The Beautiful Truth

// 5

"I'm sorry, Sawyer, but unless you want to repeat your freshman year again next year, you're going to have to read what's been assigned."

I didn't have any more pleading in me. It was time to accept defeat. I had just spent the last twenty minutes begging the English department head to let me do an independent project instead of being subjected to another pass through my father's book.

"Actually," he said, "when I picked this book, you're right—I did know you were in this freshman class. I thought, especially after reading your admissions essay, that you would not only bring a very interesting point-of-view to my discussions, but also that this might help you deal with things you've been holding in for so long."

I felt betrayed. He was using my own words against me. A lot of what I'd written in my entrance essay was about how writing helped me to deal with all the hurt I'd felt growing up without a mom. It felt a little cliché, but when my dad proofread it, I was pretty sure he'd cried—there were water spots on the draft I'd given him to look over, smearing the note that said 'It's perfect, Sawyer. This writer wouldn't change a word.'

I gave it one last shot. "Won't it be weird for everyone else to know they're reading this book with the author's daughter? I mean, it's a little unfair, I think."

"If you're that worried about it, we can change your name," Dr. Bovich offered, leaning back in his chair.

I couldn't tell if he was serious or not. I scoffed at the idea.

"No, I'm serious," he said, leaning forward again with an idea in his eyes and a concerned expression of thought on his face. "Some of the best writers in history started out with pen names—Mary Ann Evans always wrote as George Eliot; all the Brontë sisters started with pseudonyms...Stephen King started as Richard Bachman. Clive Hamilton was C.S. Lewis. George Orwell's real name was Eric Arthur Blair. Who's to say you can't be one of them?"

My eyebrows were raised. "That's quite a list."

"You're quite a writer."

I was flattered and intimidated all at the same time. Honestly, though, I wasn't here to be a writer. I wanted this guy's job. But that was beside the point.

"Pick one," Dr. Bovich said. "I'll use it as long as you want. That way, your cover won't be blown...although being the daughter of one of America's most beloved authors is hardly a cross to bear, Sawyer."

I sighed. "Evan Parrish," I forced out.

"Evan Parrish—is that what you want to use as your pseudonym?" he nodded.

I nodded in return. Feeling the need to explain, I added on. "Short for Evangeline. That's my middle name. Parrish is my best friend's last name, so..."

"Well then," Dr. Bovich stood behind his desk and extended his hand to me. "Nice to meet you Evan."

I pushed myself out of the unexpectedly plush chair in which I'd been sitting, and shook his hand to signify our agreement.

"I'll see you at two," he told me on my way out of his office door.

"Sure," I told him. "Thanks for seeing me."

Dr. Bovich half-smiled. His dark eyes glittered momentarily. "Not really what you were hoping for," he said knowingly. "But a compromise."

I shrugged. "See you at two."

With that, I set out back across campus toward my dorm. After my morning history class, I'd gone straight to the English department to plead my case. No such luck. Oh well, long live Evan Parrish, I told myself. Talyn would love it. Though I'd probably hold off telling him, lest I want to embarrass myself.

My phone vibrated in my back pocket. I smiled, seeing the message from my best friend.

Just thinking about you, hope your first day of class is going great. Learning sucks without you!

I grinned, and closed it out. I'd call him later. Suddenly, I remembered that Barton'd made me a playlist last night. Last night...it seemed so surreal. And so long ago, at this point.

It took me a second to find my headphones, but when I did, and I pressed play, I immediately laughed. J. Geils Band – Centerfold.