Authors: Victoria Sawyer
I’m down the hill now, through a small crush of people
headed back up the hill to their cars, and I pause for a moment and pull out my
campus map and schedule, trying to find my first class. Hamilton Smith Hall is
to my right and I plot out my path, finally crossing the street, eyes glued to
my schedule.
Wow, it’s embarrassingly obvious that I’m new on campus. Wicked
fuckin awesome, Victoria
. I imagine how I look, map in hand, brand new
black messenger bag strapped to my back, schedule of classes behind the map,
untried and squeaky clean new.
What a complete loser.
I rotate my bag to
the front and quickly stuff my map and schedule away before anyone notices the
green girl who hasn’t a clue.
And I’m people watching as I go, taking everything in.
Distraction
.
Distraction is always key to getting me on the outside of my damn over-thinking
brain. I’m walking past crowds of students wearing sunglasses, backpacks,
messenger bags, body types of every kind. I critically observe the pretty
blonde in the holy-shit short skirt, typical va-va-voom, as she struts by,
wondering if her oversized and overtly perky breasts could possibly be real,
what
a hoe-bag
! And then there’s the jock type with the muscles bulging out of
his too-tight t-shirt, his aviator sunglasses and his God-damned cocky-bastard
grin.
Yeah he’s full of himself
. And now, the quiet-looking freckled
girl with the mousy hair hanging half in front of her face, looking how I feel,
poor girl.
Good looking people, odd looking people, I wonder what they
think of me? What does this blonde guy with the wicked glint in his eyes
goofing off with a group of football players think of me? Am I attractive? Am I
not? What would these lovely people think if they knew how
crazy
I
really am? It’s worth a laugh because as long as I’m in control (and please
hope to God that I always am) no one will ever find out because it’s my
darkest, deepest secret.
Ok, back off…getting a little too close to the avoided
topic. So I’m back to
distraction
. I purposefully take a deep breath of
the fresh smell of cut grass. The day is a beautiful New England end-of-summer
day. Blue sky, warm sunshine aroma wafting on the breeze, and campus looks
fantastic with perfectly manicured bushes, lawns of thick green grass, tall
stately trees and of course those damn intimidating, claustrophobic brick
buildings. I shiver, because despite the warmth and magnificent vista, there’s
some kind of enormity about me being a part of this huge intense campus.
And now without warning,
God I’m crazy
, I’m yanked
back to the inside my head for no apparent reason other than the fact that I
must enjoy torturing myself by feeling nervous and on edge with racing
thoughts. I’m thinking, I really don’t want to walk into my new classroom to
meet new faces and new challenges and feel trapped within this new overwhelming
University. I attempt, and definitely fail miserably, to suppress the jabbing
hot nerves that are crawling all over my body making me hot, jittery, and sick
to my stomach.
I’m such a Goddamn study in opposites, cool calm exterior and
a freakin mess inside
.
Crazy crazy crazy
, I sing to myself sarcastically
with a tiny anger grin. At least I’m able to keep some kind of a sense of humor
about how weird I am. Now Ham-Smith is in sight, and I pick up my pace,
brushing by groups of strangers, hoping to get a good seat before the crowds.
Inside the muggy building, sunglasses pushed up on my head,
and schedule back in hand, I bound up the steps to the second floor, searching
doors for room 226.
It has to be here, beeotch, go left, this is room 244
,
I tell myself as anxious minutes tick by. I wind down hallways filled with
sunlight, students brushing past me, hurrying to their own classrooms. Finally
226 is before me and I sigh with an internal child-like whine, it’s already
half full and the only seats available are in the far corner from the door.
Shit,
so much for sitting close to escape
.
My heart starts to slam and suddenly my stomach rolls over
inside like an alligator on a tether.
Don’t do this now
.
Seriously
Victoria, do not do this you crazy psycho bitch. Goddamn it
. I wrestle the
feelings, strengthening my resolve, mentally pushing terrified me into a
coffin, slamming the lid, standing back, triumphant, desperate to make college
a “good experience.”
Yeah right. Pathetic.
I quickly nab a seat in the back row near the open window,
tossing my backpack on the floor and pulling out a notebook and pen. I cross my
legs at the ankle, pretending to be busy reading something in my blank
notebook, yet discreetly gazing around the room. My heart starts to thud
because I’m finally here, and since I need a good dose of distraction, I decide
to rip everyone in the room to shreds, if only to keep my mind off the one
place I don’t want to go. I pick out the attractive guys (Mr. bed-tossed brown
hair is HOT), the girls who think they are all that (Ms. Skanky-whore in the
teeny-tiny bright red tank top, you know who I’m talking about,
slut!),
the people who know each other but are avoiding acknowledging it and the couple
who looks like they were dating back in high school.
Gross
. Mr.
Basketball Jock and Ms. Blondie Cheerleader are so mushy, trading lovelorn
looks as they sit down together, their hands parting at the last minute.
I fiddle with my pen, watching. No one is talking to each
other except the lovey dovey couple. Everyone in the room, eyes switching back
and forth, trying not to stare at each other yet trying to assess and grade
each person. Finally, I pull out my cell phone, scrolling through old text
messages pretending to do something other than look bored.
Just then the skinny male faculty member strides in, his tie
askew, his thinning hair windblown and messy, launching his briefcase on to the
table up front with a clatter and scrawling his name across the white board.
Here
comes the spiel
.
Mr. Beckwith, Creative Writing 101. I fidget in my seat
trying to listen to the professor’s droning first day speech about
expectations, class rules about writing, sharing work, and more. He asks
everyone to introduce themselves and say what town we live in and why we’re
here in his class. When it’s finally my turn I look around the room, attempting
to suppress my jiggling leg under the table and the fire that’s creeping into
my cheeks, smiling.
“Hi, my name’s Victoria Sawyer. I live in the nearby town of
Stratham and I’m here because I have always been someone who enjoys writing,” I
say with a tiny wave to the other students, leaning back in my seat, relief
washing over me that it’s out of the way, yet sarcastically mocking my own
performance. I’m so amazingly cool and
original
.
I purposefully listen with interest as everyone else around
the circle gives their names and why they’re here because my stomach is flip
flopping like a dying fish and I’m determined that I’m not going to run out of
this classroom. I’m not, seriously, I need to pay attention. After
introductions are over the teacher hands out the syllabus for the semester and
I pour over it, the paper still warm from the copy machine, the ink smeared
just a little.
College is going to be a lot of work. Ugggg. I run my finger
over the long list of assignments again, groaning inside.
Damn,
how much
does it suck that my entire semester is already planned out for me on this
little piece of smudged white paper? And this is only class number one out of
four. Just before class is over the professor announces our first assignment of
the semester.
Already I’m in the shit.
“I’d like everyone in class to keep a journal of your
thoughts and feelings. You will not be required to turn it in to me, but I will
check them at the beginning of every class to see what kind of progress you
have made. This will be your place to start writing, to let out things that are
bothering you, to find material from things that have happened. Let it be free
flowing, don’t worry about complete sentences. I have often found that
journaling is an excellent way to start writing, especially if you’re not sure
what to write about. I have kept all my journals over the years and they are an
invaluable resource. Oh, and one other thing, your first assignment is to tell
me why you write, why it is important to you,” he says as students begin
packing up their bags for the flight out of class.
I jump up from my seat as the bell chimes the hour from
T-Hall, glad that my first test of wills is over, pushing my syllabus into a
new red folder. I’m excited ‘cause for once I’m already doing an assignment
that’s required for class. Writing in my journal is a daily exercise anyway and
now I can actually get credit for it. Luckily no one will be reading it, I
smirk, because some of my entries are not meant for public consumption. I
thread my way around the maze of empty desks and follow the crowd of students
from class into the sunshine.
Once outside, I stroll down a shady brick path, pulling out
my schedule to see when and where my next class is being held. I’ve still got
an hour, what the hell am I gonna do till then? I scan the nearby area,
watching students walk by, people laughing and talking with one another, two
guys throwing a football to each other. The sloping lawn in front of the
library and T-Hall looks inviting and is already sparsely populated with
students sunning themselves. It seems like a good bet. I find a sunlit spot,
the light filtering from above through long tree branches and decide to people
watch for a few minutes.
Campus is crowded right now, students are everywhere. Girls in
tank-tops, short skirts, high heels and other cleavage and long, tanned
leg-baring outfits are strutting from building to building, and several girls
are lounging on towels outside a dorm building across the street in bikinis,
looking bronze and appealing to every guy walking by.
Sluts! Seriously!
The guys on campus are intriguing to watch, too, their eyes
darting left and right as they walk down paths that meander through grassy
lawns and stands of trees. Apparently there are simply too many interesting
girls for them to feast their eyes on and they just can’t help themselves. I
laugh, watching one guy almost stumble over his own feet as he gazes at a
bikini-clad girl.
Horny bastards
. Then again, I wish they were looking
at me.
Just as I pull my well-worn journal out of my brand new
backpack to begin writing about my first day, my phone rings. As I scramble to
answer it, I smile, it’s my cousin Amanda. We’ve been friends for years and
years and have kept our friendship alive through laughter and common interests
even though we live in different towns and went to different high schools. Amanda
is my one of my besties and someone I really trust, but I’ve never told her
about my crazy problem. Even those closest to me still don’t know my secret. I’m
so damn good at hiding the dirty, ugly truth.
“Hello, Amanda, my dahling! Welcome back!” I say, accepting
the call on my cell phone with a huge grin, drawing my knees up to my chest. Amanda
spent her summer vacation in Ireland with relatives and I haven’t spoken to her
in several weeks.
“Helloooo, Queen Victoria, how ahh you?” Amanda replies,
using her best British accent, while trying to suppress a laugh.
“Top notch, mah wee bonnie lassie,” I growl, in a heavily
exaggerated Irish accent.
Amanda laughs. “We did always love doing accents, Vic.
So…How’s college life?”
“Good, if you like spending all your savings on books and
knowing ahead of time every assignment you will have to complete for an entire
3 and a half month period. Oh oh, I have some stories for you!” I breathe into
the phone with excitement.
“I’m sure you do Mz. Slutty-pants, but I’ve got class in
five. Do you wanna grab lunch this afternoon?”
“With my favorite beotch? Damn straight! I can meet you at
HoCo at 12:30?”
“Done! See you in a bit!”
#######################
My next class is over and I’m meeting Amanda outside the
dining hall. Thank God, my nerves are a bit more under control now that I’ve
been to a couple classes and am slowly getting used to my new routine. They
could be upset in an instant, but luckily Amanda always seems to get my mind
off…well...my mind. I spot her walking toward me in a long white linen skirt,
large silver earring shaped like leaves, her dirty blonde hair pulled away from
her face with clips.
“Hey ya, Babe!” she says, giving me a huge hug.
“Hey, doll!” I say, grinning, holding her at arm’s length,
to check out her new tan, which only emphasizes the smattering of freckles
across the bridge of her nose. She wrinkles her nose, smiling a toothy white
grin.
“You’re making me uncomfortable, Victoria, staring at my
damn freckles!” she says with a laugh, shaking her finger back and forth in
front of my face like a librarian to a student caught talking loudly,
simultaneously pulling me toward the doors to the dining hall.
We walk into Holloway and swipe our student IDs. There are
lots of choices for lunch and we wander around the food stations with our trays
for a while deciding on what to eat. At last, after making our selections, we thread
our way through the colorful, noisy crowd of students, maneuvering our trays in
between elbows, backs and arms, to the sea of tables in the dining area. After
some searching we finally find seats, squeezing in amongst other underclassmen.
“So,” says Amanda, ignoring her food and the loud chatter of
students around us, leaning across the table, her eyes avid, “I know you must
have some gossip to share about your summer and you know I want to hear every
single steamy detail.”