Chapter Text
Though it was already dark outside for Rowan and had been for a while, Anne Jamison’s virtual face was illuminated by natural daylight. Despite fully expecting it, they still found it rather disconcerting to talk in real-time with someone casually enjoying their cup of morning coffee while they, themselves, were sitting in almost pitch-black darkness.
The darkness, of course, was only partially caused by the late hour: in order to not blind professor Jamison, Rowan had turned off all the lights in their bedroom except for the light of their phone and tablet. In hindsight, it might not have been their smartest decision - the little frame in the corner of their screen showed they were barely visible to the camera.
Well, so be it. Professor Jamison didn’t need to see them to answer their questions, after all.
There was no doubt whether she could . Professor Jamison was one of the leading experts in the world on the topic of fanfiction. Rowan could barely comprehend that their group had actually managed to secure an interview with her. For a moment, they wondered if Aidan was feeling the same excited anxiety as them, or if she was being her usual calm and collected self. The small figure on their screen next to their own wasn’t big enough for Rowan to attempt to analyse their friend’s body language.
For some reason, Jamison looked distinctly different from what they expected, though her appearance wasn’t anything unusual or out of the ordinary: a kind, wrinkled face, framed with (probably dyed) curly red hair, glasses perched on her nose and intelligent, friendly eyes. Professor Jamison looked exactly like they’d expect an esteemed university professor to look. Perhaps it was her field of study that had caused the disconnect in their mind - part of them had expected her to be at least twenty years younger than she likely was.
Their surprise at her appearance was quickly pushed aside when the professor started talking.
The voice with which she introduced herself was calm and clear - it kind of reminded them of those experts in documentaries.
“So, what is your project about, exactly? And you said it’s for school?”
“A school research project, yes”, Rowan answered - perhaps too eagerly. “In our school, it is mandatory for every student to do a research project in groups in their last years. We chose to do our project about fanfiction.”
Jamison hummed - approvingly, hopefully - which they took as a sign to continue.
“See, we contacted you, because our research question is: “To which extent can fanfiction be considered to be a literary movement?”, and a couple of years ago, you wrote this book…”
“You mean Fic ?”
“Yes! Exactly, that one. You could be considered quite the expert on this subject, so therefore we decided to contact you. Thank you for speaking with us, by the way.”
Jamison chuckled. “It’s no problem, really. I always love to help young people like you, especially when you’re actually interested in what I am teaching. Could you tell me a bit more about your project?”
“Well, we have to do it in groups of four - unfortunately, two members of our group couldn’t make it today, so you’ll only be speaking with us - and we have to work on it from June to December.”
“And you chose this topic yourselves?”
“We did. We were mostly free to choose whatever topic we wanted, and we thought fanfiction would be an original and interesting topic to write about.”
It seemed like the professor was about to ask another question, but she was - rudely - interrupted by a black-and-white demonic blur, which, upon closer inspection, turned out to be a small dog.
In between the dog’s loud barks and her own chuckles, the newly appointed dog-seat managed to apologize. “She’s sick,” she said, by way of explanation, “she has a puppy sickness. That’s why she’s being extra clingy today.” Rowan made a soft sound that hopefully conveyed acceptable levels of understanding and sympathy. It seems it did, as Jamison continued, “She got a puppy sickness from her daycare, so for now she’ll be helping with the Zoom call. Right, baby?”
The sight of the worried professor desperately trying to contain her - apparently sick - puppy in her arms while also balancing her laptop on her legs and somehow not spilling her coffee reminded Rowan of the interview they were supposed to be conducting.
“Right, so, anyways, Ms. Jamison, we had a few questions for you.”
Distracted, she looked up. “Yes, of course! Ask away.”
The clock on their desk read 18:00 when Rowan started the voice recorder.