Thankfully, I find a parking spot right by the building. My teacher, Professor Marie Dumas, may be carefree and encouraging and all sorts of weird (which I personally love), but she's a stickler for tardiness and academic excellence. When you're late, or you half-ass an assignment, she takes it personally. I've seen her tear up over giving a low grade before. But Writing Fiction 200 is one of my favorite classes and I give it everything I've got. After all, the writing program is my future, and a way to still get an education and my parents off my back while doing what I love. It's like a piggy bank for my dreams, ensuring that no matter what happens in my future, I'll always have this to back me up. It's a reminder that I've fought to stay true to myself, even if my life doesn't go to plan.
After I park and run into the building, I pass my classmate Ashton on the stairs, though he's running away from class instead of going to it.
"Where are you going?" I ask him.
He pauses on the stairwell and gives me a sharp look under his razor-cut bangs. "I'm not feeling well," he says, even though he sounds more pissed off than sick.
I watch him go and then shrug to myself before reaching the top of the stairs. My friend Ashton is hanging outside the door to class texting someone, leaning against the wall.
"Thought you weren't going to show," he says as I approach, snapping his gum between his teeth. "I just texted you."
I pull my phone out of my suede saddle bag and glance at the text blazing on it.
Where you at? We're getting our final assignment today.
You'd think I'd be shocked by a text like this but not when it comes to Ashton. I glance up at him, my gaze going directly to his face. "Uh, what?"
"She's giving us our final assignment."
"Honestly, I liked our last assignment, which was to write a short nonfiction story about ourselves without embellishing a word. My description of high school was like a less entertaining (and less murderous) version of Heathers. And even though this last project is the equivalent of our final exam, I can't wait to tackle it. I'm a total nerd, I know, but every assignment Marie has given us has really challenged me and keeps improving my prose. Plus, not to toot my own horn, but I have aced every project so far. Her edits and notes on my writing are like a drug, validation that I desperately crave, especially when no one else in my life seems to take my writing seriously.
I look around. "Hey, I saw Crystal Leigh run off. Is she okay?"
Ashton shrugs, adjusting his laptop bag on his shoulder. "I don't know. She stepped in the class, said something to Harry, and then ran off."
Ugh. Harry Styles. Pretty much the worst human to ever grace this earth. No exaggeration needed.
We take our usual seats near the front as I scan the room. Sure enough, Harry is in his corner, headphones on, and grinning at his phone. Probably watching a YouTube video on how to be a douchebag.
I can't stand his grin. In fact, I hate everything about him. I know, I don't really know him and hate's a strong word, but I have my reasons. He's the type of guy who would have made my high school years a living hell, only now I get to deal with his immaturity in university. Thank god I only have one class with him, otherwise all my time would be spent thinking of witty comebacks to his insults and insinuations.
I don't even know why he's in the class at all, mind you. He's a third year student and transferred from England last year, getting his business degree. Not sure how writing plays into any of it, but however it does, he doesn't take anything seriously. It's like writing and books and literature are one big joke to him, and I'm not the kind of person to take that lightly. Sure, maybe I get a bit too serious at times, whether it comes to writing or school, but that's because, well...I need to.
