Page 7 of Smut

You’d think I’d be shocked by a text like this but not when it comes to Rio. I glance up at her, my gaze going directly to her boobs. “Uh, what?”

“She’s giving us our final assignment.”

“Yeah, but more about the Saran Wrap in place of a bra…” I point out.

“Long story,” she says, then leans in closer, her dark eyes dancing. “But it works. Just in case you end up sleeping with some guy who keeps comparing your vagina to the Rio Grande. I don’t think he realized he was being insulting, especially after we finished off a bottle of Crown Royal while playing a Game of Thrones drinking game, but needless to say, I got out of his place and didn’t think about the bra until now.”

I frown, trying hard not to laugh. “But you have other bras, I’m sure.”

“Oh, I didn’t go home after that,” she says, and I don’t press her on it. If she wants to share the details, she’ll share. “Anyway, I hope Marie gives us something more exciting than our last assignment.”

“No kidding,” I tell her, even though I’m lying. Honestly, I liked our last assignment, which was to write a short nonfiction story about ourselves without embellishing a word. My description of high school was like a less entertaining (and less murderous) version of Heathers. And even though this last project is the equivalent of our final exam, I can’t wait to tackle it. I’m a total nerd, I know, but every assignment Marie has given us has really challenged me and keeps improving my prose. Plus, not to toot my own horn, but I have aced every project so far. Her edits and notes on my writing are like a drug, validation that I desperately crave, especially when no one else in my life seems to take my writing seriously.

I look around. “Hey, I saw Ali run off. Is she okay?”

Rio shrugs, adjusting her laptop bag on her shoulder. “I don’t know. She stepped in the class, said something to Blake, and then ran off.”

Ugh. Blake Crawford. Pretty much the worst human to ever grace this earth. No exaggeration needed.

“Were they dating?” I ask. Ali wears a permanent scowl, is super intelligent, and is pretty much the last person I’d imagine going after the fuckboy, manwhore, jackass that is Blake.

She rolls her eyes. “Fucking, Amanda, not dating. What else is new? He probably broke her heart and her vagina. Or vice versa.”

“I wasn’t aware Ali had a heart to break.” I don’t comment on her vagina.

“Guess she does. Serves her right. You can’t play the player without getting played.” She says this gravely, even though when it comes to Rio I’m not sure whether she’s the ultimate player she seems to be or she’s been screwed over once or twice. She has this bright, bubbly personality that masks anything that gets too close to heart. It’s probably why, when I first met her in our writing program, we hit it off right away. She lightens me up and forces me to see the glass half full. At least, she’s trying.

We take our usual seats near the front as I scan the room. Sure enough, Blake is in his corner, headphones on, and grinning at his phone. Probably watching a YouTube video on how to be a douchebag.

I can’t stand his grin. In fact, I hate everything about him. I know, I don’t really know him and hate’s a strong word, but I have my reasons. He’s the type of guy who would have made my high school years a living hell, only now I get to deal with his immaturity in university. Thank god I only have one class with him, otherwise all my time would be spent thinking of witty comebacks to his insults and insinuations.

I don’t even know why he’s in the class at all, mind you. He’s a third year student and transferred from England last year, getting his business degree. Not sure how writing plays into any of it, but however it does, he doesn’t take anything seriously. It’s like writing and books and literature are one big joke to him, and I’m not the kind of person to take that lightly. Sure, maybe I get a bit too serious at times, whether it comes to writing or school, but that’s because, well…I need to.

Then there’s the fact that he’s a self-proclaimed sex god that every girl seems to lose their damn head over. It’s like the sight of him causes any vestiges of self-respect to evaporate, and girls practically throw themselves at his feet. I’ve seen it happen in this class—first with Monique, then Lisa, then Kendra, now Ali. The only upside to this continuous classmate walk of shame is that at least it makes class more interesting when every tragic poem and angry short story seems to be directed at Blake. It’s like watching one of those train wreck reality shows unfold before your very eyes.

I just don’t get it. Surely they can all see it’s an act. Even if he’s good in bed, how the hell does he even get you there?

Okay, well maybe it’s because he’s not exactly hard on the eyes. I’d be blind if I said Blake wasn’t good looking. He is. I can admit it. I can find men attractive without actually being attracted to them (I used to think that about Brad Pitt, but he’s changing my mind as he gets older). Blake is tall and lean with just the right amount of muscle, thick dark hair that’s always a bit rumpled, and deep blue eyes that sometimes seem black. You know, the kind of looks that most girls want. Maybe even the kind that might blind you to the point of making a string of unhealthy decisions that ultimately help fuel their writing goals. I don’t know.

Unfortunately, all of his beauty is spoiled by his shit-eating grin, which, as I said earlier, is probably his best and worst feature. Best because he flashes it all over the place and women spontaneously combust like matches are struck on their ovaries. Worst because I know what that grin represents: cockiness, arrogance, and one hell of an ego. There’s nothing that bothers me more than guys who think you’d be lucky to have them, though now when I think about it, that’s pretty much Alan to a tee. He was a lot subtler about it, but he did have this air of denigration that made me think he was taking pity on me half the time. Maybe that’s why Blake bugs me so much.

Or maybe it’s because he’s an ass.

“All right everyone.” Marie enters the room with a tepid grin, taking her place behind her desk, her long fringed shawl and beaded bracelets rattling as she puts her hands together and does this thing where she tries to look everyone in the class right in the eye. Marie is pretty much the stereotype of a creative writing professor. Her hair is waist-length and steel grey, she’s always wearing some sort of heavy gemstone around her neck, and she smells vaguely of patchouli. Sometimes marijuana. As I mentioned before, she’s a stickler for certain rules and can turn hard on a dime, even though she speaks with a fairy-like quality and her view toward life is one of both a free spirit and a bleeding heart.

“Who here is excited for your final assignment?”

“Me!” I say a little too loudly. I have to supress myself from raising my arm like some kind of keener. Still, I refuse to look sheepish about it. Everyone here knows that about me by now.

Especially Blake. I can’t help but look over in his direction, and lo and behold he’s rolling his eyes. He doesn’t even glance my way to see if I notice; it’s like an automatic reaction for him.

“Well,” Marie says as she walks around the front of her desk. “I should let you all know that this assignment is a deviation from what you’ve been given so far.” She leans back against the desk and folds her arms, her smile soft and somewhat pitying. Unease prickles the back of my neck. “Being a writer is hard work. Harder than you’ll ever think possible. What makes it even worse is the fact that right now, for nearly all of you, writing is easy. You write down what comes from your heart. All struggle is rooted in the outcome, the fear of the grade, the pressure of the deadline. But not in putting down the words, not in telling the story. At this stage, all of you can just, as Hemingway once said, sit down at the typewriter and bleed. But for many writers, and to borrow a popular cliché, it’s like getting blood from a stone. You have the want and the desire, but with experience and time, your self-doubt becomes louder and your inner critic comes out to play. It silences your creativity. You feel you aren’t allowed to make mistakes.”

Marie’s tone is so serious that even Blake has stopped looking at his phone and is watching her with a furrowed brow.

“Writing is hard,” she continues. “It gets harder when it becomes your career, your job, because it’s no longer a hobby, it’s no longer a manuscript hidden in your desk drawer. It becomes a platform from which the world can judge you. Your soul becomes target practice, and the critics hold the arrows. I’m not saying this to scare or discourage you, because I’ve been teaching this class a long time and I know nothing will discourage a wannabe writer more than harsh reality. I don’t have to say a word. If it’s in you, it’s in you, and you will persevere no matter the cost, no matter how hard it is, because that’s what you are born to do. To throw another cliché your way, the only way to fail is to quit.”

She lets out a long breath of air and stares down at her wrists, adjusting her bracelets. “That all said, you need to know that this class, so far, has been a breeze. This has been about exploring your creativity without fear of judgement or mistakes. It’s been about honing your skills, the craft, about improvement. I have not touched on the actual challenges of writing in the real world…but with this last assignment I will do just that.”

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