Page 25 of Outspoken

Oh, this is Ash.

A shock ripples through me and I immediately stop in the middle of a concrete walkway. A skateboarder swerves sharply to avoid me, hits a rock, and tumbles to the ground.

I gasp.

“What the fuck?” he says, glaring up at me.

“Sorry! Oh my god, are you okay?”

“Sure.” He stands and kicks his board into position, rolling away toward a group of palm trees.

My heart is racing, but not from the near collision. Over a year ago, I blocked Ashley on all of my accounts and my phone. I don't want to hear from her—didn'twant to hear from her. It was something they pushed me to do in rehab because she's considered my main enabler.

She's also my oldest friend.

Ugh, can't think about this now.I need to get to Writing 101. We're getting our analytical essays back, and I'm anxious to see my score.

Pushing Ashley from my mind, I switch my phone to silent and hurry the rest of the way to class.

I arrive right on time and find a seat near the back corner of the large classroom. It's like a small theater with ascending rows of blue seats. There’s nothing remarkable about it—just a functional box with places to sit, a projector hanging from the ceiling, and a whiteboard at the front. There’s also a desk off to the side where the teacher drops his stuff or the TA hangs out.

This is my second semester and I’m amazed I survived the first without failing the one class I had. I’m horrible at this student thing.

Spring semester started three weeks ago. This Writing 101 class has been okay, but I’m already completely bored with Calculus and Art History. I knew the history class would be snoozeville, but I used to enjoy math. I’m surprised it doesn’t hold the same joy.

Before my life took a sudden swerve at 18, I considered myself a tinkerer. None of my cool friends knew that I messed around with models and building kits—cars, boats, dollhouses, even LEGOs—but it was something I did late into the night when I wasn't studying or hanging out with friends. In one of those silly ‘find your career’ quizzes, I got engineering and figured, “Why not?” It sounded like I could choose a focus in college and find a job building and designing stuff—lots of tinkering.

But maybe that car accident rewired my brain—or probably all the drugs—because I'm not as interested in engineering anymore. I'm feeling too old, and the courses will be filled with young people who know how to use their phones like a third limb. I'm honestly more interested in writing now because it has been such an outlet for me lately. I used to find writing boring, but I'm actually enjoying learning about the different types of writing and how to structure essays.

What the hell do I do with that, I don't know. I'm not interested in being a journalist or writing screenplays or whatever. I just like getting my thoughts out, as sloppy as they are.

A young, pretty girl sits next to me in the back row, giving me a small smile before pulling out her tablet to take notes. I unconsciously run my hand along my cheek as if it will make my skin as porcelain as hers. Surviving this semester would be easier if all my peers weren't so damn young and making me feel old AF at 28—well, 29 later this year. Then 30…

Oh god.I want to bang my forehead against the tiny wood desk connected to the chair. One of the reasons I’m going to a community college—besides cheaper tuition—is that I thought there would be more people my age or empty-nesters looking for a new life. There are a few, but mostly teens right out of high school.

Sighing, I tuck a section of my blonde hair behind an ear and then pull out my affordable paper notebook. The teacher, Mr. Williams, begins his lecture at the front of the classroom. He doesn’t look much older than me, maybe mid-thirties. His dark beard and hair are always neatly groomed, and he’s stylish, always picking bright wardrobe colors that complement his rich dark brown skin. He’s smart, which I would expect from a writing teacher. I even enjoy his British accent.

So, overall, he’s an okay teacher.

Too bad he fucking hates me, and I have no idea why.

It’s one of those situations where Iknowsomething is off, like I’m being singled out, but I don’t exactly have evidence. He’s friendly, but it’s fake friendly. He also gives me low scores when I know my work isn’tthatbad. I know I got 80 percent of the answers correct on the last quiz because I looked them up afterward, yet he gave me a 40 percent.

I’m either going crazy or he hates me for reasons unknown.

While he’s discussing our homework reading assignment, I release another sigh. A button on my beige blouse pops off, right in front of my boobs. Now my bra is showing.Of course.Shouldn’t have squeezed my rolls into this top. I hunt for a safety pin in my backpack but don't find one.

The pretty girl next to me taps my shoulder and offers what I need.

“Oh my god, thank you,” I whisper, trying not to feel like Jabba the Hutt. I don’t havethatmany rolls, but itdefinitelyfeels that way.

After the lecture and quiz, the student aide hands out our graded analytical essays while Mr. Williams dismisses the class. I stare at my dismal grade, the shadows in the classroom looming around me. Nothing is written on my essay—no notes or marks to help me improve—except a red D with the words 'Do better'.

Yeah, thanks.How?

I slump against my chair. It hurts to see a big, awful D next to my name at the top. The essay was only about examining a short story, but it’s stillmywords. I put a lot of effort into it, and I wouldn’t feel as hurt if there was feedback about what I did wrong and how I can improve.

I want to improve, but Mr. Williams’ silence is taking that chance away from me.

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