𝐖𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝟏𝟎𝟏 (𝟏𝟖+)

𝐈

• 1 •

"Keenan Travino only has one rule: do not ask stupid questions."

"What do you mean stupid questions?"

Middle-aged, thinning hair with a round belly and wrinkles on his face, Mr. Liddell looks like Hollywood's orthodox depiction of a snarky man stuck at a dead-end job, one who indulges in History documentaries at the end of a week that looks like every other week in the life he was thrown into. As if his frown could not get any deeper, it got deeper. He smacked his lips together; an annoying quirk he's been doing since the first time I stepped into Contented Inc. He stared at me begrudgingly with hazy plain brown eyes. Then, with pity as fuel for his actions, he shook his head.

"Are you sure you're qualified for this program?" he asked, and I wondered whether it's an example of a stupid question or if he's for real.

Regardless of his judgemental gaze on my face that he probably gives to all people below thirty, my own drifted to the sheet of paper on his desk, eyes hovering over the long list of participants until my attention was drawn to 5 - Gianna Alexie. I am pretty sure it says just that on my twenty-two-year-old birth certificate.

I pointed at my name, "Yup," I spoke, "See? Gianna Alexie. That's me," and for good measure, I smiled and flashed a thumbs-up.

The rude fellow grumbled a chain of incoherent words. Do men over fifty have their own language?

Mr. Liddell and his office aren't a fit couple. The room, bright with natural light from the large open windows, colorful with stained wood-panelled walls, a quirky lime green floor, and a bright orange desk gave a totally contrasting vibe to the man occupying it: Liddell in a boring gray suit with a boring mud-colored tie, and a boring personality, not to mention his habit of smacking his lips whenever I say something he thinks is stupid that, for me, is absolutely not. His patience is wearing out, but I believe he didn't have much to begin with.

Intending to kill the agony for both of us, I questioned, "Do you wanna wrap this up?"

His reply came bluntly, "Yes, please."

Reaching down, he opened a drawer and a second later, presented me a yellow folder which I assume bears the information I need for the two-month long mentorship program. He opened it, letting me see the procedures and objectives of the activity along with their mission and vision. It held nothing he failed to discuss in the past twenty minutes I've been sitting fidgety in his office.

Turning a few pages, there is a list of people I'm grouped with. Exactly five lucky souls had been chosen by the organizers to be handled by Keenan Travino, a man whose name I had read at the back of a number of my favorite novels. My stomach did a flip. Heck, my stomach did cartwheels and won a gold medal.

"As I said earlier," Liddell began again, "Some mentors want convenient meetings and Keenan is one of them. Mr. Travino opens his home for the five of you, so instead of heading here every Saturday, you'll go to this address," I followed to where his finger was pointing: an address, Keenan Travino's address.

"Do not, and I repeat, do not give the man's residence away without permission. You will be disqualified and if he wishes to, he can press charges against you since you signed a contract. You will also be called into the office if we hear negative remarks from Travino," he narrowed his eyes at me, "If you think this will trouble you, speak now so we can transfer—"

"No, not a hassle," I spoke loudly, all the while shaking my head, "No hassles at all."

Looking bored instead of pissed, Mr. Liddell smacked his lips together once again. Then, he continued, "Very well. Feel free to contact your group members, maybe get to know each other beforehand."