Prologue

Posted on Friday, 13 July 2007

July 1, 2007

As I glanced at the clock, I sighed. I was just had a few more pages of Moby Dick left. Sighing, I placed a postcard between the pages of the worn pages of my copy of Melville’s classic. I had to begin this journal and class is in half an hour.

I love English even though I majored in biology. But don’t you think it’s a bit of a punishment taking a summer course? During the season of tank tops and flip flops, no one, I repeat no one, should ever have to spend their time cooped up in a classroom. But I love English.

Anyway, call me Anastasia. Ana, for short. And yes, I’m pre-med. Surprise. Surprise. Basically, I have to take this course because I’ve spent the last few years trying to juggle all my pre-med requirements. My advisor finally put her foot down and forced coerced bullied me into fulfilling some more of my honors-level requirements. Sometimes being a scholarship student is a pain in the –

Okay, note to self, I shouldn’t write bad words/slang in this journal. It’s not very scholarly. I was tempted to interject ‘lol’ there. I caught myself.

The guidelines of this journal specifically stated that “style should be clear and accessible, avoiding jargon.”

Ugh.

Class in five. Will write more later.

I can’t go into class. I’m not going into class. You can’t make me go into class. I am not going in there. He’s there. He’s in there. I haven’t seen him in so long. I mean the University of New York has more than 40,000 students. WHY did he have to choose that particular section of English 223…

I’m not going. I don’t care if I get an AF (failure due to excessive absence).

Okay, I do care. I’m pre-med. I have to care. Oh my gosh, I’m going to have Wite-Out this whole paragraph, won’t I?

No. No. No.

So you know, how I seem all put together? All complete and whole?

Breaking News: I’m not.

Because five years ago, Nathan Johnson-Wentworth broke my heart. And I don’t think it’s ever really mended.

I went into class. Thirty minutes late. How humiliating! Professor Smith made a spectacle of me. In front of him. Way to greet the ex.

“Ana, I hope you don’t anymore intentions of running out of class now.”

“No, Professor.”

Nathan saw the whole thing. He probably thinks I ran out of class because of him. Honestly, which I did. He probably thinks I’m not over him. True again… But does he really have to know that?

I’ve had Professor Smith before for Freshmen Writing. She’s pretty tough. She gave me my first C ever. However, she’s been teaching for more than 30 years now. I really respect her. Today, however, when she singled me out, I wanted the earth to swallow me up.

I missed most of her introduction. Thank god, she didn’t begin lecturing until the last ten minutes of class. My concentration was way off.

I’m sitting a seat away from him to my left. I can glance at him over my shoulder. I thought he looked good when we were 16. Now… In the words of my roommates – the Montgomery sisters – “he’s a certifiable grade A hottie.” Their words, not mine.

I actually don’t curse that often. Truth be told I’m pretty conservative for a New Yorker.

You know – he looked so good. He still has the same brown hair and hazel eyes. However, there’s more definition to his features. There’s a certain determination in his jaw and he’s sporting a slightly rugged look. His body is chiseled and chipped reminding me of – as I feel my cheeks heat up – of Michelangelo’s David.

I peeked in his direction several times. I was a bundle of emotions ranging from mortification to hopefulness. Would he acknowledge me? Smile? Do something?

Yet before the end of class, Professor Smith asked to speak to me. While I made my way to the front of the lecture hall, I did not happen to glance back and he must have left. Professor Smith lectured me on my tardiness. I apologized feeling duly humbled.

He was just a guy. I could not believe that I had risked my reputation with a teacher because I had seen him in the class.

I thought of my sister Elizabeth as I often did whenever I felt myself failing or losing focus. Although only seven years older than me, Bethy had taken care of me after my father left. I had to make her proud.