April - A Modern Hypatia?

Chapter Four - Brick Through a Mirror

Theme – We Will Rock You by Queen

"This is like a brick through a mirror." My study partner, Ellen Hertzman, tossed my manuscript on the library table in disparity. "You might as well invite the professor and any prospective readers, into your bedroom, and tell them your life's story."

My cheeks flushed, especially as I leafed through my own copy of my manuscript that far. I counted seventeen – no, now eighteen – uses of the word "thong", and likely another twenty uses of "bikini" and "panty" combined. I tried to not be embarrassed, I mean, I'd put ink to these ideas. I'd given them life, meaning, and power. Wasn't the whole part of being an artist about defending your work unapologetically? No matter who ridiculed you? All I could think about was what my mom would say if she read this, or anyone, really. It wasn't erotica, after all; at least, it wasn't supposed to be.

"Is that good? It packs a punch, right?" I grimaced hopefully, like she was going to call me bold and defiant. She didn't.

"It packs something, but I don't think it's too shy about revealing what that is." She scattered the already messed-up bundle of pages on the faux wood table. We were in the library, being treated to a rendition of "We Will Rock You" on an empty metal water bottle from some jock across the way. Even jocks at this school were geeks; he was probably a chemical engineer.

"You need a man." Ellen prescribed, "This Jay fellow would be a good place to start."

I rolled my eyes, "Ellen, do you know how artists say that people who deal a lot in painting nudes focus more on the lines and shapes, the emotion, and not on the eroticism of it?"

"I've never heard that in my life." The girl, whose blindingly rosette hair refracted light very well, temporarily blinded me as she deigned to sip from her lukewarm latte. "But go ahead..."

"You haven't known many artists."

Ellen forked an accursing pointer finger at me. "And your defense for the Jay character? Are you saying he's an artist for going loco over girly underpants when you dragged him to this store of yours?"

"He certainly knows more about women's clothes than your old boyfriend." It was my only comeback, and I was keen on taking it. Ellen could be a bit annoying sometimes, especially when she had a boost of caffeine. I wasn't going to pour sugar on the fact that it felt good to take her down a rung. "A mechanical engineering major, and yet he couldn't figure out that your bra unhooked in the front."

"That was private!" Ellen's hiss came just as our junior Roger Taylor – Queen's drummer – inched nearer into earshot. I shot him a chilly look, and he seemed to back off a bit. Probably one of those dorks who thought it fun to drop water bottles on the "quiet" floor of the library, used for intense study cramming. Ellen didn't notice; she was too perturbed I'd brought up a tale from confidence. It didn't help her that she blabbed so much about her most personal details. Sure, I'd given away the whole clothing choice thing, but I wasn't about to tell anyone I knew about my own romantic prospects, at least not that intimately. Not even in this journalling. We hadn't gotten to Ellen's own paper yet, but I was nearly one-hundred-percent confident that whatever she had put in there about her love life wouldn't have been an elegant "fade to black".

"Well, thank you for tearing my novel to shreds and suggesting my best way to be happy is by casually hooking up with someone." I sold the dig with a smile. "Shall we study yours then?"