chapter one, part of two

1

In a weird way, I think I always knew I wanted to protect myself. That I had to protect myself. It was essential. Of course. But I thought I was strong. Stronger than this.

Whatever you do. Always remember. You're never stronger than this.

.......................................

I don't know how many times I've sat through Cunnings' 1a, but it's enough to know that the poem has a specific shape, always, at all times. That may be why Professor Hitcher and I were standing there, glaring at each other. Or no. That part's my fault.

Who the hell was this guy? With the wanna be ethereal strokes of his arms through the air, and his botched explanation of the poem's form and symbolism, he made my blood boil, and not in the sexy way.

I glared at him.
Hot air.
“Now who has anything to add?” he asked, his pudgy fingers spread wide in attempt of mystical allurement. He was pushing sixty. And he was fat.

No one sixty and fat is either mystical or alluring.
You've got it wrong.

One owl feathered brow escapes the lining of his darkly circled eyes. “Excuse me, miss?” He doesn't even know my name.

“You've got it wrong”, I say again. Doi. “The form and everything.” He eyes me bitterly, and I see his gaze pass over me, as if he would discard my reasoning. “First off”, I begin, not ready to let him smooth me over and save his ass from embarrassment a la student, “The poem is written in a certain way- not scattered over the board, like you've done. It's in a line, straight down -”

And with that, he cut me off, his hick accent redirecting to some guy in a peach oxford and pleated slacks.
Of course, I rolled my eyes.
Who wouldn't?

Bells don't ring in college. The professor lets you go. So when Mr. Hitcher gave the all call for us all to leave, I joined the class in the united rise for departure.
“Miss Brady?” His voice was quiet, but stern, like he was trying to not let anyone think I was going to be disciplined. I think he just didn't want anyone to realize he was embarrassed, but that's just me. I came to a halt before his desk and cocked my head at him.

“Yes?”
More eyebrow movement.
“I don't think you have the taste for Cunnings.” Me either. But I wasn't going to tell him that. “Maybe a brief, five page paper on the form and makeup of his various poems would help you to better prepare yourself for our next class.”

I really didn't think it was necessary for this little fat man to pronounce such news as if it were Christmas.
Sighing, I left the room. I wasn't worried- did he really think I'd never done the paper? Of course I had.

It wasn't that I had an attitude problem. I swear it. I just got sick of people trying to make everything phantasmagorical. Ah, what did it matter anyway? It was just a poem. But think about it- all those students who'd probably never even read it, and they go their whole lives thinking, or not thinking, about how the words are supposed to be scattered all over the board or how it was supposed to symbolize fantastical ideals and create manga esque imagery.

I was only a student. What did it matter.
I shoved my fists deep into my pockets and kept walking, each step leading me closer to the parking lot. It was time to go home, and oh boy was I glad.

2

She'd somehow attained a small flat on Whestchester Street- she was lucky. The guy before died in here, so the rent was lower for this studio than all the others. But the landlady wouldn't tell Nadia that. It didn't matter. It was a place to live, and there was only a fifteen minute commute to the school.
Not bad.

I could hear her begin to trudge up the stairs, her arms heavily laden with school books, her rucksack, and a portfolio, and I went out to watch her fumble with the door for a bit. It was funny. I liked funny.

She finally got in through the door, her feet tripping on the threshold, and I winced at the sound of falling weight as she dropped her things.
Gahhhh- shit.
She crouched to recover her the fallen items, then threw them haphazardly onto her bed. I didn't get her sheets. With all the colours in this room, you'd think she'd choose some fun sheets.
Nope.
White. White sheets. White comforter. White pillowcases. White valance and sham and cotton throw.

But no. Everywhere else were walls of ruby and damson and plum, the furniture a scattering of styles and papers, canvases, paints and pastels all over the place, pinned to bulletin boards or propped with magnets to the old green refrigerator. Not much empty space.
Some might call the room messy. Some a disaster.
But Nadia knew where everything was. And if I happened to move something, a pencil, a sheet of blank computer paper, God forbid anything as important as a half finished canvas or leafy scripted notebook, she didn't know where anything was. And then hours of hectic cleaning would begin till all was sorted once more and then slowly the room would naturally begin to find its chaotic organization. I learned this lesson fast.
I don't move anything anymore, unless I'm mad at her.

I sat on her bed, watching as she sat typing on her small silver laptop. She got up when the microwave made its annoying beep. Damn it, she cursed aloud. She'd forgotten.
Nadia always set two extra seconds. So that two seconds before the microwave would proclaim that its work was done, she could open the door and avoid that annoying beep, and in one more way feed her barely noticeable, obsessive compulsive behaviours.

How many times in a week could one girl eat a hot pocket? Of all the things I'd ever studied, this was one of the strangest, definitely. This girl didn't seem to eat much else than pepperoni hot pockets, and if she wasn't eating that, it was fettuccine and chicken or pasta sides. But hey, she was the one needing nutrition- not me. Who am I to complain about what she ate?

And here she sat, her knees pulled up to rest her chin, one hand on her keyboard and the other offering a steaming meat pocket to her red, chapped lips. She munched it soundly, blowing every now and then but nonetheless making a brave attempt to swallow scorching pieces of saucy, cheesy meat.

A sigh.
Backspace.
She erased her words too much.

So many little things. Nadia was strange, I won't lie. Sammy, a few contracts back, he liked to build things out of Popsicle sticks, but after a few temples and early nineteenth century cabins, his meticulous placement got a bit boring to watch. At least the old lady after him watched a lot of television, even if she did have a lot of cats. But her granddaughter sold them when she died. I see her down at the park a lot now, bent over the shoulders of the old men who play chess there.

The most annoying thing was the way she blasted her music when she needed to concentrate. Who the hell does that? There's this ticking, clucking thing she does with her mouth, and oh boy that's when I'm actually tempted to smother her in anger or something. It drives me up the wall, and I can't come back for hours. But I always come back.

She talked to herself a lot.
I was her listener.
I think she felt it, like someone was listening. Something. But she didn't really know.