Page 4 of Dear Mr. Brody

Shit.

Could they?

I racked my brain, trying to remember if any of my professors were okay with being called by their first names and came up blank. Parker chuckled at my hesitation and my face heated.

“I think Mr. Brody would be most appropriate.”

He tapped his pencil to his bottom lip. “Noted.”

I should have moved on. I had an entire speech prepared about my history with Bartley Press, and how writing was my passion, but for some damn reason I went off script. “How about we all take a second to get to know each other. Tell us your name, and something about yourself you’d like to share. Starting with you, Mr. Mills.”

The guy sitting next to him stifled a laugh, but I ignored it. Putting students on the spot hadn’t been my intention, these icebreaker tactics were my least favorite when I was in school. But writing was personal, and if I wanted them to create together, we had to get comfortable with each other.

“As you already know, my name’s Parker Mills, but call me Parker or Park, it doesn’t matter to me. I served four years in the Air Force. I’m getting a late start at college, but I’m grateful to be here.”

“Thank you for your service,” I said, and he lowered his eyes, rubbing the back of his neck as he nodded, his humility surprised me. “And how about you?” I asked his friend.

“Name’s Marcos Basulto, I’m a design major, but this idiot made me take this class with him.” He elbowed Parker and he winced.

“Oh?”

“Yeah, but I needed the extra humanities credit so…”

Marcos waved his hand dramatically for me to move on, and I noticed his nails were painted bright pink. It stood out against his tan skin, but the color suited him.

“Well, Mr. Basulto, I hope this class won’t be a waste of your time.” I hadn’t meant to sound as harsh as I had, so I added, “I’m glad you’re here.”

It took about fifteen minutes for the whole class to introduce themselves. The majority of the twenty-three students were here for the humanities credits, only a handful wanted to be actual writers. It disappointed me what Anders had said might’ve been right, that most of these kids would write bullshit, looking for an easy A. My hopes had been high, but I refused to lower the bar. If they wanted an A, they would have to earn it.

“Let’s get started,” I said, and Marcos raised his hand.

“What about you?” he asked, speaking before I had a chance to address him. “Aren’t you going to tell us some random facts about yourself? I mean, it’s only fair.”

A quiet wave of smiles and laughter streamed through the room again, but Parker kept his eyes glued to the desk, slumping down in his chair as his friend beamed. Apparently making people uncomfortable was something he did for sport.

“You’re right, Mr. Basulto. It’s only fair.” I leaned against the desk. “I worked as a copy editor for most of my career until I started two years ago at Lowe Literary as an agent, helping writers to get published, and managing their careers. But I’ve always wanted to teach, so here I am.”

A young woman near the back shoved her hand in the air. “Do you work with famous authors?”

“Sometimes… and no, I’m not at liberty to discuss which authors I represent.” I smiled as I picked up the course syllabus from my desk and started to pass them out. “Though this is a writing class, I’ll be requiring you to read three books over the semester.” A collective groan echoed throughout the class, and I tried not to laugh. “Come on now, three books in fifteen weeks isn’t a lot to ask.”

I made my way up the aisle, giving each student at the end of a row a few handouts to pass down, when I reached Parker, he thanked me and grinned. This close it was easier to decipher the light sapphire color of his eyes. A familiar twinge warmed my stomach and I looked away. Swallowing, I found my voice as I made my way back to my desk. “It’s important, as a writer, to never stop reading, expanding your vocabulary. You may choose whatever three novels you like, but they must be fiction, and they must not all be in the same genre.”

A student from the second row, Gerald if I remembered correctly, asked, “What’s a genre?”

I had to stop myself from cringing.

Was he kidding?

“It’s a type of book.” Another student answered for me.

“That’s correct,” I said. “Fiction is a genre, but within fiction there are other genres.” He chewed his lip as he furiously wrote down what I was saying. “Young adult, mystery, women’s fiction, historical fiction… For the purposes of this class, I would like you to try and pick at least one classic.”

“Classic, like Hemingway?” Parker asked.

Though it shouldn’t have mattered to me, I wondered why he’d taken this class. Why he’d forced his friend to take it with him? Did he want to be a writer, or was he here for a quick three credits like most of his classmates?

“Sure… Bronte, Fitzgerald, or even Salinger are acceptable. There’s this marvelous thing called a library if you find you’re having trouble picking a book.”

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