Page 14 of Sad Girl Hours
Chapter Fourteen
Nell
I’ve been scribbling nonsense words into my notebook for most of my lecture.
Freida, the lecturer, is lovely. I usually enjoy her lectures more than anyone else’s, but this year she’s taking us for our Love Poetry of the Twentieth Century – Passion in a Changing World module, and I’m just not feeling it today.
I’m happy with my poems for the collection so far. I’ve shown Saffron and Jenna a couple and they’ve been suitably complimentary. But I know, in my heart of hearts, that they’re not going to win me the publishing contract. They’re fine . They’re not magical.
And I’m not just being humble. I know they’re missing that spark, that insight into some previously uncharted, unstanza-ed waters. They’re missing emotion. Because I’m missing mine.
“All right, I think we’re done delving into our poets’ lovestruck psyches for the day,” Freida announces at the front of the hall.
“I hope that was of use to you all. Remember that your tutors will be wanting to see a draft of your first ten poems for your collections by the end of next week, so get fine-tuning – or writing,” she adds wryly, “ now .”
I let out a quiet groan.
Saffron said she’d meet me outside after her lecture – honestly, very rude that we both had morning lectures on our birthday – but she’s not messaged me to say she’s done yet, so I decide to hang out here for a couple more minutes.
Fuelled mostly by spite towards my AWOL poetry muses, I flip to a new page in my notebook and begin to write.
I fall with the leaves eyes closed
bracing for impact
But the ground doesn’ t rush up to greet me.
Instead, I awaken in the woods
high in the branches
of the same mighty oak as yesterday.
I reach out to touch the sky
sure it must be close.
My fingers close around October air.
This tree has known a thousand lives
wedded to each with a ring.
I have lived only one
known none.
I slip from the branches
with barren fingers.
My eyes close.
I brace for impact
that never comes.
It’s a start. I suppose frustration is an emotion.
Not really one I want to centre an entire poetry collection on, but oh well.
It’s at least within the bounds of my autumn theme, although I am starting to think the bucket list will be of more concrete benefit to Saffron than to me.
I don’t begrudge any of it, though. I had such a nice time the other day, and we’ve got a jam-packed schedule of all my favourite things for the next few months.
My phone chirrups to let me know Saffron’s outside, so I pack my things away and head out.
“Happy Birthday!” She greets me with a hug and places a party hat atop my head, the elastic underneath it twanging against my chin.
“Happy Birthday to you too,” I echo, grinning and posing with my hat as she takes a photo. “I have something for you.”
After a brief rummage in my bag, I produce a comically large rosette with the number twenty emblazoned on a sun, with orange and yellow ribbons below (home-made, of course). “Here we are.”
“Amazing,” Saffron says. “Even the astronauts on the space station will know that I’m twenty today. We’re twenty today.”
“Damn right we are. We’re officially in our twenties,” I say, before pulling a face because oh good Lord, I’m in my twenties. I’m running out of time to be a child prodigy.
Saffron also pulls a face, but she returns it to a smile when she looks at me. “Here’s hoping our next decade brings us lots of fun things.”
“I’m sure it will. Just think, by our next big birthday, I could be a best-selling poet and you could be … I don’t know, on the moon.”
Saffron laughs. “I don’t want to be an astronaut, Nell, just an astronomer.”
“ Bor-ing ,” I sing-song.
“Boring?” She plays along with mock outrage.
“Astronomers are so many things. We’re not just scientists, we’re philosophers.
We’re part of a worldwide network of people collaborating at any given moment, constantly exchanging data and ideas, all with the same aim of understanding more about the universe, answering questions that we previously thought were unanswerable.
What could be less boring than that?!” Her face is aflame with passion as she says this.
Her tone was jokey but her words were not.
I feel strangely soft inside at her outburst. I can’t bring myself to tease her any more. “I’m very sorry for accidentally disparaging your life’s work. I actually love how passionate you are. It’s very charming.”
“Charming?”
“Uh-huh,” I say, dropping off the kerb so I can kick through the leaves gathered at the side of the road.
“Well … thank you. And you know I love the way you—”