by Jessica Waddle.
My eyes run over my highlighted and creased schedule for the third time. The open door of room 2-4 taunts me as I peer inside, take a deep breathe and with heavy feet, have the courage to step inside.
I stare, awestruck, at the framed awards and photographs that cover every available inch of space of the off-white walls. I look at the four mismatched desks pushed against the wall in front of me, covered in handwritten goodbyes and words of wisdom from graduated seniors to future staff members.
The day where I can write on the desk as a senior and editor is almost too far away.
***
A nervous pit forms in the bottom of my stomach. My pace quickens as I walk toward the familiar doorway. I maneuver my way through small groups of staff members. Armed with my press pass, recorder, and reporter’s notebook I trek across campus, day after day, for a week.
After 6 interviews and almost 4 hours worth of notes, I find my way to a computer. My entire body goes numb as I sit in a plastic chair in front of my computer for an hour and a half. My eyes steal a quick glance at the clock. Twenty minutes until deadline. My fingers find a quicker pace as the story in my head makes its way across my computer screen.
“Aimee, will you read this?”
She takes her eyes off of the computer screen long enough to take the paper from my hands. I watch her eyes widen as she reads, a slow smile spreading across her face.
“So this is why I haven’t seen you all week,” She looks up at me. “Good job.”
As I slide my paper into the wire basket, I know that this is where I belong.
***
I move my keyboard to stare at the handwritten message that covers the middle of my desk and the forgotten coat racks above my head.
“Hey Jordan.”
“Yeah, what’s up?” She turns away from her desk to face me.
“What are we going to do when we graduate?” I ask. “This won’t be the journalism room anymore,”
We both look around the room.
“I haven’t really thought about it,” Her voice softens. “But it’s true.”
The place where I found my voice, self-esteem and my passion for writing and seeking truth will change and a new staff will establish themselves. Even though a new classroom in a new building will be the journalism room, it will never be the place I remember two years ago. I realize then, that our handwritten signatures will be painted over, erased, but the memories will never fade.
Room 2-4 is and always will be, my home away from home.
