Chapter Text
And I, I've been running all my life
And I could go for miles and miles and miles
I could go for miles and miles and miles
And I could keep on telling lies
- Falling apart, Léon
The bright light of the rising sun shone through the windows of the bedroom of Bradley Jackson's small apartment, right into her face. The light woke her up: with furrowed eyebrows and a dry mouth she opened her eyes. Puzzled, she looked around. She was in her familiar bed, her hair scattered on her pillow, but could not remember how she had gotten there. This time it wasn't because of alcohol - if only.
Her godforsaken brother had gotten himself into a mess once again, and it had taken so much of her energy that she remembered little of it. She was starting to wonder if she would have to clean up his shit forever. However, that was a matter of later concern.
For now, she grabbed her phone from under her pillow and looked at the messages she didn't have time for the other day. It wasn't much really, just some plaintive apps from her friends about the new uni timetable.
That was true - this week the new semester started. She better didn't have a class this morning, because then she'd have a problem. The first lecture she spotted was in fact today, though luckily only in three hours: Art Criticism. She’d chosen the course a while ago; it wasn’t in her actual study program, but in the last few years she’d found herself interested in writing about art specifically.
Suddenly, a notification from yesterday caught her eye: 'Assignment 1 due date approaching.' Lazily she tapped on the bar, and then saw what the date actually was: October 1st. Was it- ?
Oh. Fuck.
Somehow, with all the events of the weekend, she’d completely overseen it. An introduction assignment for her new course, art criticism, that, to be precise, had to contain 800 words. It wasn’t that big of a deal, if only the deadline hadn’t been at 11 o’clock this exact morning.
She groaned - she was never one to ask for delay or to interact with professors more than necessary.
But now.. would she? She could either exaggerate or understate the past couple of days, but either way it was enough reason to get her some delay.
She got out of bed and shivered a bit at the lack of warmth around her bare legs. She didn’t really care though; it was time to set up a new email. The blank space after ‘topic:’ stared right at her.
She groaned again. Although she wasn’t a people pleaser - far from, actually - she did find it important to have her shit together.
Or at least, come across as though she did.
And to have the first interaction with this course, with this professor, be so unprofessional… It bothered her.
Her fingers wavered above the keyboard of her much-used but treasured laptop as she sighed one last time - and then started typing. Topic: Delay for the assignment of October 1st. Message: Dear Dr …
Wait, what was the name of this guy? She squinted through all her opened tabs to find the course manual. Ah, there it was. Dr Peterson.
She couldn’t remember having had any courses from him yet, but dear god she hoped he was at least slightly agreeable.
‘Dear Dr Peterson, my name is Bradley Jackson and I am in your course Art Criticism that starts today, October 1st. I am sorry to tell you that I overlooked today's deadline. Although I am aware that this request is very last minute, I (unfortunately) have good reasons. They read as follows: ..’
She cringed at her own words. How could she tell this professor her brother overdosed and her mother ignored her calls as well as her voicemails - and then sit through a 4 month course trying to act unbothered as fuck? Well, she wasn’t one for drama, that at least she knew. So she decided just to say what happened:
‘My brother overdosed and had no one else to take care of him. See proof of his medical admission attached. If possible, I’d like to hand in the assignment in three days. Thank you for understanding.’
She looked at the email. “xoxo bitter Bradley” she mumbled, but instead wrote down a proper closing.
‘Send message.’
Well, there wasn’t any going back now. Then she noticed the time.
Half past ten. If she couldn’t be in time for the deadline, she could at least try to be in time for the lecture itself.
Hurriedly she brushed her hair out of her face, in an attempt to get the wavy mess under control. Last summer she’d gotten highlights in her auburn hair; she hated it now.
She slipped into her washed out jeans and threw a corduroy blazer over her tank top. Keys, money, some deodorant and her laptop - it was all she needed for now.
On the way on the bus, she was relieved to find her earphones in the inside pocket of her dark brown leather jacket - maybe music could still save the day.
With Fiona Apple's words echoing through her head, the events of the past two days involuntarily emerged before her eyes.
“Heaven help me for the way I am”, Fiona sang. Hal had said something just like it the other day.
The picture of his fucked up arms wouldn’t leave her mind; she had always known he used something, every now and then, but seeing him like that made her realize that he wasn’t just somewhat of a user; he was an actual addict.
She wanted to beat herself up for having failed to keep him on the right track.
Some ten years ago she’d had an abortion - obviously, because she was only fifteen and not ready for being a mother.
But it wasn’t because she wouldn’t be capable of raising it - she’d been raising her little brother all her life. Their father had been absent since forever, and their mother was just always… busy with processing his absence. Which, in the end, made her absent as well. Sandy Jackson wouldn’t hear any of that though. The same way she wouldn’t hear Bradley’s calls the last couple of days.
Bradley herself had been working, while mid shift, her boss suddenly had beckoned her with a serious look in his eyes and his phone in his hand. She had thrown her apron aside and had grabbed the first cab to the hospital. There she’d mostly been the rest of the weekend.
Being completely lost in thought, she’d almost missed the right stop. There it was, the old, official Faculty of Arts building.
As she rushed through the now all too familiar halls, she quickly decided to rush to her favorite little coffee corner. She was determined to get a coffee before entering the lecture; by hurrying now, she could walk to the lecture hall slightly relaxed without dropping her coffee (she’d been there a few times, unfortunately).
With a strongly brewed coffee in her left hand and her phone in her right, she entered the hall. There were around then people in, and, where she’d expected to find her professor, a raven-haired woman was standing. Oh.
She quickly checked her timetable again; she must’ve mistaken the room number. She checked the lecture hall again - it was the right one, actually.
Then, her mouth fell slightly open. Oh.
When on earth had she decided that her professor, the one that she’d never even seen before, had to be an old man?
She stared at the woman standing in front of the lecture hall - was this Dr Peterson?
Bradley stood dumbfounded; first of all because the woman was, excuse her, incredibly fucking beautiful, but most of all because Bradley had just assumed her professor would be a man.
So much for fighting sexism, she thought, suppressing a laugh at her own slip up.
Just to be completely sure, she tapped a tall young man on his shoulder and asked him, "Am I in the right place for art criticism?" "You certainly are!" he replied, more cheerful than most were on the first day of the new semester. “How did assignment 1 go?”, he then continued, “Interesting right?' “Mm yes, it was okay-” she vaguely replied, her eyes scanning the space.
No offense to this guy, but she already decided she wasn’t going to be sitting next to him. Just a bit too cheery.
“Alright guys!”, a bright, low voice sounded. Saved by the … Peterson, Bradley blankly thought.
“Welcome to Art Criticism, if you’ll all take a seat we can get right into it.”