profbutters (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
profbutters) wrote2010-03-07 12:50 pm
profbutters) wrote2010-03-07 12:50 pm
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Thursday Simspiration post: Jack Doran
Jack Doran sat at a table in the University coffee shop, nursing a mocha. It was going to have to last all day, so he might as well enjoy it. He was also trying not to write to his parents.
There were two reasons Jack didn’t write home. For one thing, it was awkward. “Um, you know how I almost got the whole family killed because I was so desperate for a girl to like me? My bad. Sorry about that.” For another thing, he was still worried that anything he might do could endanger them again.
There were two reasons Jack didn’t write home. For one thing, it was awkward. “Um, you know how I almost got the whole family killed because I was so desperate for a girl to like me? My bad. Sorry about that.” For another thing, he was still worried that anything he might do could endanger them again.
Jack grabbed some napkins and carefully sponged away every drop of coffee from the table. He couldn’t afford to get coffee stains on anything he owned. It wasn’t as though he could afford to replace them, and he was done with being stupid and careless. Take Lauren, for example.
He didn’t really want to think about her; it was still too raw. But how could he have missed the way she screwed her face up before she kissed him? She had treated him as though she thought he smelled bad, which, he’d learned later, he did, at least to her. The elves had meant to hurt the whole family, but they’d gone through him because he had “DOPE” written all over his face. There were a lot of mistakes he wouldn’t be making again in a hurry.
Still, he did wish he could write to them just this once. He knew his mother loved him and worried. And maybe they would even be a little bit proud.
What the heck: he would risk just one postcard. He pulled a postcard with a picture of impressive-looking brick and stone buildings on it out of his rucksack and began to scribble.
“Dear Mom and Dad,” he would write. “I’m fine. I even started school today. This is where I am: Dyson University. Cool, huh?”
Some acoustic tile dislodged from the ceiling and landed in Jack’s coffee, but he was used to this by now. He absent-mindedly fished it out and went on.
“I can’t believe I got in and even got a scholarship. So don’t worry about me, I’m all set. Gotta run. Love you both lots, Jack.”
He frowned at the postcard. There wasn’t any room to tell about the entrance exam, which had also gotten him the scholarship. Even if there had been, who would believe it? It was probably the weirdest entrance exam ever.
He’d waited in the corridor, admiring the bits of carved wood paneling still on the wall and trying to avoid the scaffolding. A little man in an old fashioned suit opened the door and let him in.
The room was dark. He could just make out more wood paneling and some portraits on the walls. There was a table with people at it at the far end of the room, but they were in shadow. He, on the other hand, was in a pool of light streaming in from the window.
An amused voice came out of the shadows. “Ah, Mr. Doran. It is Mr. Doran, is it not?”
“Yes,” Jack had said.
“Interesting surname,” the voice had said, as though thinking.
“It’s Irish or something. Not sure.”
“So you wish to enter the University, do you, Mr. Doran?”
That had struck Jack as a dumb question. Of course he did, or why would he be here? But he had simply said, “Yes.”
“Then, Mr. Doran,” the voice said calmly, “do something.”
Do? Do what? “Uh, you mean like American Idol?”
“Oh, we are not fussy. Do whatever you can do.”
Jack had stood there for two solid minutes, but it had felt like hours. He felt the familiar burning humiliation stealing over him as he tried to think of something he could do to impress the committee. At last he’d said, “I’m sorry, sir. I can’t do anything. At least, I can’t do anything very well, and I certainly can’t do anything special.”
He’d turned to go, but the voice had stopped him in his tracks.
“Then, Mr. Doran, you are precisely what this University needs. You are accepted with a small scholarship. Congratulations.”
“Thank you, Mr. . . .Dr. . . umm. . . “
“’Archchancellor’ is the official title, but most students seem to call me ‘the Arch.’ Much quicker, don’t you agree? We will meet again later. I do apologize for the lighting. We have been forced to economize.”
Jack shook his head. No, no one was going to believe that. He wouldn’t have believed it if it hadn’t happened to him.
He looked at the postcard again wistfully. His parents would be so relieved, and his mother so proud and happy. It was nice to think someone was proud of him, even if it wasn’t for any reason at all. But still . . . he couldn’t risk it.
He slipped the postcard regretfully into his bag.
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Lauri
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This was brilliant Prof, I'm really looking forward to seeing what you're going to do with him.
There definitely seems to be something odd going on with that university.