Free Love from London by Emily Franklin

discussing the obscure history of dentistry in Singapore (not that this isn’t compelling reading, but it does wear thin after the tenth description — which I had to read last year at Hadley) I have Sex and Gender Portrayals (read: my first assignment was to dress in drag and act out a scene with Fizzy where she played a bi-sexual fairy). Instead of writing papers on great books for Brit Lit with PMT, I’m rewriting them in my Changing Visions class at St. Paul’s — which is on the other side of London and a total hassle to get to from LADAM, but worth it. I am re-scripting The Scarlet Letter (which I read at Hadley with Mr. Chaucer — glad to have it somewhat fresh in my mind) so it’s set in the present day in a Wal-Mart type store, seeing how the plot or characters or dialogue change or don’t. It’s the first real creative writing I’ve tried — and I like.
    I heft my bag onto my right shoulder but it inevitably slides off. What is the nature of the human body that I can only keep a bag on the left side? My left shoulder is capable of handling tons of weight, but even the lightest bag slides off the right one — like it knows it doesn’t belong. Note to self: this is either interesting or proof I have spent too much time contemplating things rather than getting exercise and need to regroup.
    “Miss Bukowski,” says Galen French who is not French but Irish, and my voice coach. “I see you’re enjoying the weather.”
    I squint up at the murky but bright sky. “I hope the sun lasts — I’m heading over to Littleton Square.”
    “Ah, the infamous winter term faux-fight! Good luck. May you draw many a horrified look from passersby.”
    “Thanks,” I say. Galen — many LADAM teachers go by their first names — is a blend of old (as in Ye Olde) world, tweedy jacket and Oxford shoes — mixed with new — he knows every song ever — even obscure American songs like from the cds Mable gave me. “Listen — I feel like I should be doing more to get ready for The Choir tryouts.”
    Galen thinks for a minute and then sighs. “I’m not sure about that, Love. You’re right to go ahead and audition, but I wouldn’t have unrealistic expectations about the outcome. You’re competing against final year students and vocal superstars that have had loads more time to stretch their range.”
    I smile and nod and we say goodbye. I put my hands in my pockets and take a deep breath of January air. One thing I’ve noticed that’s so different here is that the faculty members aren’t constantly bolstering the students. At Hadley, we — or I at least — take for granted how interested the teachers are in having us succeed. Here, it’s like they’re along to guide me, but they’re not invested — or maybe they just want to be realistic. I mean, how many people can really go on to be the next great thing?
    At Littleton Square, several students are already shouting and gesturing wildly.
    “No, no, no!” yells Patrick De Rothschild, our very campy, very chic Stage Rage teacher. “You’re too exaggerated. Real anger comes from deep inside.” He points to himself. “Not in the chest, in the stomach.”
    Keena sidles up to me and whispers, “Speaking of stomachs, I am so hungry. I bet if we’re really quiet, we could sneak out and go to HEL.”
    “What?” I whisper. “Did you say go to hell?”
    Keena giggles. “No — not like that. Come on — I’ll show you.”
    And just like that, I ditch my first class, even though it was fun. Keena subtly takes a couple of steps backward, just enough so she’s at the corner of a large stone building (behemoth ancient buildings are everywhere in this town), then suddenly disappears. I meanwhile pretend to focus on the scene in front of me (read: three students bickering, onlookers gawking, and Patrick de Rothschild tapping others on the shoulder at will and saying things like, “Now, you’ve just been slapped for no good reason — go with it!”). While I