Find Her, Keep Her (CFTM Sequel)

Chapter 7 (Part 2)

"Yes, ma'am. Sorry, I'm late, I got lost on the way over and I--"

"Kick that excuse in the kaboose and come and join us, young lady! You're just in time!"

She points me over to an empty seat next to a super smiley red-head with Pippy Longstocking pigtails.

This place is basically a support group meeting for weirdos who write stuff.

Perfect.

I like this class already.

I scan the room for Indigo only to discover that she, as expected, has successfully ditched class. I'm kinda jealous. Walking around Santa Monica in search of "feng shui crystals" sounds like a dream.

But what's done is done.

I'm not Indigo.

I'm not a rebel.

I'm a girl who's quietly trying to blend into the background, so she can tune into her first lesson with Professor Yak-Boots.

"Now that our lovely friend, Ms. Summers is here, I'd like to officially welcome you all to Creative Writing 191--"

My heart flutters a little. I've only been looking forward to this day since I stalked the class description during registration. See below.

"An introductory freshman seminar focusing on the works of a select contemporary author (1950 to present). Students will study a set of pre-determined texts and write original reactionary pieces in response to the works of a mystery modern great."

Imagine--a whole semester dedicated to one of the masters like Maya Angelou, Kurt Vonnegut, or maybe George Orwell.

My fingers tingle at the possibilities--so I start listing them in the margin of my notebook. As long as we don't waste time on authors who write stories dealing with love, loss, or romance, I'll be happy as a clam.

"--This year's class is particularly special because we will be spending the entire quarter studying the inspired debut work of the extremely talented--"

Harper Lee? Jack Keroac? J.D. Salinger?

"--UCLA Writer in Residence of 2015, Mr. Elias Alexander King!"

The whole class bursts into applause, but I can't feel my hands, or my arms, or my--anything.

Before I can do anything, like force my body out of this chair, out of this class, and out of this building, the door opens.

The door opens, and a boy who looks like Elias is standing in it.

But he's different, smaller--like someone took a razor to his ego and cut away the excess. All that nausea-inducing confidence he used to carry around seems miles away this morning. He smiles sheepishly at the class, hugs his laptop to his chest and joins the professor at the front of the room, while I hide behind my notebook.

"H-hey guys, thanks so much for signing up for this class, I'm really excited to be working with you this year--"

It's been a year. A whole year and to my horror time has been incredibly kind to Elias King.

His stupid shoulders are broader and more pronounced.

His formerly ramen noodle arms are toned.

And he's got this scruffy looking stubble thing going on which means he somehow figured out how to grow facial hair.

Good thing I'm over the whole rugged/boyishly handsome look.