Black Number Four Read Online Free PDF

thermos in the other. He plops the bag down on his desk and turns to write on the white board just as Skyler comes through the door. She’s alone, and for some reason I think it bothers her. She doesn’t look as confident as she did last night. Her ocean eyes scan the room and when they land on me, a small smirk curls on her lips and she walks my direction.
    She’s dressed in a yellow sundress and tall shoes that aren’t quite high heels. My ex back home called them wedges, I think. It’s surprising to me that she’s in a dress, I didn’t take her for that kind of girl. She’s even got pearls on and her hair is slightly curled. But, as she strides toward me, her hips swaying slightly, I notice the uncomfortable way she’s carrying herself. It makes me long for the girl in the distressed jeans and hoodie that I met last night. Seeing the yellow against her skin, I realize she’s tanner than I remember, which makes me wonder if my theory of her being a surfer is accurate. Who is tan in January?
    “Where’s mine?” she asks, sliding into the desk next to me.
    I follow her gaze to my coffee cup and smile. “Sorry, they didn’t have tequila. I checked.”
    “Damn them.” She sighs. “I need to run for Student Council so I can change that.” She offers a wink just as the professor claps his hands together and we both turn to the front.
    “Why do we write?” he asks, holding his arms out wide to the class. “Why do we put pen to paper or fingers to keys and make words into sentences into stories? What is the purpose?”
    “So other people will read what we write,” a girl calls out from the back. The professor moves toward her a bit, seeming to take in her analysis, just as the kid sitting in front of me passes back a stack of syllabi and I take one and pass them on to Skyler. Glancing down, I see the professor’s name in bold under the class subject.
    Dr. O’Neal.
    He’s a quirky looking son of a bitch. Tall, lean, his facial hair growing in a little unruly against his ashen skin. He has dark eyes that seem to move a little too quickly and his brown hair is dotted with specs of gray that look a little more dyed than natural. He’s wearing a bow tie, which usually I approve of, but it seems like he did it just to be defiant against regular ties rather than to make a fashion statement.
    “Yes, I suppose that’s the end result that we expect – someone to read our work. But, is that why we write?” His eyes move across the class, questioning.
    Someone else calls out, “I guess maybe because we’re creative and need a creative outlet?”
    Dr. O’Neal nods again. “Ah, creativity. I would say that is one of the qualities we possess that perhaps drives our writing, but is that why we write? Is the creativity burning within us or within artists or musicians the reason why we do what we do?”
    The class is silent again, and I glance over at Skyler. She’s fidgeting, her left foot bouncing a little and her pencil rolling between her fingers. I can’t tell if it’s because she wants to say something or because she’s insanely bored. I turn back toward Dr. O’Neal and raise my hand.
    “I guess I can’t speak for everyone in here, but I write for a purpose – a purpose that changes each time. Sometimes it’s to evoke laughter, sometimes to make people think, sometimes to bring a feeling to life like romance or pain, and always – no matter what the topic – to entertain.”
    Dr. O’Neal’s mouth twitches into a smile that falls a little too quickly and he points the dry erase marker in his hand toward me. “That, ladies and gentlemen, is an example of a reason to write. By the end of this semester, I hope you’ll all be able to answer as confidently as this young man.” He turns back toward the board and starts detailing the lesson plan for the semester, covering the grade breakdown and attendance policy along with what we can expect in class.
    “You kind of have this all figured out,