I listen to most types of music.
Not a big fan of country music.
2.) Spare time
I don’t really have much spare time.
Spare time can be a bad thing—too much time for thinking.
3.) Sex
As I try to scrape off some nail polish, I’m harshly reminded that it’s already gone. What the hell am I supposed to write about here? My rather short history of somewhat intimate encounters? People I’d like to hook up with? Positions? How I cringe when I think of the sexual promiscuity of others?
Okay, let’s go with that. Sexual promiscuity of others.
3.) Sex
Irresponsible people with different partners/no protection.
Diseases/babies/emotional baggage.
Not getting tests for diseases/spreading more diseases.
Enough? It’ll have to be. As I count and click, I pray that he won’t have follow-up questions on this one.
I repeat the prayer two more times. Just to be safe.
Laptop: closed. Nails: repainted. Salad (three hundred calories): eaten. Dostoyevsky’s Crime and Punishment: downloaded and twenty-five pages read.
3:00 p.m. Time to get ready to leave.
3:45 p.m. Off to the writing center.
Pretty quiet evening, once again. Brittany is sitting at Computer 7, but she follows procedures perfectly tonight. In three hours, she has me answer two questions and proofread a rough draft. In between answering her questions, reading Dostoyevsky, and picking at my nail polish, I observe as a new student gets up from Computer 9 and starts toward my desk.
Brittany stops him and points to the list of procedures hanging on the wall. Well done, Brittany. I’d like to hire her to do that for all of the scummy freshmen since they can’t freaking figure out something so simple by themselves.
Soon after, Luke at Computer 9 submits a ticket. Excellent. I proofread his draft and go back to my book.
It’s 7:00 p.m. before I know it. Time to go home.
After six hundred calories worth of dinner, I catch up with Mandy and then begin preparing for bed.
10:00 p.m. I congratulate myself on not checking my email before schedule.
Two pieces of junk email. One email from Mom about a family dinner on Sunday. I send a quick response, telling her that I’ll be there and that I’ll make dessert. She knows that means I’ll buy some pies at a local bakery.
Mom’s email ends with “Hope all is well.” That is her way of checking to see if I want to talk about my doctor’s appointment. I don’t. Melanie will fill her in on what she knows anyway.
I send my response and delete my junk mail. Inbox: empty. No DA Blake.
Look on the shiny side of it, Callie. No follow-up questions either.
11:30 p.m. In bed, lulled to sleep by the sound of a knife chopping onions and celery for some sort of crepe-wrapped meal.
TUESDAY MORNING. TWO CLASSES TODAY. One email.
Calista,
Here is your final list.
1.) Parties
2.) Grammar
3.) Clean
-Dr. Blake
Last list? Does that mean last email?
Count. Reply.
Dr. Blake,
1.) Parties
Uncomfortable
Spills
Loud
Sweaty
No personal space
2.) Grammar
Very important
People don’t spend enough time proofreading.
3.) Clean
My bathroom
My sisters and mother
Shower/bath
Kitchen sink
Antibacterial soap (not the waterless kind)
Organization
Sanitation
My bedroom
-Calista
One. Two. Three. Send.
Morning routine. Leaving routine.
11:00 a.m. Poetic Writing II class. Today’s subject—a bowl of fruit. Around five hundred calories sitting in front of me. UGH. I sneak a picture of my subject and text it to Mandy; at least she’ll get some amusement from my three hours of misery.
I write as many poems as I can about two apples, a bunch of grapes, and a banana. I manage to scrape five poems together.
They all suck. {A big welcome to Gwen Stefani with “Hollaback Girl.”} A few classmates eagerly volunteer to share their poems during the last part of class. They’ve obviously tried to make their poems all symbolic and inspirational. Really, though, their poems suck too. Their poems might even be worse than mine.
Dr. Emery is delighted by the sucky poems. She claps and gives glowing feedback each time a new volunteer “shares” a poem. {And Gwen Stefani sings her refrain over and over and over again…}
2:00 p.m. Suckfest over. Thank God.
Home. A 450-calorie lunch. Seven chapters of Crime and Punishment. No new emails.
Leaving routine. Another stupid professional writer presentation tonight. Okay. We get it. It’s important to research other published writers and articles prior to trying to get a piece published. Message received. I don’t need to hear seven more professionals tell me this.
Seven more published writers. That means twenty-one more hours of presentations before I will be allowed to pick up my own pencil and write in this class. Brutal.
Chapter 9
publishing series
I GET TO CLASS TEN minutes early and go right to my usual seat. Three rows back, first seat in. Close to the door for leaving, but back far enough that every person who walks through the door in the next ten minutes won’t walk right past me. No awkward smiles or forced conversation. No latecomers accidentally brushing against me as they rush to a seat. Safe.
To kill some time, I decide to keep reading Crime and Punishment. Before I can even pull my Kindle out of my purse, though, my gaze is drawn to the center of the classroom. I briefly register the sight of my professor’s mouth moving as he gives some quick information to, presumably, tonight’s speaker.
Tonight’s speaker. He has his back to me.
As usual.
Fitted black pants. Long-sleeved white shirt. Strong, toned arms underneath. Tousled dark, dark hair.
Him.
{Cue Damien Rice with “The Blower’s Daughter.”}
His body remains rigid, statuesque, as Dr. Harper flails his arms around, explaining something about the class.
Why him? Why this class, my class?
And can he really talk for three hours? He had me standing in silence for most of my appointment. Now he’s going to do some Bruce Wayne/Batman morph into a presenter with a three hour song and dance presentation? Impossible.
I reluctantly peel my eyes away as I watch Dr. Harper move to a seat in the front row of the classroom. The song and dance is about to begin.
He begins talking in that deep, soft voice before he even turns around. To the other students, this probably comes off as a dramatic technique. For me, well, it makes me start to wonder if he really is as socially awkward as he appeared at our first meeting.
I listen.
“My writing begins when I encounter a burning question about a patient—a question I can’t simply answer by thumbing through textbooks or recounting hours of lectures from graduate school.”
He is turning around. Slowly. My eyes immediately leap to see if his blue eyes are sad or angry—the only two emotions I’ve seen them express.
They are both and neither at the same time. He’s looking straight ahead, at the back of the room. The sadness is there, in the center of his blue eyes, but the edges are tense, angry…hardened against the sadness. It feels like he is trying to use this deadly combination to look contemplative and poised.
He’s good at it. My classmates are probably buying it, as I’m sure many others have in his past.
I don’t buy it.
“A question like this: How do I uncover and mend a debilitating fear that lurks inside the mind of a patient who feels compelled to dispose of an expensi
ve luxury item such as this upon leaving my office?”
What? I push my eyes down to his arms.
Oh. My. GOD. He has my purse! My beautiful, black and white silky purse from Melanie. What the hell? He’s come to my class to talk about me?
And the douchebag of the year award goes to Dr. Aiden Blake. Hands down. No drum roll necessary.
I move my body quickly in my seat, preparing to bolt out the door. Unfortunately, my elbow hits my notebook. The notebook bangs as it hits the floor. Of course. Shit. Some of my classmates glance over at me. Shit. I have to pick it up. Up from the probably disease-covered floor. Shit.
One. Two. Three. Cringing, I bend over. I position my fingers so they only grab the top cover of the notebook.
Before I can lift it from the ground, I have to stop. He stops me.
He’s looking at me. My head is down, my eyes are lowered, but I know. I feel. My heart begins to throb as I helplessly lift the top cover of the notebook. The pages and back cover flail open and fly through the air as I bring it back up to my desk. I keep my head and eyes down as I sit back in my seat, but I can still feel his scorching gaze.
I know he’s still watching me.
And I can’t help myself. I slowly raise my head, my eyes. One. Two. Three. Click. Our eyes come together. Fuse together. {The volume on Damien Rice rises to an almost deafening level.}
The genuine shock in his eyes forces me to tone down the hurt loathing in my own. He didn’t know. He’s not here to mortify me.
He did though. {I use all of my mental strength to turn down the volume so I can think.}
One…Two…Three. I disentangle my eyes from his.
I will my eyes to remain focused on my notebook, the cause of all of this, for the next few hours. My ears strain to hear how he will transition back to his presentation.
He clears his throat. “Questions like these consume me. They drive me to work. And research. And write. Until I have an answer. Some solution. Some way to help.”
I hear a tiny thump, and I can only assume that he has placed my purse on the desk in front of him. He continues.
“I don’t search frantically for a quick fix, a temporary solution. I strive to find something lasting, something that works for the individual who inspired my question, my thinking, my obsession.”
Obsession? My eyes try to force my head up, but I lock my head in place just in time.
“I write about my findings. For me. For other doctors. For other patients who might have similar problems. Every patient is unique. Every set of problems has new variations. But every bit of information gathered and explored means one step closer to finding a solution. It is always my hope to find solutions that help the individual first and then maybe others eventually.
“This is what drives me to write—the slight possibility that my research might mean breakthroughs for other patients makes me spend the time getting my work published.
“I’ll be honest—publishing your work is a tedious, frustrating process. Drafting. Proofreading. Citing sources. Changing citation formats for different journals. Selling your ideas, your words, yourself. It’s exhausting. But if you have a purpose, you can ignore all of the irritating parts.
“That is my advice to you: Have a purpose. Don’t publish just to put something on your resumé. Or for money. Find a reason. A reason why other people will benefit by reading your writing. If you do this, your work will be better. Then the publishing experience will also be better.”
He pauses. I hear the sound of a zipper being opened briefly, another thump on the table, and then the zipper being closed.
“I don’t want to bore you by lecturing for hours about writing. I’ve made you each a copy of a paper I had published back when I was in graduate school. This was my first publication. I’ve included a copy of my first draft and also a copy of that draft with all of the comments and corrections my teacher added to it. Some of those comments were hard to swallow. I’m glad I got over that, though, because those corrections made the paper more professional. After two more rounds of corrections, the paper was publishable.
“I’ve included copies of all of those drafts and all of those suggested corrections in your packet. You have everything I did from the first draft to the final publication. The full process. Seeing that process will help you more than listening to me ramble on about it will.”
I hear his hand sweep across the table and his feet as they begin to move toward us. The class is still rather silent, as though afraid to miss any extra sentences uttered by that quiet, quiet voice.
The silence is a blessing for once. I hear his feet on the right side of the room and can follow their soft taps as he moves to the middle of the room. I hold my breath as the taps get a little louder, coming my way.
I keep my head down and try not to exist. I don’t move. I don’t even pick at my nail polish to relieve some of the tension. That has to be a first.
His feet stop in front of my row. What is he doing?
“Calista—here.” A female voice. The blonde in front of me. Oh. She is handing me some of his packets. One for me and two to pass back to the classmates behind me. I mumble a thank you, grab the packets, and extend my arm backwards to pass on two of the copies. I don’t look up or back. Just down.
His feet are walking away. My body again enjoys the luxury of breathing.
“Take your time and look at these drafts. We’ll have an official question and answer session after about forty-five minutes. I’ll take individual questions as you have them while you are reading.”
I plead silently with the classmates around me. Do NOT feel inspired to ask him an individual question. Save it for the Q&A. Or send him an email. Better yet, just don’t think up anything to ask him.
Touching only the bottom corner of the front page, the part untouched by the blonde in front of me, I pretend to look through the packet. Pages and pages of handwriting and typing and red ink. I have to admit, giving us these packets is not a bad technique for a writing presentation. Better than talking for three hours.
Too bad I can’t focus on any of the words—all I see is a blur of red, white, and black.
Silence in the classroom. I have no idea where he has positioned himself while we are reading. Well, while my classmates are reading. I fold over the packet and pretend to examine page three as I pick at my nails under my desk. {Fade into Destiny’s Child singing “Survivor.”} Page four. There is no more nail polish on my left hand. Gotta slow down if I want to make it through class. Page five. Page six. Page seven.
“Um, Dr. Blake, I have a question.” The girl behind me. Are you kidding me?
“Over here, Dr. Blake.” She isn’t kidding. Bitch.
Body: frozen. Head: looking down as far as possible. We’re talking chin in neck. Breathing: halted.
His shoes are clicking over this way. They come into my view as he reaches the front of our row. Black. Leathery. Clean. Closer and closer.
The heat from his body paralyzes me further as he walks past me. If my chair was two inches closer to the door, his arm would be grazing mine…right…now.
Now he’s standing behind me. Directly behind me. I clench my eyes shut, trying to think of something, anything else. I allow myself a cleansing breath but breathe in his cologne. There is no escape. His smell. His heat. His voice. {Damien Rice’s voice overtakes Destiny’s Child in a swift motion.}
My lifeless limbs are becoming too heavy to hold up. I keep my eyes shut and try to focus on not falling out of my chair. Hold on, Callie. Hold on. Hold on.
He’s moving. Back down my row. Two inches of air between our arms as he passes.
The clicking of his shoes is quieting. He is somewhere up by the center desk once more. I begin to feel my limbs again so I straighten my body in my chair.
Great survival techniques there, Callie. If you handle a bear attack this well, I’m sure you might last for two whole seconds.
“We are going to start the official Q&A session now. I’ll answ
er any questions you have, and then we’ll probably wrap up early. I’ve already received Dr. Harper’s blessing.”
Thank you, Dr. Harper, my mind sings slowly in Gregorian chant. Almost done.
“If you think of more questions later, please don’t hesitate to email me at the address on the front of your packet.” I hear pages rustling and assume some classmates are checking out how to contact DA Blake.
I don’t listen to the questions or answers spoken over the next twenty minutes. I plan my escape. {I turn up the volume on Gloria Gaynor singing “I Will Survive” for inspiration.} Hmm…if he dismisses class and turns around to gather his papers in his briefcase, I can bolt out the door. Just like a genuine coward would.
I’m not trying to be a hero here. I wait for the questions and answers to stop. My heart is bouncing all around and my ears are ringing. {My survival anthem is now blaring.}
It’s quiet. A lull between questions. I wish I could look up to see if any classmates appear ready to ask anything else. I decide not to risk it.
Judging from the last taps I heard from his shoes, I surmise that he is front and center in the classroom. His eyes could be looking anywhere.
It’s still quiet.
“Okay. If you think of more questions, you know how to contact me. Have a good night.”
Papers start shuffling on the desks surrounding me. Pens are being capped. Cell phones are switching on.
Then, a miracle. The girl behind me, the bitch with the individual question before, walks quickly past me, calling out to him.
Checked Page 5