Collision

Eleanor starts college and makes a friend.

                   Before Kathy wakes up, I load the back of my car with a duffel full of my mother’s old clothes and my laptop in its black case.  I also stuff a laundry hamper full of towels, soup cans, cereal, detergent, and light bulbs.  Once I’ve got this all in the car, I drive away from Kathy’s house, weave through the rich neighborhood of Southern mansions, and get on the highway.

                  There is usually very little traffic this early in the morning, but it seems that every college student is eager to move in as early as possible.  At the checkpoint out of Spartanburg County, the guard hardly glances at my identification, just giving me a nod and waving me through.  The traffic along the highway sludges along for an hour before I see the signs leading to the university.  I follow the line of cars into the campus, overflowing with lush, green trees.  I find myself a parking spot on the grass and climb out with my duffle and laptop case hanging from my shoulders and my laundry hamper dangling in a free arm.  There are already two dozen residents here with their car trunks open, parents and siblings hauling furniture towards the building.  I shift the duffel and laptop case on my shoulders and waddle into the building.

                  When I get to the second floor, I read the signs on the doors until I come to ones that say “Vanessa” and “Eleanor.”

                  Vanessa tackles me in a hug as soon as I walk through the door and shouts “You’re here!” Her mother is a cheerful, oval-faced woman high on the lofted bed, setting up Vanessa’s linens. Her father is lifting her heavy, pink leather sofa into the center of the room.

                  Just as Vanessa lets me go, another girl hugs me from behind. “Hey! You must be Eleanor!” She’s a strawberry blonde, about a head shorter than me. “I’m Lucy, and I’ll be your RA this year!”

                  “Nice to meet you,” I say.

                  “If there is anything you need help with, just give me a holler!” She hands me a thick envelope. “Here are your room and mailbox keys, your parking tag, and some other information, and don’t forget to stop by the University Center to get your picture taken for your ID card.” She can barely contain herself for a moment before she shouts, “This year is going to be so much fun! I’ll see ya’ll later!”

                  She skips away down the hall and I hear a squeal from the next girl she surprises. “Vanessa, can I talk to you for a moment?” I say quietly.

                  Vanessa joins me in the doorway, out of her parents’ hearing. “Yeah?”

                  “I thought that you were Eleanor and I was supposed to be Vanessa.”

                  “Yeah, we are.”

                  “Then why did Lucy just call me Eleanor?”

                  Vanessa laughs. “Of course she knows your name! Everyone on the hall knows! It’s just the teachers and administration who won’t.”

                  “But you do see that our plan is flawed from the start?”

                  “No, it’ll be fine…see, I’ve already got my ID!” She flashes her shiny new student ID card, her face with my name.

                  “Is everything all right?” Vanessa’s father asks.

                  “Yeah, we’re just talking about IDs. Do you have the cards?”

                  He walks over to us and hands me a set of cards in a rubber band. “Driver’s license and status card.” Suddenly, he grabs my wrist a little too tightly. “If anything happens to Vanessa,” he whispers in my ear, “I swear I’ll kill you.”

                  “Daddy…” Vanessa says, rolling her eyes.

                  “I’m going to the University Center now.” I set down my things in my side of the room and leave. It only takes a few minutes to walk to the University Center, but I take my car to free up room in the lawn.  In the rearview mirror, I see a minivan take my parking spot.

                  I weave through campus to the University Center lot.  When I park, I take a moment to stick my the tag on my back window and I enter the building into the lobby.  People are scattered all over, standing in clusters or alone, making high pitched small talk, looking with furrowed eyebrows at brochures, or stumbling across the floor with bags full of textbooks.  The photographer has his equipment set up to the side.  I fill out the paperwork and show him my driver’s license while I’m standing in line.  I get my picture taken, and he tells me to come back in thirty minutes for my card.

                  In the meantime, I get all the papers out of my mailbox, one of which is my class schedule. I read it on the way to the bookstore. On Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, I have Introduction to Journalism with L. Varner, Political Thought with R. Tawney, and Transformation of United States Politics with B. McKenzie. On Tuesdays and Thursdays I have English 101 with V. Nix. I’m browsing the shelves of political science textbooks when an older student peers over my shoulder at my schedule. “Man, you’re lucky…you got Dr. McKenzie.”

                  “He’s good?”

                  “He’s quite a character,” she says. “But it’s nearly impossible to get into his lower level classes unless you’re a senior. I took his South Carolina Politics class for my upper-level humanities requirement thinking I was going to major in biology…three weeks in, I declared political science.”

                  “That’s good to hear.”

                  “Dr. Tawney on the other hand…you’d think he’d be good since he’s the head of the department, and I guess he is, but he does pick favorites. Don’t disagree with him in class.”

                  “I’ll keep that in mind. Do you know anything about Dr. Varner or Dr. Nix?”

                  “Dr. Nix is new…Dr. Varner’s tough, but she’s really nice.  And she notices when you really apply yourself.”

                  After waiting in line to purchase my books, it’s time to pick up my ID card. I take it from the desk and proceed to my car, setting my heavy bag in the passenger’s seat. I sit for a while with the windows down waiting for the steering wheel to cool off, taking a look at my card. My name is now Vanessa Arnold.

                  A heavy jolt sends the front of the car over the curb, and my head flies forward into the steering wheel. I push myself back into my seat, the car interior swirling around me. My sinuses pulse with shock and thick blood flows over my lips.

                  I open the door and stumble out, and the offending driver trips out of his large, red truck, still front to end with my car. His sandy hair is disheveled and his thick rimmed glasses are lopsided on his round face. He runs toward me, flailing his arms as he regains balance. "I'm so sorry! I didn't think there was anyone in there!" He straightens his glasses. "Oh man, your nose..."

                  "Yeah, I think it's broken," I say, but none of it is intelligible.

                  "We gotta get you to the nurse!" he shouts, scooping me up in his thick, hairy arms and running towards the open parking lot only to see that it is blocked off by his vehicle.

                  "There is nothing wrong with my legs," I say. His head turns about, confused, and then he jumps onto my car trunk and down on the asphalt on the other side. He runs off through the parking lot, panting.

                  "You're gonna be all right! Hang in there!"

                  "Are you just going to leave your truck there? It's blocking traffic." He's running up the hill now.  "Put me down, you're going to pass out."

                  "You're as light as a Labrador’s skeleton."

                  "You're sweating on me."

                  He bumps his hip into a button on the wall, opening the handicap access doors, and runs inside.                   "We're here.” He drops to one knee, exhausted.

                  “I think this is the science building.”

                  He studies the giant lobby and windowed laboratories. Finally, he realizes that something is amiss. “Damn,” he stands back up, lifting me again. “I’m sorry…”

                  “It’s all right. You can put me down.”

                  “I’m sorry, I’m still high right now.”

                  He bumps his way back through the door, and he runs past the abandoned campus church and the windows of the English department. “There’s a sign up there,” I say. He stops a foot away from it.

                  “I can’t make out anything,” he pants.

                  “It says the infirmary is to your left. Do you remember which way is left?”

                  He has to ponder this for a moment, then he twists quickly to the left, whacking my ankles against the sign post. When we arrive at the infirmary, he kicks the door open and carries me into the lobby full of students and parents filling out pages of forms. Many of them stare at me, then glance at each other and back at their paperwork.

                  He carries me to the secretary window and finally sets down on my feet. The woman at the desk looks at me blankly. “Can I help you?”

                  “Yeah, my nose is broken.”

                  She blinks. I doubt she understood what I just said. “Are you pregnant?”

                  “No,” I say as clearly as possible, “I need someone to set my nose.”

                  “Do you have an STD?”

                  My pot-smoking companion leans forward. “Broken nose,” he says.

                  “Oh,” she says. “Do you have your student ID with you?”

                  “No…”

                  “Well, we can’t help you if you don’t have your ID.  Not unless it’s urgent.”

                  “Dude,” says my companion, “Look at her.”

                  She sighs. “I’m sorry…we don’t have anyone here who’s qualified to set broken noses.”

                  I give her a hard, long stare and pull away. “I’m going back to my room.” I weave through the lobby and go out the door. “I can walk.”

                  “I wasn’t going to pick you up,” he says, following me. “I just want to make sure you get back all right.”

                  “I can’t stop you.”

                  He does a clumsy skip. “I’m Schwartz.”

                  “Is that your first or last name?”

                  “Both.” He giggles under the influence of his drug. “Try saying it five times fast…no, actually that would be mean. You’re not very eloquent right now, no offense. So…what’s your name?”

                  “Eleanor.” I figure that if he lives in the residence hall, he’ll know my real name eventually. Vanessa leaves me no choice.

                  Normally I would have to use my ID card to swipe myself into the residence buildings, but the doors are propped open for move-in day. There are seven connected buildings here, only three of which are used for students. In more prosperous times, this entire complex had been filled as well as the residence halls near the now overgrown soccer field. Today, the two-hundred freshmen are housed in these three buildings while all the other students live in on-campus apartments.

                  Schwartz and I weave through the halls until we come to my room. I use my keys dangling from my belt loop to unlock the door. Schwartz follows me in, picking up the telephone. “Hey, what’s the number for 911?”

                  I look into the full length mirror on the back of the door. There is blood caked on my face and neck and my nose juts out to the side.  With one uninterrupted motion, I twist it back into place.  A fresh wave of blood pours out.  I see Schwartz gaping in the mirror.  “Didn’t that hurt?”

                  “Yeah, it did.” I grab the pack of wet wipes Vanessa has sticking out of a box and take a few to start wiping the blood from my face and neck.  “Now, about the cars…”

                  Schwartz rocks back and forth on his feet.  “Yeah…that. I can fix it up myself.”

                  “That would even things between us.”

                  “Yeah, I do that for every car I hit.  I’m damn good at it, too.”

                  “Do you want to take it to your house to do the work then?”

                  “No, I live all the way in Hamer.  It’s in the Little Rock area.  I can do the work in my secret hideout.”

                  “Where is that?”

                  “I don’t know.  I haven’t made one yet.  At home, there’s an old windmill by the creek where I do all my programming and…other stuff.”

                  “As long as you get it done, it’s fine.”

                  “Great!” He claps his hands. “Are we friends now?”

                  “Sure.”

                  “Sweet!” He looks around the room, his face moving in an arc.  “Where are you from?”

                  “Spartanburg.”  I’m rummaging in my duffel for a clean shirt.

                  “Really? I thought with your accent you must be from, like, Myrtle Beach or somewhere coastal.”

                  “No. Spartanburg.”  I change the subject. “What’s your major?”

                  “Computer Science. Yours?”

                  “Political Science.” I try to think of another common question to keep the chain going. “How…was your summer?”

                  “Awesome!” He jumps up and down. “I went to a Dark Nicks concert in Columbia in July. It was glorious.”

                  “I’ve never heard of them.”

                  “Really?”

                  “Turn around.” He turns his back to me and I remove my bloody shirt.

                  “And they let everyone who wanted to come backstage and hang out afterwards. They’re really nice guys. The pianist is our age.”

                  I pull a clean shirt over my head. “I’m decent now.”

                  He turns back around. “How was your summer?”

                  “I got arrested.”

                  “That is so awesome! What did you do? What is it like on the inside? Did you kill anyone?”

                  “I broke curfew. And it’s not very interesting on the inside.”

                  “But still…that’s intense. I salute you.”

                  Vanessa walks through the door holding a black cable and a pizza box. “We can set up the TV now…” She looks at me and screams.

                  “I know,” I say, “I was just about to get an ice pack for it.”

                  She runs to the refrigerator and throws me a pack of cooler gel. “And who are you?” she says.

                  “I’m Schwartz Schwartz,” he says, offering his hand. Vanessa wrinkles her nose. Schwartz walks away with his head down. “I’ll see you later, Eleanor. I guess I should move my truck now.”

                  “Good luck,” I say as he closes the door behind him.

                  Vanessa hooks the cable into the television on top of the dresser and plugs it into the wall. “That guy smokes something weird.”

                  “Yeah, I know.”

                  The television flickers on. A reporter standing at the barbed wire fence on the North Carolina border is talking about the recent invasion and interviewing some of the soldiers who helped stop it. “I didn’t know what kind of pizza you like,” Vanessa says, “so I just got cheese.”

                  “Thanks.”

                  “Late this morning, authorities released the names of those responsible for the Charleston bombing. The terrorist leader was Christian T. Booker, Caucasian, thirty-three years old who worked at the nuclear weapons facility in Orangeburg…”

                  “He’s creepy-looking,” Vanessa says.

                  I bite into a slice of pizza. “The mustache is fake. You can tell where the pixels don’t match up. They superimposed all the facial hair and grime.”

                  “Huh. You’re right.” She changes the channel to some old soap operas.

Author's Note

I intend to do gradual revisions to this in the future.

Reviews

[Emily Elizabeth]

Haha, I can hear their voices in my head, perfectly.
Great character contrasts here, especially between Vanessa and Elanour, which his hilarious as they are switching places. Vanessa seems rather spoilt and indulged and over-protected, while Elanour is spiky and independent and tough. Also, the fact that Vanessa seems completely oblivious as to what is really happening in the world around her.
It also seems like a perfect scene from an American college, like in the films. Except it seems too perfect, too fake, and you can tell there's an underlying feeling of something not being quite right, making the tone edgy, and uncertain, provoking almost a sense of foreboding (and perhaps foreshadowing?) in the reader.
Great humor in this, made me laugh aloud, particularly surrounding Schwartz. The pace is brilliant, the way, when Elanour gets hit, you build it into a frenzy, and the way you've ended it with information connected to the Charleston bombing. Also great characterization of the media, demonizing Christian Booker, a very poignant point there.

[UponATyme]

I literally laughed out loud at the end, when she said the pixels don't match up. I don't know if you did this intentionally, or if it just happened that way, but if you're familiar with web culture, that is one of the longest standing jokes ever. I expected her to jump up and yell out "SHOPPED!"
I liked this chapter, you did a great job with setting the tone for the school and the people Eleanor meets. Their plan does seem doomed from the start, what with all of the residential personnel knowing their true identities. I'm interested to see how that plays out.

[David Darabian]

You have such a wonderful way of impersonating a character by dialogue! I must admit that the story took a different approach than I had hoped, so far. After the first chapter I was more eager to know more about the terrorist faction than of her inheritance, but you still keep me on toes and I suspect that there will be more of them later on :) I think that a sign of good narrative technique is when the writer doesn't give away everything at once and keeps the reader on his or her toes, and you sure do this! Even though I want to know more, and more! :)

Love Schwarz and his fuzzy appearance and again, you've portrayed him masterfully through dialogue. Telling us that he's a pretty laid back guy, smart and well oriented no doubt when he's not too high. You've told us that he's spontaneous and that he's a computer wiz who will no doubt play a larger part later on. :)
Vanessa with her high pitched voice
As Emily Elizabeth put it in her review, "I can hear their voices in my head, perfectly." so can I, and my hat's off to you.

Although there was one very short sentence that I though was a bit off, with V's father saying;

"If anything happens to Vanessa," he whispers in my ear, "I swear I'll kill you."

That was a bit too strong I think. Maybe he could have said "If anything happens to Vanessa." and then trailed off or was interrupted.
Apart from that, perfekt!