Pieces of Olivia by Unknown Read Free Book Online Page A

attached sheet. “Olivia?”
    I nodded, my cheeks so warm they were liable to explode. “Yes. I’m so sorry. It—”
    She held up a hand to stop me. “I think you’ve delayed the class enough.” She set the clipboard back on the desk.
Crap
. “As I was saying, welcome to Poetry 130. I am Lauren Rochester, your professor, but you can call me Lauren. I prefer to teach the class in a workshop-like manner. What that means is we’ll read, analyze, and discuss everything from Shakespeare to Walt Whitman to Mary Oliver, but for assignments, I’d like to see your work. I realize that may make some of you feel uneasy, and that’s okay. Just try your best. Your final will involve a complete dissection of any poem of your choosing. I suggest you start looking through your options now. During class, we’ll take turns reading from the assigned poetry list on the back of your syllabus. I like open discussion and expect everyone to participate.”
    I realized that I was officially on this professor’s hate list and wanted off fast, so taking a note from my mother’s lectures on how to impress professors, I raised my hand. She hesitated before calling on me. “Yes, Olivia?”
    “Sorry, I was just curious if we were allowed to read our own poetry during the class readings or only assigned works?”
    She considered me. “You’ve written your own poetry already?”
    “I’ve tried.”
    She looked pleased. “Well then, yes.” She addressed the class. “Since this is an intro class, I assumed most of you would be new to writing poetry, but if you, like Olivia, are already a poet, then feel free to bring your own work. Just know, this isn’t a joke. No Dr. Seuss copycats allowed. Understand?”
    Everyone nodded, and I leaned back in my desk, happy that at the very least, Lauren had a more positive association with my name now. The lecture continued with the normal stuff—syllabus review, attendance expectations, etc.—and as the class came to an end, I realized that I was going to really like it.
    Lauren finished up, and I started out the door, when a deep voice called, “Nice work, Ms. Warren.”
    I turned to see a guy walking up. My first thought—beyond why was he calling me by my last name—was that he was too pretty to be a guy. The kind of pretty that made you think Mother Nature had accidentally checked the wrong box and he was supposed to be a girl. Golden locks hit his chin, streaked with white blond strands that made me wonder if he had highlights. His deep brown eyes were waiting for me to respond, but I was too busy taking in his outfit. He was dressed in navy cargo shorts and a plaid dress shirt with a tie hung loose around the collar. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows and on his feet were a shiny pair of loafers. The kind fifty-year-old men wore. It was like he’d started dressing with one look in mind and got distracted, adding another on top.
    Or maybe he was blind.
    “Olivia,” I said, correcting him.
    He held out his hand for me to shake. “Of course. I’m Taylor.”
    The name matched his face so perfectly I almost asked if he were making it up. Instead, I smiled, because that was what you did when a guy as pretty as him was talking to you. I waited for him to say something else.
    “Oh, sorry, I lost my train of thought.” He looked down, and then back at me with a coy smile. “I was just complimenting you on the work back there. Not many students can start a class at the bottom of a professor’s list and end up on top.”
    I laughed as I started to walk, Taylor keeping pace beside me. “Not sure about the ‘on top’ part, but I most definitely started at the bottom. I can’t believe I walked in late on the first day of class.”
    He grinned. “Happens to the best of us. Are you an English major?”
    I nodded. “Yeah, trying. You?”
    “Only thing I can stand. I’d die of boredom with anything else.”
    I stopped to look at him. “Yeah, me, too.”
    “Well, nice meeting you,