, too, instead of mine.”