Page 15 of The Pucking Coach's Daughter
I cover my mouth before I can laugh. It’s not funny—but that is exactly how I feel.
Part of me doesn’t want to respond and ruin it, because what if this is just a con to get me to admit something? Or… I don’t know. Maybe they’ll plaster screenshots everywhere as soon as something does happen to someone else.
Like, “Look! Sydney Windsor wanted this bad shit to happen!”
It’s been less than five hours since the video was posted, and I’m already fucking gun-shy. I haven’t even been out. To the restaurant with Dad and Perri doesn’t count, because we went to some nice place a town over in the opposite direction of St. James.
So, in the end, I don’t respond. I get out of bed and take my time getting ready for the day. My makeup feels a bit like armor, which steadies my hand.
Day one and I’m already starting off defeated.
But I put my backpack on and walk to school, gazing around like someone’s going to come out of nowhere and punch me. I make it to campus, through the coffee line—the barista seems bored, yes, but also older. They don’t recognize me, and I get the impression that they wouldn’t give a shit if they did.
Coffee secured, I find my first class and take a seat in the very back. It’s an economics class, which I’m taking to satisfy some desire to have an understanding of our world and marketplace, and not a huge room.
But, by some miracle, no one recognizes me.
I keep my head down and take notes, and when the lecture is over, I’m the last one out. I’ve got another one straight away, so I head for that. English writing class. I added it on a whim because it sounded vaguely interesting.
Arriving, however, I discover that this is absolutely the wrong one for me.
It’s not a traditional room with desks— there are four long tables arranged in a square, so we’re all facing each other. The professor is already at one of the seats, and four more are filled. Leaving six empty.
Shit.
I pick one at random, slinking down.
Tomorrow, I’ll invest in a hat.
Or camouflage.
“Good morning,” the professor says. “My name is Lucy Page, your illustrious guide through this writing course. You can call me Professor Page, Professor P, or just Lucy, whichever you prefer. Just don’t call me late to dinner.”
Some chuckle. I’m so anxious, I can’t even muster a smile.
There’s a shuffle of papers, and the person to my left—the tables have now filled in while I stared at my lap—slides a stack of class syllabi in front of me. I take one and pass the rest, finally risking a glance at the professor.
“A little about me,” she continues. “I’m an investigative journalist by day. I own my own company. My team and I work on longer pieces in the Greater Boston Area. I’m here,” she drums her nails on the table, “because the professor who was supposed to run this class got hit by a car last week.”
Someone gasps.
“So, here I am.”
A girl raises her hand. “Um, Professor?”
“Yes. Name?”
“Andi Sharpe,” she replies. “You’re an investigative journalist, but the course description said creative writing?”
Professor Page smiles. She’s kind of sharp-looking. Glasses, short, white-blonde hair that just barely misses brushing the tops of her shoulders. Her light eyes seem to cut straight through the student she focuses on. “Do you think journalists can’t be creative?”
“No, um, I?—”
“We tell stories. Storytelling is the framework of our entire society. Hell, even politicians weave stories to suit themselves. Everyone does. Investigative journalism is just as much about relaying the story as it is about facts. If it’s not interesting, who’s going to read it?”
Silence.
“Exactly,” she finishes. “Not a damn person. Your challenge, therefore, is to write something worth reading.”