Larkspur
.Excerpt).
Chapter 1: Willow
This is fucking pointless.
This class, this school. God, I wish I weren't here. I wish I was someone else. I wish I was someone who hadn't gotten dumped last night. I wish my ex would rot in hell for cheating on me, which she was doing when I found her and that other girl. Lots of screaming and drama and shit, and I just slammed the door on all of it and stormed across town back to campus to my single dorm room. Now I'm sitting at my desk in the back at 8:15 am for my 8:30 Literature class after having not slept at all last night, and I'm just about ready to set all these preppy fucks walking past the classroom window on fire when I see my professor come in.
This motorcycle goddess, for lack of a better word, is gorgeous and hard as fuck. No students give her a hard time, not ever, because when you behave politely she'll treat you right. But god help you if you decide to be a little shit. No one messes with Professor Lark. The woman almost always looks like she's climbed off a Harley – black work boots lace up beneath her dark jeans held up by a thick, black belt. Most of the time when the weather's cool she wears a wool sweater, but when it's hot out I've seen her in a tank tops that cling to her toned body when she sweats. Long, coal-black hair is naturally straight and typically left to hang down her back and sometimes over her shoulder. Dark green eyes pierce into everyone's soul, or at least mine; that intense look has been known to shut up freshman on day one. Dark makeup and naturally honey-tan skin make her almost look Hispanic, but her thick Irish accent flows prettily when she begins her lessons.
Even through my hate-fueled exhaustion I have to take a moment and look at her, pulling my earbuds reluctantly from my ears so I don't miss a word that she says. Usually I'm the first student in – most shuffle in at 8:29, so she's gotten to know who I am pretty quick. “Dia dhuit, Abby” she says with a slight smile, unshouldering her messenger bag onto the table that serves as her desk in this room. I know what the Irish means by now, if only because I went to my dorm room after my first class with her and looked it up. It means hello.
“Hey” I say softly.
She gives me a subtle look, and I know that she can tell that something is wrong. Yet soon other students are wandering in, that magical moment is gone, and I shut down, feeling angry and bitter all over again. Class passes by faster than it should, and today's lesson is on The Picture of Dorian Gray. I've already read the whole book, and I've got my midterm essay on it half done. In other classes I do as little as possible to get an A. I'm not stupid, but I'm not motivated to ever speak in class or participate. Professors are lucky if I make eye contact with them during the lecture.
I can only imagine what Professor Lark must think of me. I'm twenty-one and look like I should still be in high school. My scrawny, 5'8” body barely has curves or tits, and I hide what little I have in plaid button ups over white tee-shirts. Because it's cool out today (as cool as Georgia ever gets) I've got on a pair of black skinny jeans that might as well be tights, and my black and white canvas sneakers have certainly seen better days. I'm pale and freckled and am thoroughly a Ginger, complete with blue eyes and frizzy, orange hair. Most of the time I wear a black bandanna to keep it out of my face, and today my scotch fro has been tugged down into two pigtails. Or pigbuns I guess. No amount of brushing will ever make my hair flow smooth and straight. A crinkly lock of it is allowed to drape out from the front of my bandanna, but its end is tucked behind my left ear.
“And d'aht's all, everyone. Have a good day.” Professor Lark rubs away the chalk notes she'd put up on the black board that I only just notice were there. Fuck. I wanted to take notes. I always take notes. Shit. I bite my lip and rub at my brow to force away a tension headache. Maybe I can track down a classmate. Am I on Jenny's shitlist yet? Maybe. Ron's? While I moodily hike my ratty black backpack onto my shoulder I hear the Professor say “Abby, a moment.”
I flush, and when I flush I go beat red. For some stupid reason I can't blush like a normal person. No cute little pastel pink for me. It's either anemic and pale or scarlet-fever red. “Uh... sure.” My head hangs a little as I watch the rest of my class wander out into the hallway. There isn't another class in here until noon, so whatever she's going to scold me for could well take hours.
Only when all the other students have shuffled out does she say “You look awful, Abby. What's wrong?” Lark looks down at me from her superior height of 5'10”, and by now she's slipped into her leather coat, which only makes her even more imposing.
“Couldn't sleep” I mutter. My heart's pounding. I've never chatted with her really, or been this close to her. She even smells good. Like... soap. Does soap smell good? Oh god, has she said anything else? I blink and look up at her, suddenly terribly nervous that I've royally fucked up the only chance I'll get to talk to this gorgeous woman. “I uh... I mean it was a rough night.” Shut up, Abby. Shut up!
Her dark brow lifts on one side, and she shoulders her bag. “D'ye got anyone around to go talk to?” I just shake my head morosely. I'm not much of a social butterfly. That embarrasses me and I feel my eyes grow wet and my nose tingles, and I duck my head to hide it. “If ye want to talk about it, be at Tom's Bar after six. I grade my papers d'ere. I'll buy you a drink and you can make it less boring for me.” My eyes lift up to hers and I try to meet her gaze for just a second, but by then she's turning and walking out the door.
About a minute after she leaves I'm still standing there in the empty class room, my blue eyes wide as I whisper “Okay... I'll see you there.”
The rest of the day crawls by as I sit through the other three classes I have. Snoozefests all of them, exacerbated by the fact that I'm dead tired. After my last one ends at four I race to my dorm for a power nap and then a shower. I scarf a granola bar to keep myself from getting too hungry before I catch the bus into town. I'm wearing the same things I did in class, though I've left my backpack at home. The nap and the shower have brought me back to life somewhat, and when I walk into the bar I'm not as disoriented as I might have been by the intense smell of booze and cigarettes, and the noise of a football game on the suspended TVs by the bar.
I wander around a little until I spot Professor Lark set up at a booth in the back. There's already a mostly-finished glass of beer on a coaster by her right hand, and a stack of papers by her left. A red pen twiddles in her fingers as she reads through someone's weekly book review, and I can tell that this one is probably not a work of art, given how she's frowning. Nervously I approach the table, nibbling my lip as I try to secretively wipe my sweaty palms on the butt of my jeans. Her green eyes flick up towards me and I feel like a deer caught in the headlights of a car.
She sets the paper down on the table in front of her and smiles, lifting her beer glass up in toast to me. “My t'anks to you, Abby. Ye just saved me from having a stroke.” She takes a sip and gestures to the other side of the booth, and I slide into it, my heart hammering only a little less hard.
“Is that one really bad?” Nice! My voice didn't crack! I almost sound casual.
Lark nods gravely and sighs, setting the beer glass down. “I can tell 'dey're tryin', but tryin' only goes so far. So, you're here. What's going on?”
I hug my arms as I slouch in the booth, feeling stupid for bringing my problems to her. “My girlfriend dumped me last night, after I caught her in bed with some other chick.” I'm kind of surprised that I got that out without any pauses or stammering. This is Atlanta, sure, but not everyone's ready to approach the 21st century around here.
Lark looks angry on my behalf and remains quiet for a few moments before she raps her knuckles on the table twice and gets up. “I'll be right back. We are in need of some'tin.”
I just nod dumbly and watch her walk over to the bar, engaging the bartender. Some money's laid down, and she soon returns with two shot glasses filled with amber liquid. One is set in front of me before she takes her seat again and lifts the small glass, and I lift mine before she gently clinks them together. “May she melt off t'e Earth like snow from a ditch.” Lark then knocks back her drink, and sets the glass silently down, as if the whole process will definitely make that curse come true.
My smile is a little lopsided as I murmur over the lip of my glass “Ooh, I like that.” When I tip back the shot it slides down my tongue and throat like wet fire, and it's all I can do not to cough or make a face. My toes curl within my sneakers. Lark chuckles and watches me, and through tearing eyes I wave her concerns (of which there are probably none) away. “I'm good!” I wheeze. Thankfully the bartender comes over with a glass of water and a pair of opened beer bottles. I nod to him and wheeze “Thank you!” before I sip at the ice water.
“Was it this sort of thing 'dat's kept you quiet in class for so long? You hardly speak.” She takes a sip of her beer as if that shot, which I think was whiskey, never happened.
I shrug, feeling the warmth in my belly curl out towards my fingers and toes. And to think I hadn't liked it going down when it feels so good once inside. Yeah, that granola bar wasn't enough. “I do my homework and papers” I grumble, pulling the beer bottle over and nursing it. “I just...this whole college thing is crap.”
“Crap, ye say?”
My nod is firm. “Crap. Like, you're supposed to find yourself during this time of your life. Fuck, I'm a junior, it's March, and I've got one more year left before I earn an English degree... and then what? What am I going to do? What's out there that isn't going to drain the life out of me?” Usually I'm not so chatty. I think it's the beer, or the whiskey, so I take another drink of it.
Lark leans back in her seat and shrugs. “So what is it you want to do?”
“I want to write books!” I say, my eyes suddenly wide and full of wonder. “I want to be remembered, you know? Like Oscar Wilde, or Yeats, or any of those authors you've taught us about. There are so many beautiful things in the world about human nature, and even beautiful things about sadness and suffering, and I know I can write it.”
“So write it, Abby.” I almost begin to protest, but she's looking at me with that gaze that renders all students silent. “I'm serious. Write your book.” The intensity is softened and she smiles. “I'd read it.”
“You would?” I ask, hiding behind my beer bottle. Lark just nods. “Well, um. Well, I do have this one idea...”
And we talk about it. We talk about the story I've been wanting to write for three years but have never had the courage to start. By around nine we're still talking about it even as we head out of the bar. She asks if I'm hungry and I nod, really not wanting to abuse her generosity but desperately needing to eat, and I soon find a slice of cheese pizza on a paper plate handed to me. With a shot of whiskey and two beers in my skinny frame, I inhale it. I swear, it's the best pizza I've ever had. She sees me onto the bus just to make sure I make it home, and I wave to her through the window as the large vehicle takes me and a few other students back to campus.
The city lights pass by in a paradisaical blur, and I feel better than I have in a long, long time. All during the twenty-minute bus ride home I try to think of a proper title for my story. I'm still thinking about it when I get off at the bus stop in front of the dorms, and I'm still thinking about it as I take a shower and slip into bed. And just as I begin to drift to sleep, I finally know what I want to call this story that I've been keeping inside myself for so long. My lips form the words and I smile, whispering “Larkspur” as I slip into dreams.