SUMMARY: You, the star of the Blackmore University basketball team, is failing the easiest class at the university: Film Studies 101. The only person who can help you pass? Tara Carpenter, the girl who hates you no matter what you do.
PAIRING: tara carpenter x fem!reader
WARNINGS: TBD, underage drinking, smoking, mature language, mentions of verbal abuse, violence, gore, ghostface shit
A/N: been forever since i’ve written so bare w me, ok! also, i hate calculus & math in general so whatever i said abt math in here is a complete lie
Every Division One basketball team had thee player.
UCONN had Paige Bueckers, the University of Iowa had Caitlin Clark, and Blackmore University had you. You—cocky, sweet, competitive, and overwhelmingly perfect, you.
So, of course Tara Carpenter knew who you were—it was practically shoved down her throat. The countless posters of you playing basketball hung on banners around the school, or how someone would always ask about you during one of the tours she would lead as a Blackmore Student Ambassador. It was constant; what're you like? What do you do on your free time? Are you actually that hot in person?
She would put on her fake smile and count the minutes until the tour was over, reminding herself over and over again that the amount of money she was being paid for this would be worth it. New York City was not cheap.
Even at countless parties, some Film Studies 101 classes, hallway passes while you were talking with Mindy about something, or in one of the campuses cafeteria, you and Tara had never interacted before. You and Chad certainly have, though.
During your first week at Blackmore after transferring from a college in sunny California, you met the broad-shouldered boy at a frat party. Everyone was crowding around you, asking you questions about yourself and ogling at the idea of you being their college's saving grace.
Chad's lingering eyes boarder-lined on staring. Tara would make a comment or two about how obsessed he was with you. Scoffing at the way his eyes would travel from your half-up half-down hairstyle and end up targeting the small drop of sweat making its way down the left side of your neck. He knew where the droplet was going, and much like everyone else in the city, he wanted a peek as well. His twin-sister, Mindy, would hit his shoulder claiming, "Stop staring at my new friend, perv. You'll scare her away."
He would just scoff and roll his eyes, eagerly heading towards another game of beer-pong. Tara never understood the hype surrounding you... I mean, sure, you had insane biceps from the constant training, a curvy figure, borderline enchanting eyes, a great… rack and one of the only chances Blackmore had at a National Championship. But other than that, she had no idea why so many people loved you. If anything, why didn't they hate you?
You were naturally cocky both on-and-off the court, always having a sarcastic comment to add in times where silence was the best bandaid. She figured your occasional sweetness was just an act—curated by a PR team or something. Tara expected a lot from you; fakeness, bitchy-ness, and most importantly, that self-absorbed egotistical mindset athletes tended to have. But, something she never would've expected?
You were failing Film Studies 101.
The introduction course to movies and television. You were failing! In Tara's expert opinion, Film Studies 101 was literally the easiest class you could take, so how could you be failing it?
You didn't take academics very seriously, the only reason you had the desire to attend college was because of the sports opportunities within. Blackmore University was known for their basketball program, even if it hasn't won a championship since 1976. It was the college your father had attended a few decades ago and the place your mother almost attended—before getting accepted into Princeton University. The school had played a large part in your childhood: always wearing the merchandise during game days, naming an old pet after the mascot, or even having a signed jersey by one of the star players.
But you never wanted to go because it was a great school, you wanted to go because of the basketball team. Achieving your childhood dreams was a championship ring away—if you could bring the "losingest" team in the East to the Finals, everyone would want you!
But no one would want you if you weren't even on the team anymore, kicked off the roster curtesy of the potent D- on your report card. I mean, you barely showed up to class anymore.
So, you received a tutor whether you liked it or not. Your tutor? Tara Carpenter, naturally.
You knew the name Tara Carpenter, but you didn't know her. You knew she was Mindy's friend from back home, you knew she was the girl always raising her hand during class (the classes you attended, at least), and you knew she was a major film nerd. Like, major. You often saw her and Mindy arguing in one of the school's cafeterias over a new horror movie that had just been released, always ending with the raven-haired girl rolling her eyes.
But other than that, you barely knew her!
“You’re late.” She didn’t even look up from the North by Northwest screenplay in her hands as you stood in front of her corner table at a small café, a student favorite for the best coffee in a ten-block radius. “Very late.”
“I’m not that late.” You lightly scoffed before setting your school bag down on the floor next to your chair across from her. “I’m only… oh, twenty-minutes late.”
The raven-haired girl still had her gaze focused on the words in front of her, paying no mind to the elite basketball player in front of her. You cleared your throat, the slight awkwardness of the situation beginning to get to you. You were never a girl of punctuality, always either too early or way too late. In regard to things you barely cared about, you just chose to never show up. An example: Film Studies 101.
She closed the screenplay and placed it in front of her before making direct eye contact with you. You were a strong competitor, playing against the future of the industry as a hobby and a future career. But by this small interaction alone, you quickly realize there was no gaze sharper than Tara Carpenter’s. Your hands began to get clammy just by the sudden eye contact. “If I’m going to help you, don’t waste my time.”
“Got better things to do, Carpenter?” You tilted your head with ease, your small hoop earrings moving with the motion.
“Much better things.” She scoffed before looking at the blank space in front of you. “Did you bring your screenplay and notes from class?”
You furrowed your brows in confusion, “Screenplay? Notes from class?”
She sighed in disappointment and mild annoyance, “Yes. The North by Northwest screenplay we received in class last week and your notes from the previous classes.” She slammed her hand in a fit of irritation on her copy of the book. “This. Do you have this?”
You stared at her blankly before blinking down at your almost empty backpack, the Y/N Y/L next to your number in bold practically mocked you for your cluelessness and stupidity. “Uh, yeah, of course I have it with me. Take it everywhere with me because why not.” You sarcastically laughed before reaching into the space of your bag, finding the only book in there.
The North by Northwest screenplay. Thank fuck.
“Great, but you don’t have any of your notes with you, do you?”
You tilted your head with a strained smile, “I think even having the screenplay with me is a win for both of us.”
Tara took a deep breath before opening her notebook, “Okay, it’s fine. Just bring it with you next time, okay?”
“Got it.” You nodded with a small salute which would be half-charming to anyone else, but with Tara, it felt like she hated you just for existing. You’ve never had anyone outwardly hate you in person. Sure, there were some rude supporters in high school during away games but people usually loved you, idolized you even. And to be fair, you were from a small town in Maine where everyone knew everyone, but even at that point in your life you were getting national recognition for your talent.
By the time you zoned back into Tara trying to explain the ways directors utilize camera angles to evoke emotion, the hour study session was basically over—well, the forty-five minutes were over—and Tara was just annoyed and dissatisfied.
“You didn’t listen to a thing I said, didn’t you?” She leaned her chin against the palm of her propped up hand with a squint of her eyes. You shook your head, “No, no, I listened.”
“Oh, yeah?” She sat-up straighter in her chair with a small smirk. This suddenly felt like a competition. “Name three of the ways I explained how directors utilize camera angles to evoke emotion from an audience. Hell, if you can name two, I’ll buy you a coffee myself.”
“Buy me a coffee?” You giggled, “Sounds like you’re turning this into a date. Look, if you wanted me that bad, you could’ve just asked, Tara.”
She scoffed, her playful demeanor changing into a look of pure disgust, “You’re disgusting and I should’ve never taken this offer.”
Your face dropped, a sudden level of panic creeping up on you. Whether you liked it or not, you needed this. Without her, you can kiss your dreams to the league goodbye and welcome the bold D- with open arms. You needed her... yuck.“No, no, wait, I was just joking!” You leapt up as she stood up to pack her stuff away, the different array of film textbooks and analyses piling into her small book bag.
“You are exactly what I thought you would be.” She shook her head with a scoff, “Mindy told me you were different, but honestly, you are just.. gross.”
“What? I was just joking!”
“No, this is exactly how it starts.” She shook her head before putting the last of her books in her bag, throwing it over her shoulder without a bit of haste. “You stupid athletes. You joke around and then you flirt a little and then you end up thinking you have a chance with me, expecting me to what? Open my legs for you or something?”
The two of you stood in front of each other, Tara furious while you’re anxious. The rings on your fingers growing hot by every twist and fiddle. “Uh, that’s not what I’m doing at all, Tara. And, um, I like guys.”
Her shoulders sagged while her face changed to look of confusion, “You do?”
“Well, like, kind of.” You shrugged before putting your hands up in surrender, “That’s not the point, but either way, I’m not that type of person. Believe it or not, I really need this. If I don’t pass this class, they’re kicking me off the team.”
She tilted her head, “They can do that? I thought you were too talented or… whatever.”
“They have to hold some type of standard.” You glanced around you at the quiet cafe, the students around you busy preparing for upcoming projects and assignments with no care in the world for the minor argument the two of you were having upon first meeting one another. “I’m sorry. Next time I’ll show up prepared. I’ll have the screenplay, the notes, everything you need me to have, I’ll bring.”
She sighed, silently debating with herself. “You promise you’ll take this seriously? No zoning out, no missing materials, and no lateness. Got it?”
You nodded enthusiastically, throwing your pinkie between the two of you for a pinkie promise, “I promise… as long as you promise not to yell at me again.”
Tara laughed breathlessly as if it were a joke, a small smile cracking between the cold exterior she displayed beforehand until she saw your serious expression. You weren’t a fan of people yelling at you, which was a bit ironic considering the thousands of people yelling at you while you play in stadiums every Friday night. “Oh, you’re serious?”
“I would hardly consider the volume of my voice before yelling. More like, loudly expressed.”
“Promise. Yes or no? You need this tutor-ship just as much as I do. New York City isn’t cheap.” You smugly answered. The two of you had formally met not even forty-five minutes ago and the banter was already flowing. Mindy would die if she found out.
Tara rolled her eyes with a scoff, entangled her pinkie with yours in a quick promise. “Yes, I promise.”
You smiled at her before putting your screenplay back into your half-empty backpack. You heard Tara sigh before she spoke, “I’ll see you on Wednesday at three-thirty sharp. Not three-thirty one or three-thirty two. Three-thirty, okay?”
“Yes, yes, I get it.” You nod, “Three-thirty.”
“Great.” She nodded back as well, her lips tense in the sudden change of slight awkwardness that occurs when you have to say goodbye to someone you barely know. “I’ll see you soon, then.”
“Yep, bye, Tara.” And just like that, the two of you separated paths as you lived on the other end of the campus. When you get back to your small dorm, the poster of Spiderman and a few post-cards from your mother stare back at you blankly. You throw your bag down next to your clattered desk, a desk overwhelmed with extra math problems you do for fun.
Yes, for fun. Because even if Tara Carpenter thinks you’re dumber than a fucking rock, doesn’t mean you actually are. You find the fun in math equations, where everything has a set answer and a set of rules to follow. Film, however, didn’t have a few set rules, no, it’s an art where creativity has no barriers. You could just never understand it—the power of filmmaking and real cinema.
So, instead, you confided creativity—literally.
You kept the screenplay in your bookbag until Wednesday, the day you had to be tutored by Tara Carpenter. Again.
And you, of course, arrived fifteen minutes late. Again.
ellievsbear
snowghoul
gummygunk
areudirty
germansingergirl
vaporwave
