Page 127 of Oar Than Friends

He narrowed his beady eyes at me, ‘Hmm, well it was excellent.’

‘Thank you.’ I tugged on the essay and once again was thwarted from taking it by the firm grip of a septuagenarian.

‘Have you decided on a path for when you graduate this summer?’

I waited a beat, but then shook my head, ‘Not yet, sir.’

‘Oh good, good,’ he chuckled. ‘For a second I thought you were going to say politics and follow after your father.’

I blinked in surprise. In the past three years I’d spent a minimum of five hours a week with Professor McRothy, and during that time he’d not once expressed an opinion on my, or any of my coursemates’, futures. I’d almost go as far as to say that he forgot about us the second we walked out the door. Like Professor Barrow, he was one of those teachers who seemed to live in his world of Ancient Greeks with very little awareness of what was happening in real time, but it appeared I was wrong.

‘You don’t think I should go into politics?’

Instead of answering he leaned back against his desk and crossed his arms. ‘Did you know I taught your father?’

For the second time in as many minutes I was both surprised and very wrong about Professor McRothy’s attention to detail.

‘No. I didn’t. He studied politics though, didn’t he?’

‘He did, eventually, but his first year here he took my class on Ancient Greek literature. It soon became clear the classics weren’t for him, they’re too delicate and nuanced, whereas your father is more like one of those bulls hurtling down the streets in Pamplona.’

I snorted loudly, more out of surprise than amusement at my professor describing my father more accurately and succinctly than I’d ever heard anyone else.

‘He used to sit in class and argue black was blue. It didn’t matter what the truth was, he saw what he wanted to see and tried to convince you to join his argument.’

I nodded. ‘Yes, sir, that sounds about right.’

‘Now, your father, hewasa politician. He couldn’t have been anything else. But you, Mr Osbourne-Cloud, you can be anything you want to be. You’re one of the mostgifted students to walk through my door. It would be a shame to waste such talent; the world has too many politicians as it is.’

I realized that all the time he’d been talking he was still holding my essay, and he finally let it go.

‘Thank you. I appreciate the support,’ I smiled, and nodded, then gradually made a step towards the door.

I’d almost reached it when he called me again, ‘And Arthur?’

‘Yes?’

‘Whoever that girl is you’ve painted as Hope, she’ll get you there.’

This time I didn’t reply, just offered up another smile and made my way slowly out of the classics building, sticking my headphones on as I did.

Stepping out into the cold March air, I pulled off my backpack to stuff my essay inside, taking a final glance at it as I did.

Hope. The only good thing remaining in the Pandora’s Box that was my life.

Kate. Kate was my hope. Except right now everything seemed hopeless.

I’d written that essay the day after we’d broken up, almost one month ago. Twenty-nine days to be precise. I’d sat down at my desk with the worst hangover I could have ever imagined and typed until my fingers cramped. Four hours and 6,000 words later, and I’d painted the picture of my life as told through the Ancient Greeks.

And today I was awarded a high First for the effort. I chuckled to myself, maybe I should get drunk more often. Now I just needed to finish sorting the rest of my shitout; something I’d been trying to do since it blew up in my face.

Twenty minutes later I flung open the front door and took the stairs two at a time until I reached my bedroom, only to find Brooks, and Charlie sitting on my bed. Or Charlie was on the bed, and Brooks was in my rocking chair.

‘Hello,’ I said, throwing my backpack on the floor and peeling off my hoodie, which also landed on the floor. ‘What are you two doing in here?’

‘Waiting for you,’ replied Charlie, like it should have been obvious.

‘Okay, why?’

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