Young Writers Society

¨So next thing I know I’m waking up, half in the Untermyer Fountain. And the only thing I can ask to myself is how did I get uptown!” An explosion of laughter from the studio audience preceded the anecdote. Sitting back in her chair, Jane coolly sipped water from the mug on the desk, letting her host catch his breath.

¨That Jane! What a card, thanks for coming on the show again Janey it's always a pleasure.¨

¨Oh stop! The pleasures all mine Johnny, but before the commercial; lemme tell you the story of the blind doorman on 50th-”

¨For Christ sake Jane, we should have left half an hour ago!¨ The door swung open, and the lights flashed, jerking me away from my pleasant little dream into the cold, pale, harshness of reality. I hated waking up before the sun. There were few things I disliked: country music and waking before seven were the only ones that came to mind as I lied in bed hoping I could go back to sleep, or at the very least die. I thought how funny it was to hear my mom having to wake me in July. Usually the sensation of being jolted awake by my disgruntled parent was complemented by a symphony of crunching orange leaves, or the sound of the school bus speeding away, leaving me toasty in my bed. But summer was here and for some reason or another something required my attention before 10:00 a.m.

I combed my fingers through my freshly cut hair. Short, and naturally pin curled, I took great pride in her hair; although its unruliness begged to differ. Getting dressed I pondered my dream. It was a nice dream. Though the specifics had already fled my memory. Chatting with a nondescript late night talk show host over little anecdotes about my latest exploits as some kind of famous something.It was too distant now to remember.

The car ride would have been unbearable if it were not for my comatose state in the predawn morning. I rested my head on the luggage adjacent to me, A large suitcase, a backpack containing a camera, and a novel I didn’t expect I would have time to read, and a ukulele case; inside, my prized possession: a simple soprano uke I was gifted for christmas. I could barely put down, having to fight with mom just to bring it.

Naturally, my attempts at sleep in the car ride east were rudely hampered by the rising sun on my face. I retreated into my jacket, mild inconveniences aside, I hoped the ride would never end. I experienced this sensation on every car trip somewhere new. Though I hated driving, the familiarity was easing when faced with the anxiety of the unknown.

I peeked out of the jacket to catch a glimpse out the window; there was nothing but dewy farmland nestled between gloomy green mountains. Along with the occasional road sign. One read- Welcome to West Virginia Wild and Wonderful. I closed my eyes once more as the road bended southward. Hoping I could fall asleep and wake up in D.C.

Mom had signed me up for a photography camp for two weeks in Washington. Though I didn’t outright refuse when she prompted me with- “Hey hun, theres a photography thing in D.C this summer.” I didn’t exactly pee my pants with excitement at the proposition either. Mom was always looking for a reason to get me out of the house, not that I am a homebody; just that, I find myself to be most productive at home. There was always something to do, be it reading, writing, or laundry. Perhaps the best part about being home was the fact you did not have to travel to get home.

Pondering the thought of a photography camp; the idea became ever more distressing. Amassing every alternative teenager from around the globe- who thinks they’re hot shit because they knew about the rule of thirds or how to adjust the saturation of a picture in Photoshop. I can’t imagine a more pretentious thing than gathering them all in one city. Desperately fighting through a sea of (I hate to think it, but) girls like me just to get a picture of the hidden Killory on the World War Two memorial, or a silhouetting Washington Monument at sunset. I’d rather die.

I snuck another glance and read another sign:

Clarksburg 49

Winchester 133

Washington D.C 270

I let out a huff, and clenched my eyes shut.

I awoke to find we were no longer on the Highway. The sun was at its peak in the sky, and the scenery had changed from rural pastures, to tree lined suburbs. I called up to the front seat- Where are we? Mom had fallen asleep in the passenger seat with a magazine on her lap. Dad turned down the radio so only a droning drum beat could be heard, and replied - What was that hun?

Where are we? I yawned. But a swift right turn answered my question. Liberty University. Ten or so miles outside of D.C proper, and from the looks of it- hastily made in the late 1940s as some footnote to the G.I Bill. Driving by the Quadrangle one could see the majority of the small campus: a couple of lecture halls, parallel to a mess hall, and on the far side seemed to be a library that seemed to have been built far more recently. Continuing on, came the Dormitories. Three tall rectangles, two on the left side of the street, and one- much nicer, on the right. The two older dorms were stained and disheveled. Each room´s blinds were vastly askew from their neighbor’s; creating a shabby a best- decrepit at worst appearance. By the sidewalk were kids my age, luggage and parents in tow, being corralled inside by some college-y looking workers clad in red polos, khakis, and white lanyards.

The car came to a complete stop directly in front of the first rectangle. Mom awoke from the whirling sound of unbuckling seat belts. “That wasn’t such a bad trip; eh Jane?” She said; excited to stretch her legs. Dad responded with a light grunt as he heaved the rear door open, signaling me it was time to leave the cramped safety of the car, and take my first steps into taking my first steps into the real world.

I’ll save you the details of signing in. It was pretty much a staff of early twenty somethings convincing the parents that they were trustworthy enough to look over a group of students that were on average three years younger than themselves. Everyone’s parents seemed naturally uneasy, it was like dropping your kid off at an elementary age sleepover and when they open up the door it’s revealed that there aren’t any parents home but you already spent five thousand dollars for your kid to attend. I was fine with it however. I’m really uncomfortable around older people. Beyond thirty five I find the generational gap has put too much distance between any chance at a relationship not built on distrust and awkward small talk about the Beatles (because who doesn’t like the Beatles?).

Papers were signed. Probably stating that Liberty University was not responsible for any accidents that may occur on the campus, or something. They gave me a purple lanyard which signified I was part of the Photography camp. I also received a dorm key, and a purple itinerary.

Dad helped me take my bags up to my dorm while mom kept a camera pointed at me as if a blue whale was going to breach from my face. I was on the fourth floor, and the elevator up was at its carrying capacity. Looking around I saw all sorts of girls (no way Liberty University was about to let us bunk coed) with different colored lanyards; blue, green, black, other purples. The elevator stopped at the second floor and all the blue lanyard kids shuffled out, the rest of us shifted to take advantage of the fresh space. The third floor apparently belonged to the Black lanyards. By the fourth floor us purples and greens exited into a long hallway. Directly in front of the elevators was a common room walled off with glass so you could easily see what was going on within. The purples went left while the greens went right. It was my first time in a dorm, though it resembled a hotel hallway, the feeling was anything but. The floors were brown and bland, like the walls. It wasn’t comforting or inviting like a hotel, it was there to serve a purpose, and it didn’t care if it looked like a psychiatric ward and a prison library had a threesom with the hallway from the shining as long as it did what it was intended to do.

I made my way down the corridor, the girls ahead of me filed away into their rooms. Mine was almost at the end, but not quite. On a door marked 4G was a laminated sign that read Jane Botwinick- Jillian Braun. I swiped the key and sighed with relief to find my roommate wasn’t here yet. It was 2:30 now; registration ended at 4:00, and the itinerary said to meet in front of the Kennedy hall at 5:00 in formal attire. I set my luggage at the bed closest to the window, and peeked out beyond the curtains. The view consisted of the far nicer dorm on the other side of the street. Below was a crowded sidewalk with more kids continuing in.

The room itself was very small. Barely comfortable enough to house two students. The only furnishings were two twin beds separated by two conjoined desk on one end with two large dressers on the other. Everything- from the bed frame to the chairs to the hangers in the closet were made out of oak; the only other color that wasn’t standard military issue beige were the two white towels and bed sheets the staff allotted us.

“Well hun try and have some fun while you’re here.” Dad said while hugging me goodbye. “But not too much hopefully.” Mom said before kissing my cheek. I was all unpacked, and it was time for mom and dad to make the arduous car ride back to Ohio. I felt sorry for them, driving ten hours in a single day just for me. But then again I didn’t exactly ask to go- but still.

I waved goodbye as they walked down the hallway, and again from the window when I saw them get into the car and drive off. I really did appreciate them giving me the opportunity. I’m not some brat who whines when their parents get on their case, or makes them do something they don’t want to do. I know they just want the best for me, and I’ve learned the best thing I can do is just oblige them: there's a lot less strife that way. Don’t get me wrong I’m no goody-two-shoes either. Let’s just put it this way: I believe in authoritative parenting: the parent has authority over their child, but is just with their rules, and will always explain why they are their. I also believe in an individualistic childhood in which a child obeys their parents rules unless they do not align with the child’s own moral code; in which case the child can disregard said rules while providing a sound argument for why.

Anyway, I had the room all to myself, and another hour and a half until it was time to go across the street for the orientation thing. I layed back on my bed, my feet still on the floor. It was more of a cot than a bed, the mattress was maybe six inches thick, and felt like it was made of styrofoam. I barely had time to make myself comfortable when I heard the sound of the door unlocking. In came a short young thing who I presumed to be Jillian.

It was almost like looking in a mirror: We were the height; five-five. Short brown hair- though mine was a little curlier. Alternative, but not Hot Topic alternative, yet not American Eagle either. Fair skin; fairer than mine, a feat I thought impossible. “Jane Botwinick?”

“That’s me.” I got up and walked over extending my arm for a handshake. “And you must be Jillian.”

“Sure is.” She raised her hand to meet mine. Her grip was weak, but that might have been because I was too excited. “So welcome to 4G, it seems were roommates.” I was in a much better mood now that the afternoon had come along. “Where ya from?”

“Akron Ohio, well actually a small town called Kent, but it’s close to Akron so…. How ‘bout you?

“Queens New York.”

“Oh, the city. That’s pretty great. I love New York. “ 

Note ~ This is far from complete; just looking for criticsm