I turn on the kettle for the cup of peppermint tea I make before every class. My laptop is on and mostly ready. While I wait for the water to boil I open up the zoom app, click join a meeting, then I type in the meeting ID that I wrote down on a post-it stuck to the shelf above my desk.

Classmates trickle in. The details of their lives linger on walls behind them. Elliot is waiting for the class to start, trying to scan over a reading and his eyes are darting across the screen from left to right to left to right to left again.

Our professor, Mr. Santogrosso, is the 5^th person to enter the meeting, and according to him, everyone that comes in after is considered late.

“Hi guys, how is everyone doing?” he asks us. We all awkwardly smile for fear of talking over each other. “Looks like almost everyone is in here,” he mumbles to no one in particular. Mr. Santogrosso is in what appears to be his bedroom or a bedroom? No, his. I doubt he lives in a place with more than one bedroom, probably just a pull out sofa in the living room for the occasional guest. His eyes are deep and reflective like clouds in a pool on sunny day, and if I look at them to long I’m sure I might fall in. The wall behind him is painted red but most of it is covered with black and white photos of what I assume is his family, but it all looks like a bloody battle field to me.

“I can’t see all of you, can everyone please switch their video on?” says Mr. S.

“Excuse me sir, but I can’t turn my video on because we just had a huge storm that cut the power, so now I’m on my phone using my data and it’s super slow with video,” Matthew-John says. Arg, he’s the worst. When class was still in person he’d always show up late, most seats already full, and then sit next to me, like RIGHT NEXT TO ME—as if I’d want that negative energy near me—no thanks! The air was suffocating between us, as was I. His dark curls would bounce around his head every time he turned to me and said, hey can I borrow your scissors? I left mine at home. Seriously? Do you even own scissors MJ?? I think not. It’s fine; I kept a spare pair for that exact reason. I’d simply throw him an exaggerated smile as I handed them over, because if you don’t have something nice to say…

A little red circle pops up at the bottom of my screen. I click it, and the window on the right is formed. It’s a message from Jamie. We met in this class and got on like a house on fire from day 1 and she’s basically been my best friend ever since.

Jamie has a twin brother Jesse, who is also in this class because they do everything together—they even have a insta account dedicated to their stylish matching outfits.

From Jamie Newburn to Me: (Privately)

I thought MJ would be less annoying over Zoom.

From Me to Jamie Newburn: (Privately)

nope, he’s literally the same (insert eye roll emoji)

From Me to Jamie Newburn: (Privately)

how is this class even gonna work? no more listening to paper I guess

In person we spent classes weaving needles and book thread through the spines of pages and even writing about what paper sounds like; what emotions it evokes. The only sound we could make was by folding and bending our A4 sheet, capturing the experience.

From Jamie Newburn to Me: (Privately)

Thank god

From Me to Jamie Newburn: (Privately)

i’ve taken up painting (currently working on eucalyptus leaves) but i don’t think i can maintain this every week

From Jamie Newburn to Me: (Privately)

We could make a drinking game

From Me to Jamie Newburn: (Privately)

this just got interesting…do people do/talk enough for us to make a game of it?

From Jamie Newburn to Me: (Privately)

Every time someone forgets to un-mute

From Jamie Newburn to Me: (Privately)

Every time someone can’t figure out how to screen share

From Me to Jamie Newburn: (Privately)

every time no one answers mr. s except mj

From Jamie Newburn to Me: (Privately)

That’s a drink twice suggestion

From Me to Jamie Newburn: (Privately)

done. every time someone walks into the background

From Jamie Newburn to Me: (Privately)

And you have to down whatever’s in your cup when someone introduces their pet

From Me to Jamie Newburn: (Privately)

when mr. s asks us to un-mute or turn our video on

From Me to Jamie Newburn: (Privately)

when someone says stay safe or stay healthy

From Jamie Newburn to Me: (Privately)

Drink twice when Mr. S says there’s a guest coming next week, please prepare questions

From Me to Jamie Newburn: (Privately)

the rules of the game have been solidified. here’s to getting tipsy in class every week

From Jamie Newburn to Me: (Privately)

I knew I liked you

I don’t usually drink alcohol at home since I’m more of a social drinker, but this is social, right? With the commotion and panic of being forced to stay indoors as much as possible, I became a little wild and bought things I wouldn’t usually buy, like batteries and booze. 24 cans of Yuengling golden pilsners are stacked in a pyramid on the floor in the living room between my desk and the window.

Mr. S has been talking about lord knows what, for lord knows how long.

“These poets and other writers sought a renewal of language from its very roots, and proclaimed their undeniable right to word creation,” he says.

“Their right to word creation?” someone asks.

“Yes, they wanted to restore its primordial purity. Think about all of the clichés we use when we speak or write. Can anyone give me an example?”

Blank stares fill the screen. No one even has the audacity to turn and look away or pretend to be thinking about clichés. Read between the lines Mr. S, no one wants to participate.

“Guys, seriously? None of you know clichés? Come on.”

MJ’s voice comes blasting out of darkness and—just as quickly—the yellow spotlight directs the class’ attention to him.

“Looks like someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed,” he says.

“Excuse me?”

“The cliché, sir. Looks like someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed, is a cliché.”

From Jamie Newburn to Me: (Privately)

I saw that drinking

From Me to Jamie Newburn: (Privately)

heck yeah! I had to refill my “tea”

“Oh, yes, yes, you’re quite right MJ, thank you. Any others?” asks Mr. S, and I’m sure he’s staring at me, but there’s really no way of knowing.

“Every cloud has a silver lining.”

“Wonderful, London!”

London is great and also the worst. She’s small with frizzy blonde hair and talks like she’s 12 and giggles at almost everything. At the start of the semester she sent me the link to a 17 piece book binding kit on amazon (very grateful), which is having a fat snooze in the bottom drawer of my desk and maybe I’ll take it out again, but probably not.

“Think back to the first time you heard that being said. It painted a picture for you, created an image, but now because it’s been so over used it means close to nothing.”

“Okay, but what’s the solution? How do you revert a cliché back to its original meaning?” asks Nora.

“Well, it won’t happen over night of course, but choosing words became a very methodical process of understanding its true meaning and using it in that context.”

“Xavier, are you trying to say something?” says Mr. S.

Xavier’s lips are dancing with each other, creating little waves that reveal his off white teeth. “Yes, sorry, I forgot I was on mute. Won’t that be confusing to understand what exactly is being meant?”

Jamie takes a sip from her ex boyfriend’s mug. Usually it’s all black, but when you add hot water the corporate branding is revealed underneath. It’s rather ugly. I take more than a sip this time because I’m very thirsty.

“Sure, at first it will, but word meanings change over time. It’s not impossible. The Russian poets didn’t want all of their work to be influenced or lead by Westerners, and so instead they went looking for their own meaning to renew language.”

“Will comprehension of words then only come from a socio-historical context?” asks Nora.

“I was wondering the same thing,” says MJ. As if. I doubt you even understand her question.

“The word nice meant foolish at some point and now it means, well, nice. It has more of a positive connotation, but if it were changed back to mean foolish, who would get on board? No one.” Xavier says.

“But doesn’t your example also serve the point that words can be changed? Going from foolish to pleasant is a rather significant linguistic jump, don’t you think?”

What is the point of this? The further back you go, the bigger role language will play and even then, meaning will inevitably get lost in translation. Communication is constantly changing form, so let’s just leave the poets to do their thang and write what they wanna write.

“Okay everyone it’s 5:40p.m., so we’re just about half way. Why don’t we take a 15-minute break and come back around 5:55p.m. then we can go through some presentations and then the readings. Sound good?” he asks.

“Yes!” says MJ.

“And if this is something you want to keep discussing later, we can make time for it at the end of another class. Just shoot me an email.”

Jamie and I both drink up before everyone’s screens turn black and their names take the place of their faces. I click on the video and audio button and as I stand up I feel my head get a little lighter and my legs a little wobbly.

“Oy vey,” I say out loud as I head to the kitchen to find something to snack on. My roommate hears me rummaging and pops her head out of her door.

“Are you in class right now?” she mouths to me, but it comes out as a loud whisper.

“No, I’m not,” I say, “well, I am, but we’re on a break right now.” She stands in the doorway leaning against the wall as I pull out a pack of blueberries from my shelf in the fridge.

“What class do you have?”

“My book making class.”

“Oh, is that the one with the hot professor?”

“Yes! He’s gorgeous; I could eat salted caramel off of him. It’s a shame he’s incredibly dull.”

She laughs as I walk past her and back to my desk.

I have 7 chat messages when I look at zoom again.

From Jamie Newburn to Me: (Privately)

KHAMICA!!

From Jamie Newburn to Me: (Privately)

I can hear you… you’re not on mute.

From Jamie Newburn to Me: (Privately)

Hello???

From Jesse Newburn to Me: (Privately)

Hi Mica, I think you forgot to mute yourself…

From London Mattheson to Everyone:

Hey girl, hey! I didn’t know you had the hots for Mr. S?? Who knew?

From London Mattheson to Everyone:

Uhhh… just ignore that last message.

“No, no, no, nooo,” I turn my mic on mute. Please tell me he didn’t hear that, please God, do your thang, and erase that conversation from his memory. Maybe he was on the toilet, or in the kitchen. I wouldn’t be opposed to you just opening up the ground or sky or whatever you can open and allowing it to swallow me whole.

I down a beer, and add the empty can to the growing pile on my desk.

From Me to Jamie Newburn: (Privately)

I’m an idiot!

The rectangles become colourful again and as much as I don’t want to turn my video back on, it would draw more attention to me with it off. I stuff a handful of blueberries in my mouth then check my teeth for its skin. Click. There you go everyone, see my shameful crimson-ish face! I lean to the side and fill my mug back up with more beer and take a few sips.

“Now that we’re all back and refreshed, let’s continue,” says Mr. S.

From Jamie Newburn to Me: (Privately)

Maybe he didn’t hear you… or read the chat?

From Me to Jamie Newburn: (Privately)

and of course this is the day of my presentation. can things get any worse?

“Can I start Mr. S?” asks Elliot.

“Sure, that would be great, thank you.”

“So the artist’s book I found is titled Wild Wood by Helen Douglas. It’s a visual narrative of a series of images of trees from different angles…”

Jesse is moving around in his little box, shifting uncomfortably, distracting me from Elliot, although that isn’t very hard to do.

From Me to Jamie Newburn: (Privately)

what’s up with your brother?

From Jamie Newburn to Me: (Privately)

Who knows?

He leans down and his head has vanished from my view. When he comes back up, nothing has changed.

From Me to Jesse Newburn: (Privately)

you alright?

From Jesse Newburn to Me: (Privately)

Um, yeah, it’s just Clem. She’s been super clingy lately.

From Me to Jamie Newburn: (Privately)

it’s clementine. she better not show her face!

From Jamie Newburn to Me: (Privately)

Dang it, my cup is empty

From Me to Jamie Newburn: (Privately)

you better fill it up just in case

Elliot continues talking and his voice is white noise that I contemplate recording on my phone so I can play it just before bed and pass out like I’m dead. That’s rude Mica, focus! Clementine pops up right into Jesse’s screen, and she rubs her head against his chest, and London let’s out a scream, which seems fake because she had the time to unmute herself.

Jamie and I both take big gulps of our beer as Jesse speaks up in response to London’s scream, and introduces Clementine—a 9ft sunglow boa constrictor; I kid you not—to the class.

“Ewww, put it away!”

“She’s literally just on your screen London, she can’t touch you. Calm down,” I say. Her jaw drops and her mouth is almost as wide as Clementine’s at supper.

“Okay, now that’s enough. Mica, since you’re so chatty today, will you share next?”

Haven’t I shared enough already, Mr. S?

“Sure,” I say.

“The book I chose is called Grave Plots by Mark Fischer. It starts off by giving a small introduction to American funeral customs, then the advertisements of people selling their (or that of a family members) grave plots. I was surprised to see how expensive grave plots can get and also how willing people are to trade one in for a vehicle.”

“Sounds a little dull, Mica,” says Mr. S.

“Excuse me?”

“So the book is just made up of craigslist ads?” he says.

“Yes, for grave plots.” I see inaudible laughs and my classmates look a little demented.

 “What’s up with the vehicles?” asks Nora.

“No clue. Everyone wants to be in an urn and not the dirt but they’ve already bought the plots, so why not sell them? And if you don’t have money, then heck, just give me your car!” I say.

Nora laughs. She’s audible.

“I have a couple of plots,” says MJ. Of course you would.

“Do we even want to know why?” I ask.

“Got them as a Christmas present from my grandparents because they didn’t want them anymore.”

No one says anything. What do you say to that? Why is your family so weird Matthew-John?

“Great, thank you Mica,” he smiles when he says my name and I try not to read too much into it, but I do, “and uh thanks MJ for that.”

“London, could you share with the class?”

“Of course, Mr. S!”

From Me to Jamie Newburn: (Privately)

Shoot

From Jamie Newburn to Me: (Privately)

Well at least that’s cleared up. He definitely heard you…

From Me to Jamie Newburn: (Privately)

yeah, no kidding.

From Jamie Newburn to Me: (Privately)

It’s not a big deal Mica, just drink your tea

London and I were together when we bought our books at Printed Matter. I turn the volume almost all the way down because I can’t be bothered listening to her voice. I forget who her book is by, but it gives you activities to do like digging a hole in the sand, placing an imaginary rock in the hole, then covering it back up. So silly.

I’ve done it a few times though, and my apartment is filled with hidden imaginary treasures.

 “London, I’m going to stop you right there. We’re running out of time,” says Mr. S, “I know we didn’t get a chance to go over the readings today, but please make sure you read them for next week and prepare questions because I’ve asked Simon Cutts to join us in the first 40 minutes of class and he so kindly agreed.”

Me and Jamie raise our mugs slightly to each other, give them a blow then chug, and we’re losing count because MJ and London are speaking over each other, telling us to be safe everyone and remember to stay inside as much as possible, and my eyes are closed as I wave goodbye to everyone and shut my laptop, and I don’t know what counts as a sip anymore so I finish what’s left in my mug, and put it down next to the 6 empty cans lined up like soldiers on my desk even though I don’t usually drink alcohol at home since I’m more of a social drinker, but this is social, right?