[Teaser Excerpt] - All Things Harrison, P. R. Torres [top fiction books of all time txt] 📗

1
I’m sitting in an over-heated classroom. Normally this wouldn’t bother me because of how cold it is outside, but currently both of my jacket-clad shoulders are bumping against two other students, and I’m beginning to feel a bit claustrophobic. The whole class is like this. We’re all glancing nervously at something other than ourselves. The walls. The floor. The sopping puddles of muddy water on the floor underneath our boots. The door. Hardly any of us are talking to one another unless the conversation included some small talk about this class, the one where we’re waiting impatiently for our late teacher.
I have a yellow piece of paper in my hands, which are already starting to swell from the heat. My soaked mittens are set like sponges on my desk, and I now regret not having put them in my backpack. My desk is pretty small, like this room.
I hate small talk. I mean, I do like talking, but I want the conversation to be real. When in a conversation of small talk, you either have to act fake about something or you risk the whole thing turning into a short ramble if you state how you really feel. It really sucks, that small talk. I hope I don’t get spoken to by any of the guys sitting next to me.
“I hope I get into this class, don’t you?” the guy on the left to me asks, his green eyes hinting in my direction. He points a chubby gloved finger at his yellow paper, one similar to mine except that my readable handwriting is traded for his chicken scratch.
I shift around uncomfortably. I wish the walls in the room were blue. I like blue; it calms me. I don’t like the tan color they decided to paint everything in this college with. I really don’t. And I don’t like small talk.
Deciding not to make myself sound anti-social on the first day of class, I mumble something like, “yea, same here.” It’s not the truth, but at least it’ll silence the man for awhile. I become more satisfied as he hangs his head down low to the prime position of staring back at his yellow paper again. However, a beach in the Bahamas couldn’t make me comfortable with the guy on my right.
A man well into his 40’s, the guy on my right is down-right nervous. Just look at him – his paper has obviously been rolled up and folded out many times, and he keeps bobbing his head up and down, as if his killer is about to show up to this classroom right now and pin a bullet smack in the middle of his forehead. I mean, I get why he’s nervous. He’s old. But if you’re old and taking a college class, give yourself a break. You’re getting an education for the better. I sure wouldn’t want to work at Burger King for the rest of my life.
The yellow sheets we have in our hands are because we’re not exactly in the class yet. Creative Writing. Who knew it would be such a hard class to get registered in?
At least fifteen of us are hoping to get our yellow sheets signed by the end of the class period today. If not, next semester’s going to be a pain in the butt. Right now, some people are even leaning against walls because all of the seats are taken. Those registered people are so lucky. It’s not fun when you start getting a panic attack as soon as you walk through the door. Good thing I’m number one on the waiting list.
Anyways, it really was a lie when I told Mr. Chubby Glove Fingers that I wanted to join the class. Well, sort of. I want to get in the class for the sake of blasting through the Humanities credits I need to get my Associate’s degree, but creative writing? Not really my style. I’m more of a science geek.
It’s been ten minutes, and finally Old Man Nervous starts to calm down a bit. He grabs the course textbook out of his backpack. It’s entitled Hang Loose! How to Free the Mind of its Creative Juices. An odd title for a college textbook. I just call it Hang Loose! because the rest of the title is way too long. Old Man Nervous scans the Table of Contents with his index finger, and after finding something deemed readable, he flips to the chapter and gets into his “look at me, I’m reading, thus I must be a nerd” stance.
I’m alright with his phony posing abilities, as long as it keeps him from looking like an injured puppy while the rest of us are trying to stay positive. However, with the notably increased silence, the fact that I don’t have the loud noise to block out my awkwardness makes me feel as though the room temperature has risen another five degrees. In defeat, I get up to take off my thick winter coat and hang it from my chair. A boy who was leaning across the wall jolts up. He thinks I’m leaving the class.
I smirk at the boy who then gets a look of pity on his face. I almost feel guilty. Blondies will do that to you. Must be the mixture of their innocent light locks matched with the sincerity of their true blue eyes. The eyes are definitely my weakness.
As I sit back down in my chair, I glance back up at the clock again. A crease forms in-between my brows. Fifteen minutes after! Suddenly I feel too large for my seat. I always feel that way if I’m a little angry. I feel like I gain fifty pounds, and suddenly I’m some huge giant or something that needs to break loose from wherever I’m at. I grasp the end of my desk. This is a waste of my time.
I’m about to make Blondie’s dream of an available seat come true, and bolt out the door when I catch a girl from across the classroom whisper something to her neighbor. Even though she’s supposedly whispering, I can hear her say, “I guess she’s like, REALLY pregnant. Like, huge. With twins. God, I’d hate to work here looking like a beached whale!”
She must be talking about the teacher. My body relaxes back into the sitting form of my chair as I think things over. Then she – Mrs. Grant – actually walks into the room. Everyone looks up at her as if she had just rescued them from eternal heartache. And maybe she had. Well, to those of us with yellow slips.
Mrs. Grant dominated the floor with attention as she clunked across the room with her 4-inch black stilettos. I almost couldn’t hold back a grimace. She certainly was huge, and walking in those heels had to be painful. I never want to have kids.
She, however, was graceful. And gorgeous. She wore fishnet stockings modestly covered with dark grey cargo capris, and a black baby-doll tank. Her red-blonde hair had been thrown up in a bun, which was pinned with a red sunflower. She had bright hazel-colored eyes and a smile that could outshine any supermodels. She made me, a non-pregnant 19 year-old, look ugly.
“I am SO sorry you guys. You have no idea,” gawked Mrs. Grant as she set down her bags to grab a bite of something before scribbling madly on the board, “not that I am one who likes to give excuses, but I just got back from the doctor’s office – four more weeks, woo! – and as I was on my way back over here, both of them had a separate craving. One wanted nachos, the other wanted pizza… so I gave in and bought me some nachos on the way over here. Turns out nachos was a bad idea, had to pull over to the side of the road to throw up again. Anyways, I’m here! Oh, and if you can’t tell, I’m carrying quite a load.”
I laughed along with the majority of the class. A few students like Old Man Nervous were stuck in their stern expressions, but the rest of us had already been won over by Mrs. Grant. Suddenly being in this class did not sound like such a bad idea. I beamed of optimism.
“And I’m guessing the majority of you already have your textbooks, yes?” I saw a few students raise their copies of Hang Loose! in the air, to which Mrs. Grant nodded and smiled. She then added, “and I see some of you didn’t get seats. Well, don’t worry about getting into this class if you are waitlisted, the guys are giving us a larger classroom in a couple of days, so there will be no need to downsize.”
A sigh a relief swept across the classroom. The look of pity I saw on Blondie’s face turned into a small content smile as he nestled more against his spot of tan wall and speckled linoleum.
“Oh!” gasped Mrs. Grant with a little smirk, “if you’re wondering what I’m eating… they’re concord grapes. Got them fresh from the farmer’s market today! Come up and get some if you want, they’re SO GOOD.”
A couple of hipster-looking students had their eyes widened with delight as they stalked across the classroom toward the open plastic “THANK YOU” bag in the middle of Mrs. Grant’s desk. While trying grapes was definitely appealing, the fact that I was taking something from a pregnant lady just didn’t settle with me. So I remained in my seat wedged between Mr. Chubby Glove Fingers and Old Man Nervous.

Publication Date: 07-11-2011

All Rights Reserved