Near to You
04
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Why don’t you be the writer and make me out of clay? Why don’t you be the author and decide the words I say?
The Writer – Ellie Goulding
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I was late.
I cursed my bad luck as I hustled up the stairs of the old building where my new tutorial would take place. I unravelled my scarf as I reached the final stair. Even though it was only mid-October, frost was already beginning to coat the deadened leaves and grass. After weeks of being trapped in a stuffy auditorium with three hundred other students learning about the ways of writing, we were finally going to get down to the actual business of it. Of course, on my first day of the tutorial, however, I slept past my alarm.
I knew it was most likely because of the late night I spent at the coffee shop, waiting for my new companion who never showed, but I pushed my annoyance aside as I found the door I was looking for. He had no way of contacting me to tell me that something had arisen, and I had gotten some of my writing done. I could not help but be a little worried, though. What if something bad had happened to him?
I shook away the ridiculous thought. It had been stupid to expect that Zayn would be able to come whenever I had happened to find the chance myself. He probably had far more important things to do than share a coffee with some strange girl he barely knew. I wrenched open the door and hesitated by the threshold. Twenty-seven pairs of eyes stared up at me.
The room was not set up as I had anticipated it would be, with rows of desks facing the teaching assistant. Instead, there was one long table where everyone sat facing each other, resembling a boardroom meeting. At the head of the table, half-perched on its surface, sat a young looking man with an amused expression.
“You are Lewis, I take it.”
I bowed my head in embarrassment and nodded.
“Take a seat. You are only a few minutes late and we’ve just begun.”
I took the only available space near the centre of the table between a girl with the brightest hair I had ever seen and a boy whose dimples showed when he flashed me a quick smile. The TA returned his attention to a girl sitting a few seats away.
“Continue, Fatima.”
“…well as I was saying, I primarily focus on the horror genre, specifically the style of the gothic novels pre-1700.”
“Next?”
A boy with dark hair and equally dark eyes spoke up.
“I’m Thomas Dixon.” He smiled smugly at us all. I immediately felt a sense of distaste for him. “I like action and adventure, like Indiana Jones mixed with Die Hard.”
I rolled my eyes subtly. He was just a stereotypical teenage boy who wouldn’t be taking this class seriously. The TA glanced around the room, looking for his next volunteer. When no one spoke up, his blue eyes flashed my way.
“What about you?” He suggested. “Name and preference.”
“Oh, well,” I became flustered as once more all eyes were on me. “I’m Michelle, Michelle Lewis, and I prefer the romantic genre.”
“Typical.”
My eyes snapped in Thomas’ direction.
“Excuse me?”
“Nothing. Just typical of a girl to be into that nonsense.”
“It’s more than just that.”
“Sure it is,” He said as if merely to placate me. “Whatever makes you sleep at night.”
“You know what, smart ass?” I bit before I could help myself. “Indiana Jones wasn’t just adventure. Romance scopes through all the genres – at least I have more flexibility than someone who probably has the writing ability equivalent to that of a potato.”
“Yeah? Well, you’re just a bitch—”
“Alright, I think that’s enough,” The teacher laughed, clapping his hands together to get everyone’s attention. “This is going to be an interesting semester.”
A few people chuckled at this and the TA rolled his eyes.
“As much as I love a good debate,” He continued, eyes fixing on me once more. “Ms. Lewis, try not to make it a habit of being late.”
“I’ll try not to,” I agreed.
“Oh, and I’m Jonathan, by the way,” He added as an afterthought. “If you haven’t figured it out by now, I’m your professor.”
To say I was shocked would be an understatement. Jonathan didn’t look as if he could be over twenty-five, let alone be a full-fledged professor. I eyed him warily from my seat. He must have been some sort of genius as a child.
We went through the rest of the class time with introductions, and a few basic writing exercises to get the feel of our tone, and before I knew it I was back into the blisteringly cold weather, a whole afternoon free to do as I pleased. I briefly pondered heading to the library to catch up on some class reading for my history course, but the idea of being trapped away in the too silent building was not too enticing.
My notebook felt heavy in my bag. Jude had been pestering me more than normally now that he knew who I really was, for new material. He said four years would be too long a wait and would make me irrelevant. I begged to differ. He threatened to pull me out of school if I didn’t come up with something, and I knew sooner or later I would have to get around to typing up my jumbled scribbling and sending it off for evaluation.
“Pardon me!”
I glanced over my shoulder in confusion. It was the boy from the tutorial who had sat next to me. I had not caught his name; he had introduced himself before I had arrived.
“Can I help you?” I asked kindly enough. Maybe he needed directions to get somewhere, although if he did I would not be of much help myself. I had created a little niche for myself in London, but outside of the streets which I frequented, I was as lost as any tourist who had just wandered off the plane.
“You’re Michelle, right?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m Zachary.” He held out his hand and I took it gingerly. As he shook it I wondered who on earth shook hands anymore. “I just wanted to say that you calling Dixon out back there was notoriously epic.”
“Thanks,” I smiled self-consciously. Now that I had been given time to cool down, I was rather mortified by my childish behaviour. He waved cheerfully, walking back toward the cluster of buildings where most of the literature classes took place and I hiked my bag on my shoulder. I would go to the library, at least for a little while, and then call Julia to discuss this deadline Jude was trying to impose.
I was barely down the street from my classes when I heard yet another voice call after me, except this time it was slightly familiar. Frankie jogged up to me in his overly large sweater and jeans. It was odd to see him outside the dimness of the coffee shop, and in the light he looked slightly less intimidating.
“Frankie!” I crowed when he finally reached me. “What are you doing here?”
“I was looking around for some new coffee grinds,” Frankie explained. “I just happened to see you leaving. I’ve got something for you.”
“Oh?”
My eyebrows furrowed. What could he have for me? Had I forgotten something in the store?
“Here it is.” He fished out a crumpled piece of paper from the pocket of his pants. “Sorry it’s so bent; I almost forgot it was in there.”
“Thank you,” I told him uncertainly. “But what is it?”
“A special note.”
Frankie winked at me cheekily before running back down the street to a small woman who stood waiting for him by a store. Was that his girlfriend? I chuckled at the idea of a man as large and as intimidating as Frankie being sweet to someone. Prying open the note I read it over a few times before it finally sank in.
Sorry I couldn’t make it. Something came up for the band and I won’t be around for the next few days. I should be back by next week sometime though.
I smiled slightly.
At least he had the decency to say something. I stuffed the note in my purse and set off toward the library in a much better mood. He hadn’t just abandoned me as I suspected.
Zayn Malik, I shook my head, what an odd one you are.