Several days full of missions and other annoying distractions passed before John was finally able to get back to reading the journal entries. He made sure his door was locked and that he had cleared his schedule of anything before settling back on his bed and opening the files to scan for the next installment.
Okay, I am officially disappointed in this school. First, they require you to take courses that have nothing to do with anything important, and then, for the courses that might actually do you some good, they hire incompetent fools to teach it. Okay, so maybe I shouldn't have insulted him, but really. We aren't third graders. We all know what atoms are.
I think I'm going to put in an official complaint. No, I know I'm going to put in an official complaint. Maybe I can get transferred to Dr. Horton's class instead. He's not the best out there, but I respect the papers he's done. And anyone has to be better than Mister Garden. Garden. What kind of name is that? How can anyone take someone with a last name like that seriously
Rolling his eyes, John very quickly skimmed down the page, then several more before the rant finally ended. Leave it to McKay…
No homework from the physics class from hell. Not that it would have bothered me, I could have breezed through it no problem. Maybe it's because I'm going to an American college. I knew I should have held out for Paris. Oh well. Gotta go…next class is technical writing. Not really interesting, but definitely necessary.
You know what they told me? The dean and the councilors? They said that these classes were undergraduate level, and so yes, if I were that intelligent I would probably be bored with them. (I had told them all about my IQ you see…and they already know about some of my…experiments) However, apparently I should "see that others are not so fortunate as I and need to work at a slower pace. Once classes get started, it should pick up a little better."
So, I'm supposed to sit here and suffer while people who are dumb get to have every one of their needs catered to? That's unacceptable. But I can't get a transfer. I know, because I've already checked into it. And I still haven't done those couplets.
I've got that poetry class again tomorrow. Three days a week, can you believe it? So anyway I guess I'd better do that now.
Her name is Eliza. The girl in the group I was assigned to for this totally pointless class. I don't usually care about things like that—girls, in my opinion, are just new ways to get off track. And I certainly don't need that right now. To get off track. Where was I again? Right. I was going to say that her name is Eliza. A pretty blond little thing. I don't like blonds either. They're usually ditzy and totally unreliable. But she's not. Eliza. I mean…even though she isn't a scientist or even very scientifically inclined…she's incredibly intelligent.
She has this thing about her. She's so calm. And nice. She's very nice. Even to the two stoners. She brings them in to the discussion. They actually write good poetry, if I go by what the professor says is any indication of the fact. She actually speaks to me like I'm important. A friend.
Eliza. It's so…British sounding. But she's not. British. She's totally American. From the deep south apparently. She's got a voice coach who's teaching her to modulate her voice so that honeyed accent doesn't show through as much as she said it did when she was younger.
She doesn't know what she wants to be. Has no clue what she's majoring in, she just wants to do something that can help people. She also thinks my name is James. Okay, so it wasn't the complete truth…but Rodney is such an awkward sounding name. James is…cool. You know, like James Bond. James Kirk. It's my middle name. Or it would have been had I named myself. Of course, then my first name would have been Ivan. Ivan James. Or maybe the other way around. James Ivan. I don't actually have a middle name, so making one up isn't totally bad. Is it?
She's got green eyes. I've never been an eye person. But hers are green. I know, because I had to spend most of the class staring into them. It was for an assignment, but I didn't mind, not really. We then had to describe them. Without saying "they're green and very shiny, especially when she smiles just like that." In fact, we couldn't use any other facial features in the description.
She's much better at this than I am. For instance, I wrote "Pools of deep moss." Seriously, that's all I could think of. She wrote "The color of the gulf when the sun hits it just right, a sort of turquoise but not quite as bright." Wow. I have no clue what that means, but it was beautiful. It's getting late and I have to go through this poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson and point out all the metaphors and then say what they're metaphor's for. Joy for me.
Now this was 'gold'. A slow grin formed on John's face as he set the journal aside for another time, because once more the younger Rodney had decided to go on a rambling rant about metaphors of all things. Still, he now knew something about who that poem was written for. And that Rodney was rather poetic, even if he pretended like he wasn't.