My Last Innocent Year(12)
“Isabel, how the heck are ya?” Whitney Shaw clapped me on the back. Whitney was a field hockey player from Southern California. She had a long straight nose and ruddy complexion. She looked as if she’d spent a lot of time at sea.
“You know, living the dream,” I said, lifting my hand as the professor called my name.
“Did you have a good Christmas? Wait—do you guys even celebrate Christmas?”
“I mean, no—”
“God! Sorry. My bad.” Whitney’s voice was raspy, like she’d grown up breathing in too much fresh air. Stacks of paper made their way around the table as Whitney told me about her winter break: two weeks on Jupiter Island, golfing with her dad, lunches at the club with her grandmother. “She’s an epic bitch, but she bankrolls everything. The only price is fealty.” She pressed her palms together and bowed her head. “Oh, hey, I meant to ask: Is everything okay with you?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“I heard something happened between you and Zev Neman.”
I’d forgotten Whitney lived in Zev’s dorm.
“It was nothing,” I said, taking a copy of the syllabus and passing the pile to Whitney. “We’re cool now.”
English 76: The Art of Writing Fiction. Professor R. H. Connelly. I looked up at the man sitting at the head of the table. Joanna’s replacement, I supposed. Andy hadn’t known who was taking her place, and this wasn’t anyone I recognized. He seemed to be around forty, but I wasn’t sure: anyone older than me but younger than my father occupied a stratum I could not see. His thick dark hair was flecked with gray, and his face held the shadow of a beard. He was tall and broad-shouldered, big but not heavy. His body had a solidity that, although I’d never thought about it before, came only with age.
Whitney started to say something else, but the professor started talking.
“You’re probably wondering if you’re in the right room,” he said. “This is English 76, but as you can see, I am not Professor Maxwell. I’m Professor Connelly, and I’ll be filling in for Joanna this semester.”
A quick scan of the room revealed who had heard the news about Professor Maxwell and who hadn’t.
Professor Connelly leaned back in his chair and folded his hands across his chest. His hands were big, like he could easily palm a basketball or the top of your skull. On the back of his right hand, a thick ropy scar snaked from index finger to wrist. On his left, he wore a simple gold wedding band.
“Joanna and I have known each other for years,” the professor said. “She’s a damn good writer and a helluva teacher. I’m truly sorry you won’t have the opportunity to study with her.” As he talked, he rubbed his thumb back and forth across his leather watchband. It looked weathered, like he wore it all the time, even in the shower. “So who am I, other than a pale comparison? I’m best known as a poet, but I’ve written all sorts of things, short stories, essays, a couple of novels still in the proverbial drawer. Now I work as a reporter at the Daily Citizen. Best job I’ve ever had, by the way. You write every day, you’re always on deadline. No sitting around waiting for your ‘muse.’ Journalism is utilitarian, it’s purposeful. There’s nothing precious about it. How many of you read newspapers?” A couple of us raised our hands. “Good,” he said, his eyes resting briefly on me. “People like to value art for art’s sake, but the way I see it, literature is all around us. It’s real life. It’s school board meetings and droughts. Missing kids and corrupt politicians. Conflict. Resolution. Man against nature. If you can’t make people care about the community they live in, how can you get them to care about anything?” He reached for his water bottle, took a noisy sip. I had the feeling he wasn’t used to talking this much. “I’m a lot happier than I used to be, I’ll tell you that. It also pays the bills, which I know none of you care about yet, but you will.”
He was quiet for a minute. His dark eyes shone like a bottle of Goldschl?ger held up to the light, and he had the kind of eyelashes my mother would have said were wasted on a man. There was something familiar about him, the way he touched himself as he spoke, running a hand through his hair, rubbing his chin, tracing the scar on the back of his hand with one finger, as if he were testing the boundaries of himself, to make sure he still existed.
He turned his face to the window. “But that’s not why you’re here. You’re writers. You want to write. So.” He slapped his hands on the table. “Can I teach you how to write? Joanna would say yes. She believes anyone who wants to write can, as long as you have the right tools.” He picked up a copy of the syllabus. “If she were teaching, this whole thing would be full of workshops. We’d pull your stories apart and put them back together again. Tools, craft, feedback, critique. Follow X to get to Y, and Z will follow. As for me,” he tossed the paper down, “I have no clue. All I know about writing is you sit down and write, and sometimes, if you’re lucky, the words come. All I know is some people are talented and some aren’t, and some stick with it no matter what. Others give up. The truth is, most of you won’t become writers. You’re here at this fancy school and, let’s be honest, I don’t think your parents sent you here hoping you’d become writers. They sent you here so you could learn to make money, to become doctors and lawyers and investment bankers and consultants, whatever the fuck those are.” I giggled into my hand. I’d never heard a professor talk like this before, not just the profanity but the acknowledgment that he didn’t have all the answers. That he was as lost as we were.