“My name’s Natasha Blake,” I said, moving into the small office and lowering myself in the seat in front of the desk. “I’m a freshman.”
“I’m Hosannah,” she said with a bright smile. “I’m — uh — a junior!”
Hosannah. I meditated on her name for a moment. It was so beautiful and it fit her perfectly. I could already tell that her personality was luminous, her eyes and lips telling that story. There was something special about Hosannah and I was eager to find out more.
“I like your name,” I blurted out and then felt embarrassed. I felt my face redden and I looked down. Hosannah just laughed.
“You can thank my grandmother,” she said. “Or, rather, my great-grandmother who named my grandmother.”
“It’s lovely,” I remarked.
“Thanks Natasha,” she said. “So what can I do for you?”
“Do you work for ALOHA?” I asked, looking around the office. It wasn’t much of an office really. There were a couple of small windows near the ceiling, as we were in a basement after all. Two wicker chairs hung off in the corner opposite Hosannah’s desk. There was a framed poster that outlined all the degree paths in the Arts & Letters department on one wall, and a poster advertising an ALOHA end of year party from a few years prior, also framed, on another. An overstuffed bookshelf sat behind Hosannah.
“Yep,” said Hosannah. “I’ve been in ALOHA since I was a freshman. But I work for the office part time and I’m also Anna Sacco’s assistant.”
“Wow,” I said. “That’s pretty cool. I didn’t know that was a thing.”
“It’s a thing,” said Hosannah with a knowing grin. I suddenly felt quite anxious in my seat. There was a weird quality to Hosannah that I just couldn’t place. She made me feel excited.
“How come I haven’t seen you at the ALOHA weekly class?” I asked. Every Monday at 8AM, the ALOHA freshmen met for an hour to discuss the program, to listen to various scheduled speakers, and to work on group projects. I’d only been at college for a couple weeks, but with Hosannah working for the program I figured I would have seen her around by now.
“Dude,” said Hosannah, smiling, leveling with me. “I did my time. Monday at 8AM? Once you’re a junior — hell, once you’re a sophomore — you learn to not take any classes before 10:20.” She laughed, which inspired me to laugh softly with her.
“I mean, you’re the ALOHA assistant though,” I said. “You don’t have to go?”
“No,” she said frankly. “They know I did my time as well.”
“I see,” I said quietly.
“Not to keep beating the same drum…” said Hosannah trailing off and widening her eyes with a hint of sarcasm.
“Oh!” I said. “Yeah, I’m sorry, I’m here to pay my dues for the Shakespeare trip.”
“Terrific,” said Hosannah, pulling the keyboard back out. She looked into the computer monitor and clicked around a bit with the mouse. “So it’s $180 for the tickets and the hotel. Do you know which shows you want to see?”
“I have my slip right here,” I said, reaching down into my jeans and pulling out a folded piece of paper. Between the paper was also my check for the cost. I slid them together across the desk toward Hosannah.
“Thanks,” she said, looking down at the slip on which I marked which plays I wanted to see. “King Lear and West Side Story,” said Hosannah, raising her eyes to me and offering up a glint of joy. “That’s what I’m seeing, too.” In Stratford for the Shakespeare festival, between a handful of theaters, they not only did actual Shakespeare shows but also various musicals and other productions. ALOHA advised us to see one of the Shakespeare plays, which were always high quality, as well as something lighter because those shows were always fun.
“Really?” I said. “I love both plays. I’m excited.”
“Likewise, Natasha,” said Hosannah, typing my information into a spreadsheet on her computer. She affixed my slip and check with a paperclip and slid them into her desk drawer. “Have you ever been to Stratford before?”
“No,” I said.
“It’s awesome,” said Hosannah. “We’re going during the Dragon Boat Festival, which is super cool, and there’s this really neat toy store there. Like, even if you don’t care about toys, it’s just a really fun experience.”
“Do all the juniors like you go?” I asked.
“Nah,” said Hosannah. “It’s usually mostly freshmen. But I’ve gone the last two years with the program. I love theater and Shakespeare. I’m an English major.”
“I’m an English major, too,” I beamed. I was thrilled that I was connecting with Hosannah though I still couldn’t tell what she thought of me yet.
“We have a lot in common,” smiled Hosannah.
“Do we?” I said, letting my excitement show. Hosannah let out an amused giggle.
“What English class are you in right now?” she asked with interest.
“I’m in 201H,” I said.
“Honors,” she said, putting on an impressed face. “Is that taught by McGregor?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I’m enjoying it so far.”
“I was in that very same class,” said Hosannah.
“Wow,” I said. “That’s really cool. If I have questions, can I ask you about them?”
“Totally,” she said, her smile warm and inviting. I could tell she was a good person.
“Maybe we could hang out in Stratford, too,” I said, not sure if I was overstepping my bounds but too excited about meeting Hosannah that I couldn’t help myself.
“Maybe,” she said, grinning with a hint of mystery.
“Oh, that reminds me,” I said. “I had another question about the trip.”
“Shoot,” she said.
“What’s the hotel situation like?” I said. “I mean, who do we share rooms with?”
“The rooms we get are all two full beds,” she said. “You can share a room with whomever you like, though not with the opposite sex,” said Hosannah. “I mean, we’re all technically adults here but some of the parents might flip if we allowed coed sleeping arrangements.” She rolled her eyes.
“So just, like, my roommate?” I asked.
“Yeah,” said Hosannah. “Most people just share with their current roommate.”
“All right,” I said.
“Is there anything else I can help you with?” asked Hosannah. Her face revealed a charming glow, like she was there to serve me, like I wasn’t an annoying freshman asking silly questions.
“No,” I said, pushing my chair back and beginning to stand.
“It’s was really great meeting you, Natasha,” she said, sticking out her head toward me. I took it in my own and we shook.
“It was nice meeting you, too,” I said.
“I’m in room 326 upstairs if you want to stop by sometime,” she said. “I don’t hang out in the lobby much anymore.”
“Is that just a freshmen thing?” I asked sheepishly.
“Yeah, kinda,” said Hosannah, grinning.
“Room 326,” I reiterated. “Thanks Hosannah. I’ll talk to you soon!”
“Bye Natasha,” she said with a single wave.
I smiled at her and turned from her desk, walking out of the ALOHA office and trying to steady my frantically beating heart. I was anxious and excited, ecstatic to have met Hosannah and the possibility of making a friend that seemed so much like me.
CLICK HERE TO SEE IT ON AMAZON
AN EXCERPT FROM: MY WRITING PROFESSOR
*
“I JUST DON’T understand the main character’s motivation,” said Daniel, looking up from the stapled bundle of papers and across the table at me. He had a bit of a smarmy look to him, an air of confidence, like he was certain that he was correct and he was always ready to tell you that you were incorrect. “It’s, like, what’s the point?”
“Okay,” I said, meeting his gaze but disinterested in arguing. If I had learned anything during the time in my creative writing graduate program it’s that you don’t
argue with criticism. You just learn to take it. You absorb what makes sense and discard the rest. It didn’t make the negative criticism sting any less, of course, but when you’re putting yourself out there for a class of fifteen or so writers to tear apart, you need to grow a thick skin, realize not everybody gets what you’re trying to do, and internalize that it’s nothing personal.
“I think you need to be a little more specific,” said Harriet Drake, our professor for this writing workshop class. Harriet was a beautiful woman in her early 40s, slender and fair with bright blonde hair — most certainly dyed, as her roots hinted — and a generally cool and calm demeanor. Harriet had recently published a novel that was well-received and lauded, and there was talk that she was to be nominated for the National Book Award. Because of this, her class was the popular one to try to enroll in for this semester. I was thankful to have gotten in.
“I don’t see a reason for Angie to even be at the cafe,” said Daniel. “It seems so… inconsequential, you know? Just random.”
“I think Angie’s motivation is that she wants to talk to the barista,” said Casey, coming to my defense, lightly chewing on the end of her pen as she stared down into the pages of the story in her hands. “It doesn’t have to be logical because people aren’t logical.”
“Yes,” said Daniel. “But I think there are other, more concrete ways to get her into the cafe at this particular moment,” he said, tossing my story down onto the table. “Sure, Angie wants to talk to the barista, but you can’t just force her into this situation without showing us some greater motivation for being there in the first place.”
“I don’t disagree,” said Harriet, running her willowy hand lightly over the side of her face as she contemplated my story. “But I think you also have to leave room for randomness or chance or synchronicity or whatever. We can suspend our disbelief if the story is compelling enough.”
“I didn’t find it very compelling,” admitted Daniel. He was a tough critic, sometimes a bit of an asshole, but I think ultimately he was fair in his assessment. This was, after all, an MFA writing class and to be honest none of us, despite the fact that it was a well-known writing program, were all that good yet.
“Penny,” said Harriet, looking over at me. “Do you have anything you want to say? Any clarifications?”
“No,” I said. “I think everybody makes some good points.”
“I appreciated the randomness of it,” interjected Minju. She smiled at me softly, always having something kind to say. But not in a placating way, you know, she spoke in earnest.
“Thank you,” I said, returning her smile.
“I think that’s about it for tonight,” said Harriet, looking down at the dainty watch on her slim wrist. She handed my story, full of her own critiques, around the table and toward me just as the rest of the class had begun doing. “Next week we’ve got Bernie, Erica, and Mac,” she said. “Please make sure to email your stories out in the next couple of days.”
As everybody began sorting their things, standing up from their seats, and preparing to leave, Minju approached me and offered a consoling smile.
“Don’t listen to Daniel,” she said in a murmur to keep her opinion between the two of us. “He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”
“Thanks,” I said. “It’s okay. I don’t take any of this too personally.”
“That’s good,” she said. “Most people here don’t know what they’re talking about anyway. They’re just trying to sound intelligent.”
“Right,” I said with a soft laugh. I collected all the critiqued stories in front of me on the table, organizing them into a big bundle, and slid them into my oversized leather satchel purse. “Critique day is always hard,” I admitted. “I mean, you’re never sure what people are going to say and whether it’s good or bad it really gets the adrenaline pumping.”
“True,” said Minju, grinning at me. “Are you going to head over to the Barcelona Bar with everybody for an after class drink?”
“Sure,” I said. “I suppose I can have one drink.”
“Great,” said Minju with excitement on her face. “I think Harriet’s going out, too, so maybe we could buddy up with her and try to get more familiar.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Us and everyone else.”
“Why not?” said Minju. “I hear that Harriet is, um… into women.”
“So you propose taking advantage of her sexuality to get into her good graces?” I said teasingly. “Minju, aren’t you married?”
“Yeah,” she said. “But c’mon, a girl can still flirt.”
“What do you think your husband would say to that?”
“I think he’d just laugh and say, ‘whatever!’” she said, giggling and pleased with herself.
As we continued to talk, most of our classmates had begun to file out of the room though Harriet was still seated at the table, scribbling something down in her little black notebook.
“I’m going to ask Harriet if she’s going,” said Minju.
“What?” I said. “C’mon.”
Minju slinked her way across the room and slowly walked up to Harriet. After a moment, Harriet looked up from her notebook and offered Minju a smile.
“Minju,” said Harriet.
“Hey Harriet,” she said. “Are you coming to Barcelona with everybody after class? I just thought I’d invite you.” Harriet laughed softly.
“Yes,” she said. “I’ll be there.”
“Great,” said Minju. “Penny and I are going as well, so we’ll see you there.”
“Terrific,” said Harriet with a bemused confidence.
“Okay,” said Minju. “See ya!”
As Minju bounced back over toward me, she had a brightness on her face. She picked her bag up from where it lay on the table next to me and she motioned me on with her head.
“Let’s get moving so we can get a good seat,” she said. As Minju spoke, the two of us getting comfortable with our bags and preparing to leave, Harriet watched us out of the corner of her eye. I looked over to her and caught her gaze for a split second, causing her to quickly look away. As my eyes returned to Minju, I saw that she was already on her way out of the classroom and I swiftly changed gears and followed her out.
*
Barcelona Bar was a quaint and rustic little Spanish tapas restaurant and bar that had been around for probably fifty years or more. It was just a few blocks away from our university, a renowned arts college in Chicago, and it was the usual haunt of most everybody in the writing program and had been for as long as anybody could remember. It was a tradition to go to Barcelona, something unquestioned. I remember after my very first class in the writing program someone asked me — it might have been Minju — if I was going to Barcelona. I had no idea what it was. But by the time I got there that first night and saw basically everyone from the program, I knew exactly what it was.
To get into the bar, you had to walk down a couple of concrete steps as it sat lower than the street. Not quite the basement but not quite the first floor either. After pulling open the big wooden door, you were greeted by a dark and cozy ambiance, very antique, like you were entering the hull of some old ship. The coloring was comprised of reds and browns and tinted orange. The walls were wooden, the decor could be described as Christian nautical. On one wall there was an oversized cross and on the other was a broken-looking ship’s helm. Low ceilings and low light.
“Oh man,” mused Minju as we walked into the bar. “We’re already late.”
Barcelona was hopping with many of the other writers in our program, the fiction writers, the poets, the nonfiction writers, and even some of the children’s book writers. There was quite the convivial presence as you entered the bar, the sounds of lively conversations and clinking glasses. Minju and I threaded through the packed crowd, saying hello to the people we knew, trying to make our way to one of the booths near the back.
“Look,” exclaimed Minju as we neared a small cluster of booths. “Pullman and Stout ar
e sitting there with some of the other instructors,” she said. Robert Pullman was the program head and Jenny Stout was a director of the program and part of the fiction faculty. “I bet Harriet will join them. We should jump into this booth next to them.”
“All right,” I said. The roundtable booth that we saddled up to was empty, though there were some empty glasses on the tabletop. Minju handed me her bag as I guided my own bag deeper into the booth.
“You settle in,” she said. “I’ll get you a drink.”
“Gin and tonic,” I said.
“Got it,” she said with a grin and then she quickly scurried off.
Once I got myself situated into the booth, a couple of my friends from the program came up and began to sit down as they said their greetings.
“Penny!” exclaimed Erica. She had a happy visage, beaming with excitement, her chin-length dirty blonde hair a bit of a mess. “Can we sit with you?”
“Totally,” I said. “Minju’s with me, though, so we need to keep a space for her.”
“Got it,” said Erica. In addition to her, a few other friends sat down, Andrew and Sarah. Everybody was already in their own conversation, gleefully bouncing ideas back and forth, the main discussion obviously writing, and the people sitting with me at the booth even held conversation with some of the others who were standing next to us outside the booth. It was a frenetic atmosphere, a cavalcade of extroverts, while I sat there feeling a bit like an out of place introvert.
“Drinky,” said Minju, handing me my glass. She climbed into the booth and sat next to me.
“Yo Minju!” exclaimed Erica. “What’s shaking?”
“Same,” said Minju, tipping her highball glass slightly toward Erica. “Are you ready for your critique next week?”
“Yep,” said Erica. “My story’s already finished. I just hope that Daniel doesn’t go on a tear with me like he did with Penny.”
“I’m all right,” I said. “I try to not let it affect me much.”
My Friend The Bride: A Lesbian Romance Page 8