Back At School—DAY
As I enter for finals at my creative writing class, I spot everyone is turning in their final project, stacking them on a table in the back of the classroom anyway. No one is really looking towards the back of the room, so I skim through the pile a bit. Many are movie scripts. None were full feature-length. Some were treatments or even just doodles. If this is the kind of material that gets turned in, no wonder people liked my stuff so much.
I must fight to find a seat in the back to watch the final class presentations and subsequent critiques of each other. Spike ambles in and sits next to me. I had heard that he had scrawled out a bunch of cartoons but that they are basically stolen from another famous comic that I don’t know. When Spike is called upon, he has little recourse but to go to the front of the room and hold up his drawings. No one can see. He passes them around as we begin critique. When it’s my turn to comment on his work, I say as politely but as consistently as I can that, “Although I understand homage, and though I don’t know the source material, if the comic is stolen that it has little artistic merit.”
“I see. I see.” Spike says angry through gritted teeth. he marches to the back and pulls out my story from the stack, then marches back down to the front. He begins to read it, coughing because of too many cigarettes and stumbling over the “big” words. Thankfully, he hasn’t the confidence to make any comments at all, just read it aloud in hopes that its terribleness will just be self-evident.
No one has much to say. The professor shrugs and hand s out the final exam.
The materials are passed about the room. I am given the wrong test materials. Sabotage no doubt from Spike who passed me the last exam. No matter. I have enough faith in myself that I will surpass my classmates. It is not as if creative writing can have a very fact-based exam.
Still, I dwell on the test late and everyone has soon gone home. I try to rush but cannot remember anything. I attempt to look back at the material, since no one is watching me. I don’t feel too guilty, everyone else must have been looking, and that’s how they finished so quickly. And they had the right test too.
I file out of the room when it is over. Spike has lingered in the hall and smirks as I approach.
“It’s funny to think back to High School. We were all such fuck-ups back then.”
I smirk back addressing them grandly, “Now, here I am. And there are you. Still a complete fuck-up.”
But I am not paying attention. Merely string back through the classroom window and looking at the one student taking longer than I. A redhead. Biting pencil and frowning at the exam. I tap on the window and smile at her when she looks up.
Her name is…? I remember her project; it was a mock ad for a uniform company selling vintage gear. I wonder if it is still on the back table where I might take a second look. The ad itself was made of green material like the work pants they make. I have a pair myself.
A parade march song begins somewhere; an impromptu end-of-the-year pep rally is starting. I forget the redhead. Students begin marching with the music towards the gym. . I salute as they pass.
I join the parade if only to make an exit from Spike, but I spot Sailor Lou in the crowd and grab him by the elbow. We duck out of the festivities as the pass a side door leading to the quad.
Sailor Lou and I go up to Anna Feng’s room. She has a lot of junk in there, including the black storage cabinet she and I had picked up on a curbside one time freshman year. Memories.
But, now, Lou and I find she is busy planning her wedding, picking swatches. I am crushed to learn she isn’t single. Noticeably crushed.
“So it’s true you and Spike hooked up?” I can sense Lou and Anna pause and stare, not wanting to deal with my hurt feelings quite now. I grab the nearest ugliest swatch. “Here, I think you should use this.”
I thrust her a handful of real gaudy material with farm animals on it. It is the only joke I can muster. She ignores it.
“I guess I can give you guys these while you’re here.” Anna hands us both wedding invites. It is written on a dry erase board material with marker, as if the info could be wiped off and updated. It doesn’t suggest too much gravitas in the affair.
At least there is that.
I leave ruined.
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