Page 12 of Past Present Future

The game goes quickly, both teams easily racking up points. I make one beautiful pass to Skyler that he leaps for like a golden retriever, his body spiraling in a display of athleticism I’m not sure I’ve ever seen up close. I half expect him to catch it in his mouth. I even score a point, though Donovan is just a couple feet away when he throws me the Frisbee.

I won’t attempt to count the number of times I miss the Frisbee completely, my nearsightedness doing me zero favors. Grass stains my knees and I’m sweatier than I’ve been in years, but this is fun. I’m having fun with these people I didn’t know a week ago, and there is something wonderful about that.

“Watch out!” yells Donovan, and then it becomes clear I am not, in fact, a sports guy.

Because even without my glasses, there’s one thing I can see with perfect clarity: the Frisbee hurtling right toward my face.

5

ROWAN

I DON’T KNOW where to sit, and right now that feels like the most important decision of my fledgling college career.

Yes, I’m being dramatic, but I’m also being realistic.

Humans are creatures of habit. I can’t even count the number of times a teacher told a class we could sit wherever we wanted, and yet we picked the same spots every single day, irked when someone dared to switch things up, moving so they could be closer to a crush or farther from someone they weren’t speaking to. So this arrangement of a dozen chairs in a circle, which gives the impression more of a kindergarten classroom than a college course, seems ripe for some classic Rowan Roth overthinking.

Half the chairs are already occupied, and when the door swishes shut behind me, a blond girl in an oversize chenille sweater turns to glance my way, her pen pausing in her notebook.

“Can I sit here?” I ask, gesturing to the empty seat next to her.

“Go ahead.” She has a septum ring and sleek blunt bangs, the kind that I’m immediately envious of given how mine refuse to cooperate.

In fact, everyone in the room looks like they’ve put as much effort into their first-day outfits as possible, while also attempting to look like they barely gave them a second thought. There are jumpsuits and plaid blazers and meticulously applied eyeshadow, statement jewelry and fresh hair dye and even an artfully tilted bowler hat. I know this because it’s exactly what I did when I got dressed this morning, plucking the lemon-patterned vintage dress with a flared skirt from a hanger in my tiny closet. A patent leather headband and a pair of tights and just enough makeup to look well rested.

I drop my backpack to the floor and slide into the chair. “Thanks.” I haven’t been faced with the prospect of making new friends since elementary school. I am the only Westview student at Emerson, and that means completely starting from scratch.

I’ve had a few conversations with people at orientation, attended a few group dinners, but either I have a sudden case of shyness or I haven’t connected with anyone quite yet. This feels like my first true opportunity.

I had hoped my roommate would be an instant friend, but Paulina surfaced only with enough time to introduce herself and disappear again. She hasn’t been at any of the getting-to-know-you events on our floor and wasn’t there when I fell asleep last night, but this morning when I woke up, it clearly looked like someone had been there. I’m either amazed at my ability to sleep through it all or by hers to move about the room like she’s conducting a jewel heist.

So I take a deep lungful of courage and turn back to the girl, aware I might be interrupting her writing. “Hey. I’m Rowan.”

But to my surprise, she sets down her pen and gives me a smile. “Kait—K-A-I-T, because I was a pretentious little shit back in elementary school when there were four other Kates in my grade. Are you a freshman too?”

I nod. “I’m a bit nervous,” I admit. “I have plenty of experience being a pretentious little shit, but I’m not sure what to expect.”

When Kait laughs at this, I let myself relax.

A blue-haired girl two chairs away leans over, and I catch a too-strong whiff of perfume. “I’ve heard Professor Everett is tough, but if you get on her good side, it might make your whole career. She had a student years ago who’s now one of her closest critique partners, apparently.”

“Is that supposed to make us less anxious? Because now that I know what’s on the line, I’m almost certain I’m going to mess something up,” Kait says, and I decide I made the right choice by sitting next to her.

Two minutes before the start of class, Professor Everett enters the room, a tall mid-to-late-thirties white woman with curly dark hair in a loose bun, dressed in black trousers and a cream sweater-vest. A few simple chains are draped across her neck, and she wears clear glasses over kind eyes. She looks casual, cool, instantly at ease. Like she’s about to start practicing yoga instead of lecturing twelve nervous college kids.

Miranda Everett has written two works of literary fiction: the first, Thursday at Dawn, was a finalist for the National Book Award. But her priority, she’s said in interviews, will always be her teaching. When I registered for classes over the summer, this yearlong course was my first choice, and when I got in, I read both her books back-to-back. They were lyrical and modern—reviews called them “accessible lit fic for a millennial audience”—filled with the kind of deep character work that made me realize I could truly learn something from her.

“Good morning, good morning,” she says in a warm, bright voice. “I’m Miranda and this is Introduction to Creative Writing. Glad you all made it out of bed and over here in one piece. Everyone seems to be at least halfway lucid—sometimes that can be a challenge on the first day.” Some scattered laughter, as though people are wondering whether it’s okay. Then she gives a roll of her shoulders and takes a deep breath. “I want you to be able to breathe in this class. It’s my hope that it isn’t too agonizing—writing is enough of that without throwing an asshole professor into the mix.

“That said—” She reaches into her shoulder bag and places a timer on the desk. “I’m setting this for ten minutes. I want you all to write anything you want. Anything at all. You can use a notebook or your laptop, whichever you prefer. The only rule is—no going backward. No editing. Anything that comes to mind, simply write.”

She sets the timer and sits down at her desk, her serene expression unchanged.

All of us exchange glances. I have a dozen questions, namely: Is this going to be graded and what does the rubric look like and should it be double-spaced or—

But then, after the shock and confusion wear off, we start writing.

At least, the rest of the class does. Hands fly across keyboards and pens skate along paper, but my cursor blink-blink-blinks back at me.

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