Unwanted Days of HOLY HOLIDAY

GUENTEMALLA PT 2.

Monday evening came faster than I expected, like a fleeting shadow across my consciousness. The city had already begun to exhale the warm hues of sunset, painting the streets in amber and gold. I slipped into my favorite brown wrap dress, the fabric flowing gracefully around my knees, hugging my waist just enough to make me feel poised but comfortable. I brushed my hair back, letting a few strands fall lazily around my face, then grabbed my bag and rushed toward the literature institute. The streets were alive with the quiet bustle of evening—shoppers hurrying home, the distant hum of buses, the soft clatter of bicycle wheels over cobblestones. The air smelled faintly of roasted coffee beans and the distant aroma of freshly baked bread from a nearby café.

By the time I arrived, the hallways were dimly lit, the fluorescent lights flickering slightly as if hesitant to illuminate the coming of a new student. I hurried into the classroom, slipping in at the back, eager to observe everyone entering before drawing any attention to myself. I wanted to see the energy of the place, the rhythm of people’s movements, the silent hierarchy of writers and thinkers assembling around me.

To my surprise, literature didn’t seem to be as magnetic to the students here as it was to me. Only five men had walked in before me, all carrying notebooks and pens as though prepared to conquer the literary world in a single sitting. I was the only woman in the room, and my chest tightened slightly, a mixture of pride and unease washing over me.

“New writer in the room?” one man asked, his voice carrying across the quiet space. All eyes turned toward me, piercing, analytical. Writers, perhaps? Critics? I wasn’t sure, but I felt their attention like a tangible weight pressing against my shoulders.

“Nope. I’m just a literature fan,” I replied, keeping my voice steady. They nodded politely and then turned their gaze back to the board, leaving me to my thoughts.

Minutes ticked by, and the door at the front opened sharply at 8:00 PM. A man entered with a quiet authority, carrying a briefcase in one hand and a leather-bound notebook under his arm. My eyes narrowed. Could it be… the painter guy? Xavier’s friend? The one who had appeared in the gallery that afternoon?

He grinned, casually placing his briefcase on the desk and sliding his hands into his pockets. “How have you all been?” he asked, his voice easy, inviting, yet carrying the unspoken weight of expectation.

“Great. Fine. Cool,” the class responded, their voices a chorus of polite monotony.

Now I understood why he had been so intrigued by me that first day at the institute. There was a purpose behind his observation, a curiosity sharpened by intellect and subtle calculation.

“I missed being here,” he continued, strolling between the desks as his gaze swept over each student. “I was curious to see what all of you have prepared.”

Did he act as though he hadn’t seen me yet? Or was it that he truly hadn’t? My mind whirled with questions, but I remained silent, studying the way he moved—graceful, confident, with an unspoken energy that drew attention without effort.

Finally, he reached my desk. A smirk danced on his lips, infuriatingly familiar. “I didn’t know there was a sixth person here,” he said, playing along. “Madam? Would you mind telling us who you are, what you are doing, and what you hope to gain from this class?” Then, as if satisfied, he walked back to the front.

I straightened, taking a breath that felt both heavy and liberating. “I’m Evelyn Mosa, taking a Bachelor of Community and Development Studies at the University of Xenonia. And… I was born to write.”

Polite applause followed. I felt the warmth of acknowledgment, brief but sufficient to steady my nerves.

The man, whom I now realized must be the lecturer, perched himself casually on the front table. “Ever published anything so far? We’d all love to support our young writer,” one of the students asked.

“Well… no. I hope to start after this course,” I admitted, trying not to betray the flutter of excitement and nervousness that buzzed in my chest.

“I like your energy, Miss Evelyn,” another student said, leaning back in his chair. “But relying solely on the course to create something significant will take years. These courses are continuous, and the practice is unrelenting.”

“I’ll take that as advice. Thank you,” I replied, nodding.

Everyone else lapsed into silence, eyes flicking between the lecturer and the students, waiting for guidance. “Well,” he finally said, glancing at me with a smile that was more approving than teasing now, “in honor of the first lady in our class for the past two years, why don’t we introduce ourselves? Share why you’re taking this course.”

The students obliged, one by one. Some detailed the works they’d published, some mentioned awards or achievements, and a few praised the lecturer for guiding them from tentative drafts to polished manuscripts. Their confidence, their voices calm yet brimming with experience, made me realize the enormity of the challenge I had stepped into. Here I was, the lone beginner among seasoned writers, feeling simultaneously invisible and exposed.

“I hope everyone’s introduction inspires our new writer,” the lecturer said, fixing me with a steady gaze. I nodded, grateful for the encouragement, however faint.

“Name’s Zack Moore,” he announced finally. My heart stuttered at the familiar surname. Moore… like Xavier? I wondered if the connection was coincidence or deliberate.

“I’ll be taking you through this course this year. I expect full participation as always,” he continued, stepping down from the table and moving to the stage at the front. He spread out his teaching materials, scanning them with an exacting eye. “I’ve looked over what you’ve prepared. It’s not bad, but I want you to build something new from your foundations. By next Monday, come ready to create something original from what you’ve learned so far.”

I thought I had known him only as an artist. How blessed—no, intimidating—to discover he was an author too.

“Our first discussion will begin Wednesday. Have a good evening, everyone. Miss Mosa, see me, please.”

The students packed up, murmuring to one another as they filed out. Once again, I was left in the company of a stranger whose presence felt oddly familiar and strangely grounding.

He exhaled, grinning in that infuriatingly confident way.

“Is smirking a rule for you?” I asked, crossing my arms.

He chuckled, picking up his briefcase. “I hope you now understand why I was interested in meeting you.”

“It wasn’t necessary to follow me here, especially if you knew I’d be in this class,” I shot back.

He laughed softly. “Anyway, I couldn’t have known you were in the wrong class.”

My stomach dropped. “What did you just say?”

“You were supposed to attend the beginner’s class. This time, consider it your own little adventure,” he said, nonchalantly. I froze, mortified. The wrong class? And no one told me?

“Then… what is this class?”

“Intermediate. Everyone here is a registered author. Professionals. Writers with experience.”

The color drained from my face. My embarrassment was probably visible across the room, though the room was nearly empty now.

“Follow me,” he commanded lightly, stepping forward.

“Why do I feel like I’m being ordered around?” I muttered.

He turned back, laughing. “Don’t be ashamed of a simple mistake. I won’t force you to follow me, but trust me—it’s worth it.”

I trailed behind him, stepping through long hallways where the polished wooden floors reflected the muted glow of the overhead lights. The faint scent of old books lingered in the air, mixed with dust and the occasional whiff of coffee from nearby study lounges.

We reached a classroom with large windows overlooking a vast lecture hall. The space was cavernous, rows of desks stretching to the back, filled with eager young men and women. Their notebooks gleamed in the lamplight, their faces serious and intent.

“They are beginners,” he whispered. “First day today.”

My jaw dropped. The hall was enormous—three times larger than my community class at Xenonia, filled with energy and anticipation I hadn’t anticipated.

“Guatemala University of Literature is… formidable,” he murmured. “Their lecturers have no patience. Only five to ten students from this hall will make it to my intermediate course.”

“Why are so many dropping out?” I asked, incredulous.

“Literature demands commitment. Passion alone isn’t enough. Sacrifice is crucial.”

I swallowed, realizing I had vastly underestimated the field. My previous assumptions—that literature was effortless, just words on paper—crumbled in the face of this revelation.

He glanced at me, his playful grin replaced with a serious gaze. “Seeing this class, full of determined writers… don’t you wonder why I was interested in you?”

The question hit me like a splash of cold water. My mind raced, trying to find the right words.

“Can I know?” I asked softly.

He walked away toward the building’s exit. “Don’t be ashamed of your own work. Give me anything you’ve written. These three weeks are intense, but they will change your writing forever.”

I hurried to keep up, realizing the truth in his words. “I thought I told you all I do is read,” I said breathlessly.

“Good. Then you’ll have to climb every step to reach my level,” he replied, disappearing into the parking lot, leaving me standing in the warm glow of the evening light.

I took a deep breath, turned, and tiptoed into the beginner’s classroom he had indicated. Every eye turned to me as I entered.

“You?” the lecturer demanded, voice slicing through the murmurs.

“Evelyn Mosa,” I replied, trying to keep my voice steady.

“You are late.”

“I… I’m sorry,” I stammered.

“Being late signals failure in this class. How will you answer the lessons I’ve already taught?”

My heart pounded. I felt trapped, exposed. This room, far larger and more intimidating than any lecture hall I had known, was filled with expectation.

“I got lost in the other class,” I admitted quietly.

“How will you manage not to get lost in writing?” she retorted sharply.

I sank into the nearest seat, my cheeks burning. The humiliation stung, but I forced myself to focus.

“By saying that, today’s introduction is concluded. Let us meet here tomorrow, God willing,” she announced. The class shuffled, and I exhaled, wishing I could vanish and reappear years later.