"Sure." I opened the car door for her. "Climb in."
CHAPTER THREE
Clarity
"This isn't happening, it's not possible." I stood up and circled the pink trunk used as a coffee table.
Jasmine lounged on the compact, white sofa in her dorm room and tried not to smile. "Just because it's never happened before doesn't mean it's not possible," she said.
I scratched at my throat and couldn't catch a deep breath. "Is this how people feel? Really? It's terrible. Like an avalanche and volcanic eruption all at the same time."
"You know, your father thinks you're so straight and narrow because he's never seen you like this," Jasmine said.
"I've never seen her like this," Lexi called from the minute bathroom. "All hot and bothered. I think that Professor Bauer has got her number."
"Don't change the subject," I groaned and flopped down on the sofa next to Jasmine.
Lexi marched into the middle of the dorm room and planted her hands on her hips. "Relax, Clarity, it's just a D+."
I tossed the offending article on the pink trunk and covered my face with both hands. "I can't believe he gave me a D+."
Jasmine hooked the article with one, long arm and flipped through the pages. "His comments are really insightful. Man, I wish my English professor wrote half as many encouraging things. Have you even read his edits?" Jasmine asked.
"Why? All they'll tell me is that I suck at the only career I've ever wanted," I said.
"That's not true." Lexi pried my hands off my face and smiled brightly, “You used to want to be a writer. Like the woman who wrote that series we all obsessed over in high school."
"Don't be silly." I sat up and looked over Jasmine's shoulder. "That was high school. This is the real world and journalism is a more-respected profession."
"Come on," Lexi sighed. "You used to be such a great storyteller. I still have nightmares about that three eyes story you told us around the campfire."
"Ooh," Jasmine gave a delighted shiver. "He could watch you even when his back was turned. Creepy awesome."
"What does that say?" I asked, desperate to change the subject.
Jasmine held up Professor Bauer's comment and read, "Very poetic, but distracts from the point."
"See, I'm a total failure," I flopped back again.
Lexi snatched up the article. "He's complimenting you. Word choice, creative details, poetic images, and excellent storytelling. You just went over the word limit and buried the lead."
My groan turned into a growl. "So he thinks I'm flowery and frivolous. He doesn't even know me!"
"Is that what's bothering you?" Lexi asked. She sat down on the pink trunk directly across from me. "You're bothered because he got the wrong impression from your assignment?"
Jasmine sat up, her blue eyes sparkling. "What are you going to do, confront him during office hours? Step right up to that handsome face and tell him exactly how wrong he is about you?"
I stood up and paced around my friend's cluttered dorm room. "I'm not some dreamy poet or some fairytale writer. I want him to take me seriously." I snatched up my coat and book bag.
Jasmine clapped her hands. "Yeah, go to his office and make him take a good, long look at you. Here, I'll do your hair."
I swatted her away. "This doesn't have anything to do with how attractive Ford, I mean, Professor Bauer is. He needs to know that I take my work seriously and I intend to be an excellent journalist. He can't scare me off or steer me towards some other career."
"Maybe he's just trying to provoke you," Lexi said.
Jasmine clapped again. "And now he's waiting for you to come into his office breathing fire so he can tame you."
"That's it," I cried. "I'm confiscating your paperbacks. You have got romance on the brain." I scooped up an armful of novels with ripped-bodice heroines and bare-chested heroes.
"Might want to leave those here if you're going for a serious vibe," Lexi said.
I dumped the books on the pink trunk and left in a huff, despite my friend's good-natured laughter. They didn't understand the pressure I felt. I had carefully and practically selected my chosen career because journalism kept me firmly rooted in real life. To have anyone, including Professor Bauer, point out that I was more like my creative, free-spirited mother turned my core to ice. I didn't want to resemble her in any way.
Thinking of her wild, long curls, I carefully tamed my hair into a low ponytail. The journalism professor all had offices on the top floor of Thompson Hall and I ran up the steps two at a time. I took a moment to smooth down my pink sweater and catch my breath. Then, I knocked on Professor Bauer's office door and tapped my foot fast on the hallway floor.
"Clarity, I'm not surprised." Ford checked his watch. "Actually, I am. Office hours are almost over. I thought you'd be here right away, ready to tear into me for your D+. As it is now, I was just getting ready to leave."
I shoved him aside and marched into his office. "Office hours are set, school policy, and I still have time. This is your office?"
The narrow, attic room was dominated on one side by floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. Straight ahead, a lancet window let in sunlight dappled by the ivy still clinging to the outside of the limestone building.
"What's wrong with my office?" Ford asked. "It's got everything I need: a desk, a couple of chairs, and I even have a little couch."
I looked at the sagging couch and opted for an old, wooden chair. "You have like five things on your shelves," I said.
He scrubbed a hand over the back of his neck. "I'm still moving in. I work at home a lot." His gray eyes turned from smoke to metal. "And it doesn't matter how much time we have to debate, I'm not changing your grade."
I scooted to the edge of my chair as he sat down next to me. "You docked me for using flowery language. The assignment was to describe artwork."
"Precisely," he sighed. "The focus needed to stay on the artwork, not on your clever turns of phrase. The reader is not supposed to notice you as an author, but as the organizer of clear facts."
I sprang up. "Your rubric is unduly harsh. It's your responsibility to nurture my abilities and teach me new skills, not crush my spirit."
Ford's pupils dilated and twinkled as he smiled. "You don't look very crushed to me."
I forced my hands off my hips and stopped leaning over him. "I don't understand why journalism has to be so impersonal."
He sat up and stopped himself from taking my hand. Ford crossed his arms over his chest and nodded for me to sit down again. "Journalism isn't impersonal; in fact, the best writers of any genre keep the focus on the topic."
I sank back into the hard chair. "How?"
"A good way to learn is to write about something outside of your comfort zone. That way it's a new experience for both you and the reader and you can learn how to present it that way." Ford grinned. "What can you try that you've never done before?"