Reid was right. After English One, I had officially decided that Mr. Liam Hardman was now my new favorite professor at this school. Not that he had any real competition though (so far). But Mr. Hardman was kind of pretty bad ass, actually. Having graduated with a degree in English Literature from NYU when he was nineteen (yep, nineteen), he had a fresh but profound perspective on modern writing.
"There are two kinds of writers: those that make you think, and those that make you wonder.", he said aloud in class today, quoting Brian Aldiss.
Mr. Hardman himself made me wonder. He had piercing, sterling grey eyes, brown hair and mild stubble that dotted along his chin up to his temples. He exuded this certain brilliant aura of eminence that just made you want to jot down every single word he says.
"Miss Foster, tell me. Do first impressions last?", he asked, catching a glimpse of my name on his class attendance sheet as he was explaining the unnecessary need for first-day introductions.
"It depends?", I answered with a startled expression.
"Hmm. On what?", he asked as though I was asking to be proven wrong.
"Um, well...On whether or not you make enough of an impact, I guess."
He flashed an intimidating smile.
"A person that lacks substance is a person that is asking to be ignored. Out there, you won't meet a lot of people waiting on you to shake their hands and listen to your unrequited interests regarding a job application. No, that's not the way it works."
He placed both hands on opposite sides of his wooden desk and bent down slightly to make eye contact.
"You have to make them notice you. Prove...", he said as he retreated to his standing position, "...Your worth."
He then formally started his lecture on the basics of writing as he circled the room slowly, walking with one Italian leather shoe at a time. He filled the classroom with the scent of peppermint and aftershave. I liked Mr. Hardman. He was straightforward and direct to the point. On top of that, he was the type of teacher that didn't spoonfeed students with piles of nonsensical by-the-book bullshit. He knew how to capture his students' interests and command attention. He injected humor to his lectures and there was no need for pretentious but pointless introductions. Plus, at 25 he looked rather sexy in his dapper coat and tie today.
Buzzzzzzzzzz. I was seated on a toilet bowl when I felt my phone vibrating in my pants. Oh, crap. I had held in my bladder since this morning, it felt like a garden hose when I had finally reached the ladies' room at half past three in the afternoon. I immediately zipped and buttoned my pants up as soon as I could and jumped out of the stall to rinse my hands and grab my phone.
I had originally planned to meet up with Braden at home after he finished with tryouts but my dad wasn't entirely sure he'd be able to pick me up early because of his so-called last minute appointments with the board. Sigh, I wonder how many 'last minute appointments' he's planning to have this week. Might as well pitch myself a tent in the field. I thought about my brother and how fortunate he was to be starting school next week instead of today. He didn't have to bear with my dad's long and dragging sermons on the road. Not to mention his complete lack of priorities for his family's needs. Lucky bastard. I pressed the keypad lock button on top of my Blackberry and found one missed call in my log book. Braden. I instinctively pressed the green call button as soon as I saw his name.
I couldn't reach him for some reason. Two seconds later, I got redirected to voicemail:
"Hey, what's up? It's Braden. I'm probably busy at the moment but if you're calling me because you owe me something then feel free to leave a message after the beep." Beeeeeeeeep.
YOU ARE READING
Keeping Up With Avery
RomansaSeventeen-year-old Avery Foster had a decent life. She earned fairly above average grades, had a close circle of friends and was finally dating her high school best friend, Braden. But as Avery enters college, things slowly spiral out of control as...
