Again, But Better(13)
I cut him off with a scoff, and he breaks into laughter.
6. Nothing’s Standing in My Way
Last night we bought plane tickets to Rome! Two more nights until we go to Italy!
We all start class today. None of my flatmates are in class with me, so as I settle into my seat, I feel like a bit of a loner again, but then the professor struts in. The first thing he does is distribute postcards, one to each student.
“So, as you know, this isn’t going to be our normal meeting day. Starting next week, class is Monday and Friday,” he begins. “We’re going to be delving into creative writing prompts every class, and to warm you up, get your juices flowing, each class you’re going to get a postcard. Write to someone back in America about your experiences here. It’s simple, easy, and effectively gets you putting words to paper. You have ten minutes. Take out a pen and go.”
I gaze at the 4×6 shot of the London Bridge on my postcard, flip it over to the blank side, and start writing. I want it to look nice, so I break out the cursive writing I haven’t used since elementary school.
January 12, 2011
Mom and Dad,
I’m still having trouble wrapping my head around the fact that I’m in London. Yesterday, I rode on a ferry under the bridge on the front of this postcard. I’m in my first college-level writing class, and I’m pretty sure I already love it. The professor’s last name is Blackstairs, which reminds me of a book series I love, and he says we’re going to be doing creative writing prompts every class. I could play with creative writing prompts all day, so I’m overjoyed right now.
Love you guys,
Shane
Soon after I’ve finished, Professor Blackstairs stands. “Time. Great. You feeling good? Postcards away, laptops out. Let’s jump into the fun stuff.”
I slip the postcard into my book bag. It was nice to write those words on paper, even if I can’t actually send them out. The professor hands us all strips of paper, each printed with the first sentence of a well-known book. When he drops mine onto the desk, I snatch it up.
There is no lake at Camp Green Lake.
I chuckle softly, excitement blooming in my belly as a new story starts to lace itself together in my head.
“Write me a short story with this as your opening sentence,” he says. “You have an hour—starting now.”
I yank out Sawyer, open a blank document, and let my ideas spill onto the page. My fingers jet across the keys as I spin a story from the point of a view of a sassy young girl about a camp on the moon where her parents met. I beam at my screen for the next fifty-nine minutes. When time’s up, Professor Blackstairs starts an in-depth discussion about the importance of an opening sentence. We go through loads of examples. The three hours fly by. It’s honestly the most fun I’ve ever had in a college class.
* * *
Babe is in our room Skyping with her parents when I return at three, so I head into the kitchen to put the finishing touches on my Camp Green Lake story and work on a blog post about yesterday’s trip to Greenwich. The kitchen is more social than our room anyway, and I’m trying to put myself out there.
Sahra stops in at about 3:30 to grab a drink before heading back out to get groceries. Atticus storms in at 3:45, stuffs a microwavable meal down his throat, and runs out, sputtering about being late for his internship interview. It’s about 4:00 p.m. now, and I’m staring at my Gmail.
My parents emailed asking for more details about my first few days here. I heave a shaky breath and type up a brief update, describing my new flatmates. I link them to my first two blog posts: “American Moves to London: The First Eight Hours” and the most recent, “What’s Greenwich?” And press send. I yank Horcrux Nine from my bag.
1/12/11 4:04 p.m.
I think I’m going to organize a Flat Three card night. It feels like a good, outgoing step forward toward long-term friendship. That sounds pathetic, but this is where we’re at right now. Last night, there was some tentative talk of us all going out to a pub tonight after our first day of class, since we’re legally allowed to drink here. Maybe tomorrow we can stay in and have a card night. Friday morning, we have class again, and afterward Pilot, Babe, Sahra, and I head to the airport for Rome! INSANITY.
I startle as the door opens, quickly shutting my notebook and dropping the pen to the table. Pilot strides into the kitchen with a long, thin sandwich. My heart runs around like a puppy when there’s a visitor at the door. Please be cool, heart.
“Hey!” He takes the seat across from me and unwraps his food. “You writing?”
“I was.” I push Horcrux Nine to the side.
“Wow, with a real live pen and everything!” He hops up to grab a glass of water. “What are you working on?”
I fiddle with my fingers. “Um, well, nothing really. It’s kinda like a journal, I guess.”
“Ah, nice, that sounds like something an author would do.” He comes back into view and sits across from me. “Have you started writing your book yet?” He smiles.
I blink in surprise, before huffing a laugh. “My book?”
“I hear authors write those,” he adds, as he picks up his sandwich.
I laugh again. “One of my goals this semester is actually to start my”—I raise air quotes—“‘great American novel,’ but it’s a pretty daunting task, so we’ll see.”