Another voice spoke up suddenly. “Good evening, my children. And welcome to Creative Writing. I believe this is the beginner’s class, although I dare say you look long past the beginner stage. But then everyone deserves a chance to be creative, I suppose.”
The words came from a grand madame who stood no more than five feet tall. Regardless of her petite size, the woman carried herself with the posture of a prima ballerina. She looked as if she might lift en pointe at any moment. Her distinct perfume declared that she wasn’t a proponent of the “no fragrance” policies that had sprung up all over Seattle these days. Monica was positive that a hint of Shalimar had entered the room several seconds before its wearer arrived. The septuagenarian’s voice purred like a regal beast as she addressed the class of spellbound students. “I am Ms. Tisha, and I shall be your guide for the next eight weeks.”
She was wrapped in layers of fabric and volumes of pattern and color. It was like her clothes had been constructed in a jellybean factory and she hadn’t been able to decide on the flavor of the day, so she’d chosen them all. Fiery reds competed with rich purple, fluorescent green, and an array of psychedelic paisleys and exotic batiks. A white and bubblegum-pink turban with an onyx jewel in the center wrapped her head. Monica was so taken with this strange creature that she failed to realize Ms. Tisha was calling on her.
“Hellooooo. You there, Miss Prude and Proper. Why are you here?” The teacher pointed at Monica’s nose with her crimson fingernail.
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