"The Tutor" Part 2

 Here's the second half. Enjoy.

 "The Tutor" Part 2

In the next couple of weeks we worked out a routine. She would come in, give a shy smile and log in to her account. We would do her homework, or rather, I would do her homework while explaining it to her, so that if there was a pop quiz she’d at least have a chance of getting it right. She would nod her head and interject the occasional nonsensical question about exponents or why the elemental symbol for iron is Fe instead of Ir. We stayed on topic. It was all compounds, electrons and moles. She never said a word to me about her obsession, and I never let on that I knew. Afterward her twitter feed would explode about how wonderful her new boyfriend was, and how nice, and handsome etc. Flattering stuff, really. Almost embarrassing to tell the truth, and made all the more awkward in that I couldn’t acknowledge any of it. But more concerning to me was that her fantasy was becoming increasingly elaborate; she began mentioning scenarios and events that never even happened. He asked her out, she said, and they went out on dates. He’d open the doors and hold her coat, even though it was too warm to wear one, and once she even mentioned breakfast.
            What had seemed harmless before was looking more and more unhealthy, but since she didn’t say anything to me about it my hands were tied. There wasn’t a whole lot I could do to help her if she didn’t reach out. We got comfortable, and I couldn’t do anything but let her play it out. Perhaps she would get tired of this thing, I thought, maybe she will shift her focus onto someone or something else, and she would think I was none the wiser. But the more I contemplated this possibility, the more I disliked the idea. The facial expressions that I had first found annoying, like her sharply crumpled brow, were becoming strangely attractive. She was never short with me or demanding, never dismissive or cavalier, and it didn’t hurt that she always wore those tiny shorts. She was pushing her way into my thoughts constantly; I’d see traces of her face or her voice everywhere I went. I’d see a leggy girl walking through the quad, and be disappointed that it wasn’t her backpack, I’d hear a laugh in the coffee shop that sounded like her, but when I’d turn around I’d see that it wasn’t. Sure, she wasn’t terribly smart or a striking beauty, but she had this quiet way about her, this unassuming captivating manner and dogged persistence that won me over, bit by bit. No question, she was growing on me. I found myself wanting for her to reach out to me instead of dreading it. Every time she drew a breath I wondered “is this the confession now, finally?” and she would ask, “How do you know the number of electrons in phosphorus?” or grumble “Professor K is such an ass,” and I’d mourn another fleeting opportunity passed.

It didn’t make sense how she could appear so bold with her online presence, yet so timid in person. To encourage her to open up, I resolved to make myself as approachable as possible. Tentatively, so as not to frighten her off, I began dropping hints. “I like your hair today,” I’d say, or “nice jeans.” Her eyes would twitch like a cornered rabbit and she’d purse her lips. A murmured “thanks” was the most complete answer I ever got; usually she would make a humming noise or this oddly endearing grunt in the back of her throat. As we worked her homework problems I’d tell her “nice try,” “you almost got it,” and “the only thing you forgot was that this carbon is an isotope,” and she would roll her eyes, shake her head, or snort in a markedly unladylike fashion. I even offered to accompany her to her next class or the rec center a few times, omce even going so far as to offer lunch, but she politely refused. “It’s not that far,” “I’d better not,” “I’m ok,” and “Thanks but no,” was all she had to say to that. Instead of welcoming my company she’d just scuttle into the tutoring center, scuttle out, and tweet her bliss.

She appeared to be such a curious bundle of contradictions and I wanted to get to know her better, but casual conversation didn’t seem to be her forte. I was forced to explore alternate means. Through online research and a little observation I found that she did have a full class load, as I had suspected. She spent three hours a day in lecture on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, with an additional three hours in lab on Mondays. Tuesdays and Thursdays she had another three hours in the classroom, and an insane amount of time spent on the track and in the weight room every day. Practically every weekend was eaten up with events. What little free time she had seemed to be spent studying at the library or holed up in her dorm room. She had no life outside of school and sports, and of course her fixation on me.

What I really wanted was to get a good look at that dorm room. I knew what kind of clothes she usually wore, but was there a fabled “little black dress” hanging in her closet? Did she have a pair of those strappy heels? What about her décor, was it Picasso prints that graced the walls, or Escher, maybe Zeppelin, and were there stuffed giraffes and multicolored teddy bears all over her bed or was it as Spartan as her lifestyle? These could have helped me draw a much finer bead on her personality, but alas, the security at her dorm was too tight, and her window was three stories up. She kept the shade drawn anyway so I would have had to break out the glass, and that would be sure to draw attention. In keeping with past behavior, she remained as opaque as ever.

Running low on options, I knew I had to get creative. Every Tuesday she went grocery shopping at the old rundown supermarket. I figured that if we happened to have a chance meeting there, outside of the academic setting, she would open up a bit.

When she went inside the store I waited for a few minutes before following her in, grabbing a basket so I wouldn’t be so conspicuous. I tossed in a few items to fill out my pantry, spaghetti sauce, tortilla chips, cheddar cheese, and scanned the aisles for my “secret” admirer. I found her in the dairy aisle, pulling two whole quarts of Greek yogurt from the refrigerated shelf. “Hey, fancy meeting you here!” I said, laying it on a little thick.

“Oh, um, hi,” was all she came up with. Not exactly a great ice breaker.

“So, yogurt huh?” I prodded, hoping to get her to open up to a real conversation.

“Yeah.” She chewed her lip, a classic tell, but I was looking for more out of her. A complete sentence would have been nice.

“I was thinking about getting some myself,” I ventured. Wordlessly, she offered me one of her quarts. I accepted, and she reached for another. “So, just plain vanilla?” I asked, looking at the label.

“I like to mix in fruit, like strawberries or blueberries…” she trailed off. Well that was progress. I was thinking of a way to expand on that line of thought when she said, “Uh, I have some books to hit so I should finish up here.”

“Sure,” I said, heart sinking. “I’ve got some stuff I need to do, too.”

“Good to see you,” a faint smile flickered on her lips, and she was gone. Sure enough, twenty minutes later she ecstatically tweeted about her accidental run in with her boyfriend at the grocery store.

My frustration at this juncture was becoming palpable. This most recent exchange was a perfect characterization of the nature of our relationship, and I was sick of it; the latent attraction, the subtle duplicity, the self denial and her outright refusal to own up to her emotions. With every tweet it was as if she were offering herself to me, and then I would see her again and she would pull herself back. Short of tying her down to a chair, I had exhausted every possible action I could think of to have a real conversation with her. Subtlety had gotten us nowhere, she declined casual company, she was awkward and not at all forthcoming even when she had nothing to lose. I had given her every opportunity open up and confess her passion. I began to realize that if this were to end happily for both of us I had only one option left; one I had hoped to avoid, but she left me no choice. Her next exam was coming up in about two weeks, so she was coming back to my house to pick up the study materials for it. This visit, I decided, was when I would make my move. She’d miss her weekend event in Minnesota, sure. She’d miss some classes too, but not so many if she cooperated.

            It was on a Friday night just like last time, and just like last time I offered her a drink. Again she refused, but I pressed, gently of course, until she finally relented. I went to the kitchen and prepared a special glass of Jack and Coke and GHB. “Regrettable, but necessary,” I muttered  as I poured in the tiny vial of appropriately nicknamed “Fantasy.” I tapped out the last few drops and stirred the ice. “It would have been a lot easier for both of us if you’d been a little more honest with me.”

She didn’t drink it right away, as I’d hoped she would. Instead she was acting her usual, shy and skittish, taking a few sips and trying to hurry us along. GHB is a little salty, so I worried that she would taste the difference, or that she would just leave it unfinished. I delayed her for as long as I could, impressing the need to get a few questions wrong to avoid suspicion and such, but she set the drink down. I asked if she didn’t like the bourbon, and offered her something else. She said no, and then to my surprise and relief, she went ahead and slammed the rest. I’d put in a pretty heavy dose, so I only had to drag out the meeting for another fifteen minutes or so before the drug kicked in. It was a good thing I insisted that she sit down, otherwise she may have hurt herself when she collapsed.

            When she went under I had vague notions of simply packing her off to the basement, but I didn’t anticipate the tenderness of the moment. As I wrapped my arms around her for the first time, I became aware of how vulnerable she was, and even though she hadn’t exactly volunteered for this, I felt her trusting me to take care of her. Lifting her off of the couch, I found that she was heavier than I thought. I guess it was all that muscle from her running, and she was pretty tall. As her feet dragged the stairs I could smell her hair, peach scented shampoo blended with her own womanly essence, and the slightest hint of sweat. I almost dropped her twice.

Once I had her downstairs and seated in a chair, I took some extra care with her bindings. She would certainly struggle when first waking up, so they would have to be snug, but I didn’t want to be cruel, either. I first wrapped a layer of duct tape around her arms and legs with the sticky side out, so that only the smooth side would touch her smooth skin, then another layer securing her limbs to the chair. I made certain that they were cinched tight, but left room for her blood to circulate. Then I saw a telltale lump in her shorts pocket. Keys, from her car that was sitting in my driveway. If the neighbors noticed a strange car sitting in front of my house for a few days they might get suspicious. Of course I would find that after I had tied her up. It was a tight fit, trying to slide my hand into that pocket, and I could feel the firmness in her thighs. I imagined that I could hear her breath catching, but it must have been an illusion. I confess I let my hand linger a little longer than was absolutely necessary, but then I pulled them free and took care of the car.

Finally, there was nothing left but to wait for her to wake up. I went back down to the basement and pulled up a chair, and it occurred to me that now I was free to look at her; not just see her, taking her features in at a glance or watching her walk from a distance, but to really, truly drink in her unique beauty. It was funny; I had never noticed the subtle upturn of her nose, or her sharp chin, or gently arched eyebrows. That was probably because she always had them furrowed in concentration whenever I saw her, but now she was in repose, her face smooth and untroubled, lips slightly parted, my sweet Persephone. I watched the shallow rise and fall of her boyish chest, and prepared myself for the coming days.

I’m a realist; I didn’t expect she would be thrilled with her position at first. This was going to be a difficult time for both of us, but I knew that sometimes the hardest way to do something is also the best. After she got over the initial panic, after she understood what a risk I was taking for her, after she realized how much she really loved the real me, not some imaginary paper doll version of me, then we would finally be free to enjoy a full, happy, open relationship. No more of these furtive sidelong glances and stunted conversation about Avogadro’s number. No more hints and guesses and disappointed hopes. Oh, how I longed for that. I gently brushed a stray wisp of hair from her eyes and kissed her softly on the cheek, and whispered “Soon, baby girl, soon you will see that I am yours.”

"The Tutor" Part 1

This is the first part of my short story. There was no prompt, except that it must be between 8 to 15 pages. It has undergone full revision twice, so hopefully this is the best version. If you want the rest of it right away just ask. Enjoy.

“The Tutor”

I first saw her perched on a stool near the back at Patrick’s on a late Tuesday morning, sitting across the table from some other girl, a friend of hers I guess. She had long, tanned, muscular legs dangling off the edge of her chair, chestnut hair swept back with a headband, and green eyes, I noted, when they flicked to mine. I would say she was middlingly pretty. Not an Aphrodite you know, more like an Artemis, or perhaps a Persephone, if you know what I mean. Truthfully I hardly noticed her, but her gaze kind of lingered on me with a quiet intensity. Of course nothing should have come of it. It was a chance meeting between strangers, an unspoken desire, a compliment easily accepted and quickly forgotten. This kind of thing happens every day, or even several times a day as it sometimes occurs in my case. It would seem, however, that my evaluation of her was wrong. She turned out to be more like the nymph Echo, and the Fates saw fit to cross our paths once more.

            A few days later I was at the athletic tutoring center, waiting for my 8:45 chemistry appointment to show and catching up on some poly sci reading when she walked in, plunked her backpack down and asked if I was available to help. Now, normally if you want help from a tutor you have to set up a regular appointment, but the clock was pushing nine and my knuckleheaded lacrosse player still hadn’t shown, so I said yes. Immediately she started digging through her backpack and babbling about how hard her class was and how she desperately needed a good grade, typical of a student athlete.

Going over the paper she’d thrown onto the table I could see that she’d picked the toughest professor in the department, so I asked her why. She stopped rooting through her pack and looked me in the eye, and then she froze, like someone had hit the pause button. In retrospect, I guess that she hadn’t seen that it was me at that table. It was pure chance that she came to me, which I would later take for serendipity, but I’m getting ahead of myself. I’m a good enough tutor that the instructor didn’t really matter so I told her as much, and we went over her homework together.

It became clear as we worked through the problems that she was a sweet girl, but didn’t have much of a head for numbers. Even the simple, non mathematical questions she struggled with and I started to wonder if she had a head for anything at all. Still, I felt my sympathy for her growing as she scrunched her brow and puckered her lips in concentration. She was trying so hard, and getting nowhere. I’d hoped that my gentle suggestions would help her to understand and calm her down, but they only caused her to wince and grunt in frustration. It was clear by the time she walked out the door that the poor thing was about to cry.

            It took me a moment to decide what to do. On the one hand, she was just another struggling student-athlete. They come through the center all the time, whining about their training schedules and how the Profs just don’t understand and don’t we know what will happen to them if they can’t make their grades? Please, like I don’t have my own problems. But this girl was different. She didn’t come to me crying or pleading, and she didn’t complain about the difficulty of her class. She just tried to wrestle her way through her homework while clearly not understanding any of it, but never giving up. I found her plight somehow noble and tragic, that she could try so hard and yet fail so spectacularly. I decided I couldn’t just let her go like that, so I followed her out the center and chased her down.

            “Wait,” I called out, “I can help you out.” She stopped and looked at me with those big green eyes, saying nothing but chewing her lip in a blatant plea for rescue. I looked around just to make sure there wasn’t any faculty around to overhear, and then lowered my voice. “I have access to certain materials,” I explained, “to help you study. I can be available to give a little extra help with your homework, too.” She made a face at me, the same one she had when she couldn’t understand a math problem, but still didn’t say anything. I sighed. She was going to need me to spell it out.

“Look,” I said, “there are some athletes, usually the high profile ones in televised sports, who need a little extra help maintaining their GPA. They get access to some academic amenities that are closed to the majority. Stuff like advice on the course work and highly, highly customized study sheets tailored to specific instructors. You see where I’m going with this?”

You could almost see the light coming on in her head, but not in the sudden flash of light like your basic on/off switch. It was more like one of those dimmer bulbs that gradually swell into brilliance. “I think I can arrange to give you that same kind of push,” I said. “Does that work for you?”

I could tell she was a little reluctant, like she thought she was being set up. She was just a track runner, and in women’s sports to boot; not the kind of athlete that usually gets this kind of leg up. She couldn’t understand why I would be offering it to her, and truthfully there was no reason for me to. Honestly I didn’t know why myself. “It just seems like you could use the help,” I offered for inadequate explanation. But in the end, she didn’t have much of a choice. It was either take my offer or fail the class. “Ok,” she said, still sounding cautious. “Great,” I said, scribbling my address on a scrap of paper. “If you come by my place Friday evening I’ll have the materials for your first exam ready.” She seemed apprehensive as she took the paper. “Can’t you just bring it to campus? She asked, but regretfully the sensitive nature of the materials dictated the utmost discretion, which she accepted. “As for your homework,” I continued, “that’s some pretty easy stuff for me to take care of. All you have to do is come by the center and log into your account for me.” Actually that part was a lie. Usually the jocks just give me their username and password for the online coursework and they disappear from my life, but I wanted an excuse to keep an eye on her. She didn’t outright say it, but I could read the warm relief in her eyes when we parted ways. Our entwined fates were sealed.

The next day I found myself thinking of her again. Actually, her face was stuck in my head like a Ke$ha song, so I spent an hour or so digging up who this girl was. I had her name now, and I knew she was an athlete. It didn’t take long to dig up the details; she ran the 1500 meter, was a sophomore, and majored in criminal justice of all things. I guessed that she was an average student, though there was no way to confirm her grades.

The biggest surprise came when I looked for her off campus. Her Facebook account was public, though it didn’t seem like she’d looked at it in months. She did, however, have an active twitter account. I was expecting the usual meaningless drivel that comes from the pretentious, self absorbed type of person who tweets, but it was something else. I mean, it was drivel, but an unexpected kind. Post after post was about some guy she had seen and how she thought she was in love. “I just met him” was the most recent tweet, in all caps, with four exclamation marks, “So excited I can hardly stand it,” followed by three more marks, declaring herself a total of five times more excited than the English language says you have a right to be. I checked back to see if that was the only thing she tweeted about, and though she’d only held the account for a week or so, her unrequited love seemed to be her sole obsession. “Well that’s interesting,” I thought, but not nearly as interesting as when she opened the account; August twenty first, the exact same day that I saw her in the pizza joint.

The timing seemed strangely suspect. “Could it be me?” I thought, and immediately rejected the idea. She had to have seen dozens of guys that day, maybe even hundreds. Any one of them could have caught her eye, and it was far more likely that it was some jock she saw often. Maybe another athlete or at least someone that worked closely with them. “But you work closely with athletes,” I reminded myself, and quickly countered, “she didn’t know that.” But the more I accepted the possibility that I was the object of this poor girl’s esoteric affections, the more her actions toward me made sense; the sudden blushing, the stammering, the sidelong glances.

At first this whole idea struck me as funny. I mean, how desperate would this girl have to be to do something like this? The way she made it sound she was head over heels for me, or whoever this guy was. I mean sure, I catch girls staring at me all the time, some have even walked up to me and asked me for my number. I always give them a fake one, but this was the first time some strange chick just started obsessing over me just from seeing me one time. First time I knew of, anyway. Maybe something was wrong with her? Something that made her feel undesirable to real men, forcing her into an imaginary relationship? Or maybe the pressures from her training finally made her snap? Whatever it was, the longer I thought about it the less humorous her situation appeared to me. I mean, here’s this unremarkable girl, a student athlete in an unimportant sport with a struggling GPA. She probably invented this delusional boyfriend just as some kind of cathartic escapist fantasy, and look at how that worked out. There she was, enjoying her harmless, quiet little Utopian romance when I dropped into the picture, and not only had I spent the morning helping her with her homework, I had offered her private “tutoring” as well. The poor thing had to have been paralyzed when she was forced to confront the real, actual incarnation of her professed desire.

All this put me in a bad position. I had already promised to help her out with her chemistry class; I couldn’t just bail on her. Besides, at this point I wasn’t even certain that I should. She was so vulnerable, so fragile. I would hate to be the man to crush her dreams and break her heart. She would feel like I was dumping her, even though we had never really been together. Then again, they say that possession is nine tenths of the law and it looked like I had unwittingly stolen her heart. I couldn’t see any way out of this where I didn’t end up looking like a jerk, so I decided that I would go ahead and keep the date and let the situation work itself out. Maybe I was mistaken, I thought, maybe she was really infatuated with someone else.

            When she came by the house that Friday evening I was prepared. Being conscious of her suspected crush, it was easy to see the signs. She was nervous, avoided eye contact, she didn’t speak much. I invited her inside and she accepted, but declined to sit down or have a drink, juice, water or otherwise. We made a little small talk until she asked about the papers. I produced a copy and offered to go over it with her, but she made some excuse and quickly left. I kept my eye on her twitter account, and sure enough, thirty minutes later she chimed in about how she’d just seen her dream guy. “He’s such a gentleman,” she said, “and nice and helpful. I think he likes me too.”

            My suspicions were now confirmed. Either she had the questionably odd habit of seeing the object of her affections only after she visited her chemistry tutor or I was the guy, but how was I supposed to handle that? She was into me, that much was potently clear, but when she had the time and opportunity to interact with me as a real live person she just shut down. It was like she had already invented a personality and dressed me in it like some mannequin, and now she was frightened to learn that I might be someone else. Not knowing what else to do, I made sure she was reserved for my morning sessions so I could continue to help with her homework, and kept an eye on her twitter feed.

Intermission

The third installment for the story was workshopped by my fellow students last Monday, and there are some improvements to be made on it. Since I want you all to see the best version of this story, I will hold off posting it until it is finished. Even then, I think I am going to have to deliver it in two steps because it’s a bit long for a blog. You can ask for the full version all at once, if you wish. In lieu of story, I will use this platform to tell all twelve of you what I think you should read, watch and listen to.

We drift through life, or blitz or meander, or maybe take it at a brisk pace? I’m not here to judge. But as we go we pick up odd scraps of experiences and pleasures, and sometimes we wish to share these with others. The thing is, we each have our sharply defined tastes, and the things we love may not appeal to other people, so the mature thing to do is wait quietly, learn about your friend and their styles, and share your interests when appropriate. Being mature is boring, however, and takes a lot of time and sensitivity and I’m impatient, so I’m going to blast you with some obscure loves that I have in a variety of mediums. What does this have to do with my journey to be a writer, you ask? Shut up, I’m being immature.

Music: Chasing Furies

There is one single self-titled album from this flash in the pan band. I plugged it in as a seed for a Pandora station, and their matrix had no idea what to do with that. It decided that I wanted to hear female vocalists, which is the barest fraction of what “Chasing Furies” is. It turns out I just want more “Chasing Furies” music, and I can’t have any. There is a female vocalist, however, and she is incredible. I pondered for a while whether Sara Meeker’s voice is more like satin, velvet or silk, or maybe even something like chiffon or velour when I realized that music/textile metaphors are not only overused, but impossibly non-specific. I’ll dispense with the heavy handed comparisons and simply say that her voice is clear, smooth, perhaps classically trained and she has a mind blowing range. Good voice is expected when you are listening to music (unless it’s the sixties), but she stands out. She then applies that voice to moody rock, with flowing keys and jarring riffs in a musical tumble that looks ugly when it’s words on paper, but sounds refreshingly different and beautiful when it’s chords in ears. Her brother provides guitars in all songs and main vocals in two tracks, and her sister also does something. Keys, probably, and the drum track I guess. They could have called themselves “The Meekers,” but that doesn’t sound even 7/8^ths as cool as “Chasing Furies.”

TV Show: Boomtown

I would tell you to watch “Chuck” or “The Wire” or the first season of “Heroes,” but you know about those already. I would even say “Firefly,” but in my circle of friends the likelihood that you have already been bitten by that bug is inordinately high. Instead I want to share something with you that you have never heard of, and my money says you have never heard of “Boomtown.” I have only seen the first season and there were two, but it had a huge impact on me as a writer. Where most shows have a small handful of recurring characters, usually with only one or two “main” characters, “Boomtown” constantly switches the point of view character between a somewhat stable cast, and sometimes victims and perpetrators in this L.A. crime drama. Sometimes we even repeat scenes, but they are retold from a different person’s perspective and we see subtle differences. Maybe the concept was too complicated for TV and 2002/2003, or maybe the acting wasn’t all that great. I don’t remember, but what I do know is that it changed the way I see people and interactions. I recommend it for all writers who want to sharpen their ideas on perspective.

Movie: MirrorMask

There is another movie that I love even more than MirrorMask, but I don’t know what its name is and I can’t find it, which makes me sad. Instead I’ll offer this bizarre gem. If you aren’t into ambiguity and symbolism you should probably skip it, because at surface value this movie doesn’t make much sense. The setting is gorgeous, though, and it has the creepiest rendition of The Carpenter’s “(They Long To Be) Close To You” that I have ever heard (and trust me, I’ve heard, like, so many versions of that song). If you are into ambiguity and symbolism, this film has philosophical fodder to last you for days.

Book: Till We Have Faces by C.S. Lewis

Lewis has two major followings: Narnia fans and theology nuts. More in depth Lewis scholars will have read his space trilogy, “The Screwtape Letters,” and perhaps “The Great Divorce.” Most people have never dug into the true depth of bibliography and found this incredible book. I don’t want to talk too much about it because I don’t want to throw out spoilers, but I will say that it is a retelling of the Greek myth “Cupid and Psyche.” Again, the most interesting thing I find in the work is Lewis’ study in perspective, and the different versions of reality that appear to different people. The characters are compelling, the questions poignant, and the answers, to my mind, brilliantly insightful. It is a wonderful story if all you want is entertainment, and if you are looking for that deeper purpose, it has material to contemplate long after the last line is finished. I love this story hard.

Webcomic: Dinosaur Comics

The webcomic is a medium that many people are unfamiliar with. They usually only have niche appeal, otherwise they would be regular newspaper comics or comic book comics. So it is with Dinosaur Comics, so you might not like it but it costs you nothing to check it out. The premise is simple; writer Ryan North is lazy, so he uses the same panels every day and only changes the captions. He doesn’t even change the order of the panels, it’s the same template every weekday since February 2003, and every day the main character, T-Rex, says something whacky and usually hilarious. T-Rex is into time travel, Batman, and being awesome. He fails a lot at that last one, but he usually isn’t aware enough to realize this. He discusses his ideas, loves and trials with his friends Dromeciomimus (sp?), Utahraptor, and occasionally an off-panel God or Satan. It is important to note that Dino Comics has been handed over to other writers in times of North’s sickness, vacations and such, but T-Rex’s character has never changed, even in the hands of writers completely unfamiliar with Dino Comics. His facial expressions are that powerful.

It is also important to note the webcomics I chose not to share: Dr.McNinja (sheer awesome), Axecop (even more awesome than McNinja), and Romantically Apocalyptic, which is stunningly beautiful even if it does have a most confusing plotline.

Thanks for reading. I hope you check some of these things out! I the meantime, I’m pluggin away at the edit on the story.

Good Intentions

Exercise #2: Character. For this 2-3 page exercise, take a character and put him/her in a situation where they are faced with a decision or a solution that isn't easy to make.

This is the same character I used from the last exercise. I got an A on this one, and I haven't changed anything in it from the version I submitted since I can't think of a way to do it easily and I'm lazy.

“Good Intentions”

The tutoring center is nearly empty of tutees. It’s nine AM, the beginning of the semester, and most of the athletes are in their dorms or in class. Would that I were so lucky. I find the appropriate table and toss my bag down, rooting through notebooks and syllabi until I find my academic death certificate. Professor Kalugdan, Chemistry for Science Majors. The girl to my left smiles and asks what she can do for me. What kind of a stupid question is that? I am obviously a student, she and the bespectacled mute staring at me are clearly tutors, and a paper standee labels this the chemistry table. The possible scenarios are kind of limited, but I humor her anyway.

            “I’m here for help with chemistry?” I say it like it’s a question to keep the peevishness out of my voice. It kind of works.

            “Great!” she beams, “We can help you with that!”

            Fantastic, a bubbly type. I adore bubbly types. “I need a B in this class, minimum,” I grouch, sliding the syllabus out to the middle of the table.

The guy pulls the sheet closer. “Why’d you pick Kalugdan?” he asks.

That’s a good question. Kalugdan’s one of those professors who openly begrudges every minute outside of his research lab, and admits to reading teacher evaluations only for the comedic value. I’m teetering on the edge of academic disqualification, so I should be in any class but his. However, I’ve been avoiding chem for five semesters and my scholarship is about to expire. Of course, this would be the semester that my training schedule conflicts with every class except K’s MWF 3:30-4:30. But that would take a while to explain, so I just shrug.

“Oh, you don’t need to worry,” the girl says, skimming over the course requirements, “Professor K is really nice, and chem’s not that hard. Do you have your online homework account set up yet?”

Seriously? The worst kind of tutor is the one that thinks their subject is easy. I can almost hear the collegiate gods’ mocking laughter as they stack the deck against me.

“Yeah,” I say, trying to keep the fatalism out of my tone.

            “Awesome! This first assignment’s a snap, let’s get you started.”

            The following half hour is predictably tedious and exasperating. The girl doesn’t explain any of the homework questions. She simply rephrases them, so I mentally nickname her Roget. I stare blankly at the screen and make wild guesses until she gives me the answers. Meanwhile the guy just stares at me, except for question four.

            “Rocky Road is a hete-Rogenous mixture,” he emphasizes the Rs. “That’s a good way to remember.” I thank him for the advice and try to encourage more involvement from him, but he doesn’t say anything after that.

 I will get a perfect score on my first homework, but I have learned practically nothing. I want to get away, go back to my dorm room and cry. I am going to fail for sure. I will lose my scholarship, drop out of college and become a bag lady.

Walking out of the tutoring center I enter the living stream of students, weaving my way around slower people when I hear someone shout my name. It’s the glasses guy. Did I leave something in the center? How does he know my name?

He catches up, breathless, and flashes a nervous grin. “There’s another way,” he says.

             “Excuse me?” I say, hoping for clarification.

            He looks all around, then drops his voice so low I can hardly hear him. “You’re doomed,” he says. “I could try to teach you everything you need to know, but with a full class load and a training schedule, there’s no way you’re going to pull anything higher than a C.”

            Of course I knew that, but it doesn’t make me feel any better to hear him say it.

            “But there’s another way,” he presses. “I can take care of your homework, and I have copies of Kalugdan’s tests.”

            It takes me a minute to process what he’s just said, and when I do I’m repulsed. I’m not the best student but I’ve always been an honest one, and what he’s suggesting is not exactly ethically gray. If I’m caught I’ll be thrown out of track, out of school, I won’t even be able to get into a community college.

            On the other hand, this is one of those ridiculous filler classes, unnecessarily difficult and since it has no real world application or contribution to my major, it’s kind of pointless. The only reason it exists is so they can collect tuition off of unsuspecting students. Well, not me specifically. I’m on scholarship, but that’s not the point…

            I’m rationalizing, and I know it. I should just walk away out of principle, but the guy is right. Without his help I am doomed. Whether I get kicked out for cheating or lose my scholarship for failure to maintain academic standards, I’m still screwed. At least this way I have a chance of getting through. The guy is looking at me, chewing his lip and nervously shifting his weight from side to side. I realize that he’s put himself out on a limb, offering me this out. I could report him. But I know I won’t. Instead I take a breath and ask, “What about the weekly quizzes?”

Tuesday at Patrick's

I do a lot of complaining about the kind of books and stories available, and preach about what they should be. However, I have yet to prove to you that I can do any better. I decided to plaster my school papers from the class I am taking so you may see what I am capable of. I'm already a hypocrite, though, because if there is any deeper meaning in my story arc here I have yet to discover it. Hopefully it is entertaining, though.

This story was the first we wrote in the class, and first papers tend to be a diagnostic for the teacher, to see what she has to work with. The prompt was to "Show, Don't Tell. In this 2-3 page exercise, imagine that your character has been on a diet for several months. It is finally her birthday, and she is going to indulge. There is a lavish banquet set before her with all the foods she hasn't had in months. Describe your character's experience."

I got an A-

“Tuesday at Patrick’s”

“I’d like the antipasto salad with chicken, no dressing,” I say, handing over my menu to the waiter who is kind of cute.

            “No she doesn’t,” my roommate interrupts, “we want The Works.”

            I roll my eyes. “You know I can’t eat pizza. Coach’d kill me.”

            “Have you ever thought of not telling coach?” she sasses. “C’mon, it’s your birthday, you have to live a little, just a tiny little bit this once. There’s more to life than running track, you know.” I’m on the fence. It’s tempting, but I have my obligations. “I mean seriously, you can’t come to Patrick’s and not have pizza.”

Actually you can and I have, many times, but that’s not the point. She’s right, it is my birthday, and I deserve this.

            “Ok, fine,” I relent, “The Works.”

            “Yay!” she claps her hands together in that irritating little girl way. “Ooh, and a pitcher of Blue Moon,” she adds.

            “Sure, I’ll need to see some I.D.s.” the waiter says. This is the first time I can hand over my real license, but I pretend to ignore that and throw a scowl across the table, just so she knows I don’t fully approve of the extra calories. She doesn’t notice.

            The beer comes first. It’s been a year since I’ve had any, not since I got serious about running, but it isn’t until I see the cool amber liquid sloshing into my glass that I realize how much I’ve missed it. I sip slowly, savoring the full, yeasty flavor, letting the carbonation gently sting my mouth. She’s prattling about something, but I’m not paying attention. I nod my head a bit, just to keep her going, and take another swallow. I watch small beads condense on the outside and I’m glad I let her talk me into this.

            When the pie arrives my mouth literally waters. I’ve gotten used to ignoring smells like French fries and fresh baked donuts and spicy chicken sandwiches, or those horrible, crispy funnel cakes at the state fair last summer. I can’t have them, so why should I notice? But this pizza, sixteen inches of crust, sausage, veggies, grease and iniquitous cheese is all for me. I stare at it, savoring the moment in my head and my eyes and nose. I don’t even remember the last time I had something like this. Maybe I’ve never had anything like this, and I won’t again for a long time. She slips a slice onto a plate, gathering a massive stretch of mozzarella on the end of a fork with a practiced hand and passes it over. If the grin on her face is any indication, she’s enjoying this almost as much as me. “Happy birthday,” she murmurs, and I pick up a napkin. First I tentatively dab over the surface, my single concession to a protesting conscience, but it’s a losing battle. I abandon the thin, now orange paper and cut off the tip of my slice, raising it to my mouth. “Careful,” she says, “you don’t want to get pizza burn.” I’d forgotten that was a thing. After years of protein and yogurt and soy milk I’d forgotten how to eat junk food. I blow on it until I can’t wait any more, and slide it into my mouth.

            It’s an olive, encased in cheese and swimming in tomato sauce. I play with it in my mouth, laying the thick, salty ring on the flat of my tongue, separating it from its gooey confines, chewing slowly. It’s over too soon, but there’s another bite. There’s always another bite. Inside my mouth I feel artichoke hearts fall apart, and mushrooms gush their earthy flavor. Green peppers crunch softly, onions dramatically, and the sausage; the succulent, rich, fatty sausage is the best of all.

            I wash it all down with a glass of beer, and feel the alcohol humming in my brain as I tip the pitcher for a refill. When did I become such a cheap date, I wonder? Maybe when I stopped dating? Nibbling the chewy rind of crust I consider the repercussions of another slice. I’ve already demolished two, and I’m pretty sure they added ten seconds each to my lap time.

            “You want to split a third?” she asks. I shouldn’t, but I accept. It’s worth it. I expected that I would be accustomed to the taste by now, but this half slice is just as gratifying as the first. I’m getting that feeling now, the one a water balloon must feel right before it overfills and bursts. I shouldn’t have eaten the crust, that’s the heaviest part. I shouldn’t finish this slice either, but when I shovel in the last forkful and let the silver clatter on the plate with finality, I regret nothing.

            “Check please, and a box,” she calls to the waiter, and he nods his head. The lunch crowd is filling the restaurant up, and the liquid roar of conversation flows around us while I slouch into my chair, taking in the devastation left from our gluttony. The pitcher is empty, with suds clinging to the inside. Bits of meat and vegetable that fell from our slices litter the table along with strings of cheese, gastric detritus lost in the melee. Napkins lie crumpled, purposeless paper coasters are soaked, and I am beyond content. The check arrives. I offer to pay for the beer but she waves it off.

            “Hope you saved room,” she grins, “Now I’m taking you for shakes.”

I groan, mumble “later,” and reluctantly stand. “Are you trying to kill me?”

            She nods her head in emphatic affirmation and pats my hand. “Yes,” she says, “so you’ll die happy.”

            Somehow, I can’t argue with that.