"HURRY UP or we're gonna be late, Cleo!"
Why does this seem to be a recurring theme?
Ruby'd suggested last night that we take the bus to Fish Tank, which my platform-boot-covered feet are currently thanking her for, but my mental clock still curses up a storm.
"One more wing!"
She stumbles into the threshold of the bathroom, this time in a patchwork crop top and flared jeans. "Come on. I'm gonna have to leave without you."
My tongue pokes out the corner of my mouth in concentration, hands steadily forming the second stroke of eyeliner beneath a purple smokey eye. "Beauty takes time, Ruby."
"Ugh. Just be quick with it!"
I hear her leave the room before moving the pencil from my eye and rushing to slap on eyelashes. They're a little off-kilter, but I decide to just roll with it, adjusting the straps of my plaid minidress before slipping outside to follow the irate, short girl down the hallway.
***
Twenty minutes later, we're arriving at The Tank, officially late for our first day—which I would like to blame the bus driver for instead of myself. We could have walked here faster.
A woman at the front desk gives us directions from a little clipboard sitting on her desk, and then Ruby and I are speed walking to a conference room down a wide, empty hall that seems to fold out for miles.
The writing workshop is held in is apparently held in a branch near HQ, huge floor to ceiling windows with a sleek futuristic design, though the further we travel, the more antique the interior seems to get, progressing into dark wood halls and beautiful rococo-style murals spanning the walls.
"Cleo, Ruby, is that you?" I glance over as we step into the room, smile crossing my face when I see the person the voice belongs to.
"Anaya?"
She nods quickly, excitedly, motioning for us to come meet the circle of heads in the middle of the room.
An older woman standing at the front turns around, beam lighting up her face. "There are the missing campers! Come in, come in."
We're across the room and engulfed by the group instantly.
"I assume some of you met on GroupMeet already?" the woman asks, dark skin gleaming under the fluorescent glow above the floral rug we're all gathered around.
"Yep," I confirm with a nod, forming a heart with my fingers to shoot to Anaya as Ruby chuckles with a small wave.
"That's great, that's great. Every year people tell us the GroupMeet link is a good idea. I'm glad to see it's still working."
My gaze sweeps the group fondly, smile twitching when it passes over Nicholas and lasting all the way up until I see the last person in the line.
Shit.
Yeah, the world really has it out for me.
The guy from Roselyn's is there. Scratch that, the guy from the airport is there. Or better yet—the guy from my worst nightmares is there.
Lips pressed tightly together like his brows, glasses still gone, eyes squinted critically to spell out murder.
He's in an outfit similar to the ones I've had the misfortune of seeing the past few times we've met, fancy slacks and a green long-sleeved button-up that matches the tiny specks in those wretched eyes of his.
I can feel my skin heat up in a strange mix of embarrassment and anger.
Is he actually stalking me? Or does the universe just hate me this much?
A jab comes into my side, and I cut my eyes at Ruby, shaking my head as she mouths, "What?"
"Let's get started with the basics, shall we?" The woman begins, oblivious to the tension in the room.
"I'll start with the introductions. My name's Chantelle Williams, and I'm one of the admissions officers of this program. I can already see some of you here interviewed with me, and I'm so glad to have you on board with us today." She meaningfully meets a couple eyes around the circle with a smile.
"A little backstory about me hmm—I majored in English at Greenwood Point before moving out here because I actually wanted to become a professor. This job actually fell in my lap a couple of years ago, and I think I can say I enjoy it even more than I would love teaching." Her eyes flits around the circle before she motions out an arm. "Who wants to go next?"
"I'm Nick Murphy."
Ruby elbows me again as the blond speaks, but the damper that's been put on my mood doesn't let me snort as loud as I wish I could.
"I was actually accepted into ten different highly ranked universities my junior year of high school, but I chose not to go so that someone more deserving could receive aid in my place. I'm so glad I made it here, even though, you know, I figured I eventually would. Many people have told me that my writing is certainly something that deserves to be published."
Now I actually did glance at Ruby, a tiny smirk curving across my lips that she returns even despite the stare I can feel digging into me.
"Ah, I see." Chantelle says, and I have to cough to keep from laughing. "Nice to meet you Nick. Who's next?"
My gaze darts back across the circle to the nightmare, lips twisting to the side of my face as the next introduction unfolds.
"What's up everyone? I'm Anaya—happy to be here, obviously." A couple chuckles rise up from the crowd. "I decided in high school that I didn't want to go to college because I thought I could become a playwright without it. As you can tell, that is not going the way I want it to. Hopefully I'll be able to pick up some tips here to help me decide the direction I should go in. Writing's not something I can just give up."
Chantelle seems a lot more enthused by this answer, visibly perking up. "I hope we can help you too, Anaya. We're glad to have you."
I raise a hand volunteering to go next, honestly wanting for this to just be over. "Hey, I'm Cleo. Senior year I was an idiot and only applied and got rejected to a couple low acceptance schools, so I missed my chance to get into any of the English programs I really wanted. Now I'm still working my high school job, hoping that one day I'll be able to get my Bachelor's in Journalism."
Almost before I can finish my last sentence, a hand shoots up, long fingers, tan skin.
Ugh.
Chantelle shoots the man attached to it a confused smile before turning her head back to me. "Journalism. Always been a field that's interested me. Um, you now?"
The prick from Roselyn's nods, gaze turning straight onto mine with the fury of a man scorned. "I'm Dane Anderson. I intend to pursue a career in technical writing."
That's all.
I can't stop myself from responding before Chantelle can. "Don't you need to have good communication skills for that to work out?"
His head tilts, jaw ticking in the way I've come to realize is a bad habit. "Are you questioning my abilities, Cleodora?"
"Not at all. It was a genuine question about the profession."
"Ah." It comes out as a sigh, gaze sweeping me up and down in the judgemental way that's his default. "I've mastered the art of getting people to talk if that's what you're concerned about. Maybe next time try to make your questions sound a little less sarcastic if your intentions aren't antagonistic."
Ruby jabs me in the side again, so I smile widely, his eyes narrowing at the expression. "Right, I'll keep that in mind. Thank you very much, Dane." The new name rolls off my tongue laced with poison, and Ruby actually turns her head to look at me now.
Chantelle raises her eyebrows before clearing her throat. "Well, uh, good to have you, Dane. Who's next?"
The next sixteen introductions are pretty standard stuff, variations of what we'd already heard. I recognize quite a few people from the group chat, the nightmare apparently not having even bothered to join.
Maybe if he had, I would've been a little more prepared for today.
"Well, let's head over to the table then," Chantelle says after the last person's spoken, motioning for the group to follow her to the long piece of wood behind us.
I snag a chair in the middle next to Ruby, face souring when I glance up to see who's sitting across from me.
Dane's elbow's resting on the table, face cupped in his hand, eyes dark boring into me with laser focus. Immediately, I look away, not missing Ruby's raised brow.
"We'll start off with an exercise." Chantelle starts, walking around the table to lay pieces of copy paper and a pen in front of all of us.
I thank her as she distributes mine, thudding the ballpoint against the blank sheet to keep my gaze from straying.
"I like to call this a fastwrite." Chantelle's standing at the head of the table now. "Just write, get everything out—a stream of consciousness brain dump. Sometimes we have emotions bubbling beneath the surface that we're not even aware are there, so I feel like this is a good way to expel some energy. I'll give you, hm, five minutes?"
Oh, I have emotions bubbling under the surface, alright.
I go to town on the piece of paper, pen scratching the page at a speed I don't think I've ever achieved before, dark marks carving themselves out into something that can probably be read as Braille.
Across from me I can hear similar, furious movements.
I hope his pen breaks.
"And that's time."
Chantelle's voice seems to knock me out of a stupor. My head shoots up, gaze clashing with Dane's, and I instantly look away again, trying to appear at ease when I am, in fact, anything but.
"You all can do whatever you want with these papers. Rip them up, keep them—it's your choice. We won't be sharing."
I bite my lip in concentration while carefully folding up my piece of paper, pressing it into neat lines before slipping it into my tote bag underneath the table. Something tells me I'll want to look back on what bullshit I've written later.
The sound of shredding paper fills the room, and I turn to toss Ruby an amused glance.
She shrugs, "I've created a monster," before getting up to toss her paper into the recycling bin across the room.
When everyone's settled, Chantelle leans against the table, flowy pink sleeves fanning out from her arms. "Next on the agenda is an overview. I'm sure a lot of you know what you were getting into when you signed up, but no one knows workshop specifics."
We all nod, leaning forward in interest.
"The point of this all is to make sure you come out as a better writer. We want people who can catch mistakes, bend conventional rules, and think in ways that challenge the norm. That, of course, means we'll be working together. It also means we can't always be nice to each other."
A few chuckles flit around the room at that.
"A big part of peer review is targeting what's working and what's not working. If you only point out what is working, your partners are never going to know what they need to improve.
Two years ago we decided to introduce a ranking system to our program. It's not foolproof, obviously, but for each assignment we do in this workshop, we'll anonymously vote on which pieces we think accomplished the goal best. This isn't to shame anyone or pick at your mistakes, but we've found that most tend to put in their best effort when they know they're in a competition. Even if it's a friendly one. Furthermore, this isn't something to be taken seriously, art is subjective. Sometimes you won't place because you're an overlooked genius."
More laughter.
I glance over at a bit of movement from out the corner of my eye.
"Yes, Nicholas?" Chantelle asks.
The blond's leaning forward so deep that he's almost making out with the table. "Can you speak on the full-ride competition a bit?"
Chantelle smiles at the question. "Ah, the full-ride. I knew someone would bring this up eventually.
At the end of this workshop every year, we have the grand prize as all of you are aware of, I'm sure."
Everyone around the table nods eagerly.
"One of you will earn a full-ride to the college or university you selected as your first choice in the application pool. You'll complete a final piece that will be judged by a panel of authors and Fish Tank representatives, no restrictions applied on what you decide to create. Whichever the judges deem the best will be the winner."
The energy in the room, which had grown a bit calmer after the fastwrite, immediately shoots up again, foot-tapping, finger-tapping, anxious glances around the table.
This is a big part of what we're all here for—the cash. It would be a shame to let such a big opportunity slip through our fingers while it seems so in reach.
"I won't speak anymore on the competition as I don't want to freak you guys out, but by the time it comes around, you'll feel prepared. Trust me. Just try not to worry about it so much." Chantelle's words do nothing to dull the mood.
One of us sitting at this table will be getting our hands on that scholarship at the end of three weeks.
And I know exactly who I don't want it to be.
***
bouta go eat a boatload of junk food 😗✌️ oh yeah and Dane name reveal 🥳🥳
Q: if u could compete in the workshop competition, would you?