By: Paula Onohi Omokhomion, CW
The daily rain was our cue, undeniable, without delay. Heavy drops would pelt hard on the windowpanes with such ferocity that we always wondered if they would finally get in, break through, and form a pool, or a puddle, whichever it liked, beside us. However, so many days had turned into weeks and those into months, our interest rolling away as they did, taking every other form of it. Classes no longer felt fun, and the times when we tried to rekindle the joy of fiction writing through having conversations on our works were quickly replaced by ones where we did nothing except stare at each other, some occasionally drifting to sleep until the class was over.
This didn’t go on forever, though.
Professor Price had announced one very cold Thursday morning that a new student was joining our class. It was unusual, he said, and we knew it was because spring break was over. Half of us had presented our workshops, and all of us were wondering what kind of an entrance that was. It was way too late, and instead of feeling excitement or at worst, curiosity, we felt loathing. The class was on Zoom that day, cameras were all turned off, but we didn’t need to see each other’s faces to know that we were thinking the same thing, that it was annoying.
The days rolled by and our latest entry was welcomed in grand style, the professor talking about our latest project, the listeners in La La Land or in Happyland or in whatever land that wasn’t here. Because he had paused, we knew that something was up and we looked to find our latest entry, blonde and beautiful. She had pastel colors, we all wore black, she had a liveliness in her eyes, reminders of our first week of classes. She had introduced herself in a language that none of us could understand, or perhaps, we could but decided not to focus. No matter what her name was, we would call her “new girl,” potent enough to signal that she shouldn’t talk to us because we wouldn’t talk to her, no matter how hard she tried.
