CHAPTER SIX: WORKSHOP
1624 Words
The apartment was too clean the next morning and that was kind of unsettling. The cups were gone, the rug was straight, the coffee table stood exactly where I’d measured it the first day I sighted it. Ernest had even wiped the condensation ring off the counter. It was like the chaos of last night had been a glitch in the system.
I was meaning to talk to him and reach a resolution for us. He was already gone when I stepped out of my room. No gym bag, no smug face and noise whatsoever. I was met with just quietness and it was just right for me to think hard on how fast I could reach the administrative block and convince them for a room change.
I grabbed my folder with the housing reassignment form folded sharply down the middle and left before I could overthink anything.
Madame Anne, who was behind the desk, adjusted her glasses as I approached with a big smile on her face. “Olandria!”
“Madame Anne,” she moved out of her space and gave me a big hug which I almost melted into but I had a purpose. I placed the form on her desk, facing the form down. “I’d like to submit this.”
She skimmed it. “Again?”
“Yes.”
She looked up and shook her head with a smile. “Noise complaints? Harassment?”
“Party without notice and shared space violation.”
She looked up at me again, her already dwindling. “Did you speak to your roommate?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“He said he won’t do it again.”
She nodded as if that solved everything. “Then it’s not considered an ongoing conflict.”
I stared at her.
“So I just… wait until it escalates?”
She clasped her hands together politely. “We don’t have available units at the moment. And..ola, give him a chance, honey.” She flashed me her toothy grin, patted my cheek and began tapping away on her laptop. I know her care is coming from a good place. She's been extremely loving since she found out what happened to me in my sophomore year. But right now, I just wished she could get me out of that room.
I almost laughed. “Thank you,” I said tightly. I walked out with my jaw locked so hard it hurt.
I was literally floating around the cafe in frustration that I got three out of five orders wrong. Sam noticed and told me off, swapping my time with Marcus on the instruction that he covers for me while I headed home to “avoid the cafe going bankrupt.”
Back in the apartment, I dropped my bag on the couch and opened my laptop with the kind of force that suggested violence. There was an unread email blinked at the top of my screen.
Subject: Final Year Intensive Workshop - All Final Year students. My fingers hovered for a few seconds before clicking.
A week-long structured workshop with Studio hours monitored, Peer critique, Daily development sessions and at the end: submission of refined drafts to thesis supervisors.
This was exactly what I needed. Exactly! I haven't been able to work on my thesis since my arrival into this room. A fresh environment, away from distractions would go a long freaking way so of course I was hoping my name was in the list.
I scrolled down to the participant list attached below the email and before I could open it, my phone buzzed.
It was Karl.
I answered on the second ring. “If this is about the gossip video, I’ve already seen it.”
Karl gasped dramatically. “So it’s true? Your roommate threw a rugby apocalypse?”
“I’m filing for emotional damages.”
She laughed. “Please. You thrive on chaos.”
“Absolutely not, I thrive on silence.”
“Same thing.”
I rolled my eyes, even though she couldn’t see me. “What do you want?”
“Did you check the workshop list?”
My stomach dipped slightly for no reason. “I just got the email. I was about to.”
There was a pause. The kind that meant she was smiling too wide.“Karl?”
“I just think,” she began, dragging it out, “that you should emotionally prepare yourself.”
“For what?”
“For overlap.”
What was she saying? I opened the PDF and Scrolled. There was nothing bad, just names of the final year students but then my finger froze halfway down.
Malcolm Ernest – Photography
I blinked once. Then again.
“That’s not funny,” I said flatly.
I could hear her hurling over in laughter.“I didn’t say anything.”
“He’s in freaking sports!”
“And?”
“And what is he doing in a thesis development workshop for visual arts?”
Karl snorted. “Lan. Really?”
“Yes, he’s in the School of Sweat and Broken Furniture.”
“He’s on a sports scholarship,” Karl corrected. “Doesn’t mean that’s his major.”
I stared at the screen like the name might rearrange itself or better still disappear. Photography…Ernest Malcolm.
“What does he even photograph?” I muttered.
Karl’s voice turned teasing. “Maybe you.”
“I’m hanging up.”
“Don’t spiral. It’s just a week.”
“A week,” I repeated faintly, tossing my laptop to the side and sinking deep into the sofa. Can this day get any crazier?
“With the star boy.”
“Goodbye, Karl.”
“Text me when you combust.”
I ended the call and stared at the ceiling. Photography, really? Of all things?
The front door clicked open. I didn’t move from the couch as Ernest stepped inside, a gym bag slung over his shoulder. He paused when he saw me. I was always in my room and he came back earlier than I did so we rarely saw eye to eye.
“You’re home early.”
“You’re a photography major?” The words flew out before I could filter them.
He blinked. “Hi to you too.”
I didn't respond to him but stared, waiting for the answer I wanted to hear; silently praying for it to be a mix-up of names
He dropped his bag slowly on the kitchen counter. “Yes.”
I sat up. “How?”
He stared at me like I’d just asked how gravity worked. “With a camera?”
“You play rugby.”
“And?”
“And that’s… that’s very…” I waved vaguely, “...sports.”
He huffed a quiet laugh. “You think sports majors can’t like art?”
“I think,” I said carefully, “you don’t look like someone who develops film in a dark room.”
He leaned against the wall, arms folding loosely. “What does someone who develops film look like?”
I opened my mouth and closed it.
He watched me struggle, amused.“My dad used to give me his old camera when I was a kid,” he said, almost casually. “Said if I was going to run around, I might as well capture something while I did.”
I hadn’t expected him to… open up.
“I learned it better through you know… YouTube and stuff,” he added, pausing to get a drink from the bottle of water.
I looked away thinking of the best way to go about this. “Then why the scholarship?” I asked quietly.
“Because, I'm good at it obviously.” He shrugged one shoulder. “Photography’s not serious for me,” he added. “It’s fun.”
I almost laughed. “Must be nice.”
He looked at me. “Why do you look like it’s killing you?” he asked.
I ignored his question. You signed up for the workshop,” I said.
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
He looked at me for a second too long. “Because I want to get better.”
That answer hit somewhere I didn’t expect. “You don’t even take it seriously,” I said weakly.
“Who said that?”
“You just said it’s fun.”
“Fun doesn’t mean meaningless.”
So what do you photograph?” I challenged.
He shrugged lightly. “Whatever holds still long enough.”
I stared at his back as he turned to the fridge, happily grabbing junks on junks like there was an apocalypse he needed to save for.
“Well,” he turned to face me, voice tightening back into something safer, “don’t worry. I won’t sabotage your precious workshop.”
“I didn’t say…”
“I’ll stay out of your way.” And just like that, the shutters came down. He grabbed his bag and disappeared into his room.
I stayed where I was, oddly suspended. What had just happened? My laptop chimed again, it was another email. I frowned and opened it.
It was the sleeping arrangements for the week-long residency component. I scanned for my name. Olandria Cole in Studio B, Paired with… I let out a hollow laugh.
Of course the same apartment.
Same roommate.
Same workshop partner.
Malcolm, Ernest. Again!
I sat there, staring at the email until my laptop screen dimmed. I moved the mouse absently and reread the pairing. Mandatory collaboration for a week, shared studio hours. I closed the laptop slowly.
I had absolutely no idea who
Ernest Malcolm actually was. And now he's like dirt in my fingernails, I just can't get rid of him.
- Writer
