by M. Billiter
“Actually.” I stood and found my footing, both figuratively in the classroom and literally with the rant I felt coming. “I’m kind of shocked that more students aren’t here with me. I mean, you really leave us no choice. We can’t be late, and if we are, you lock us out of the classroom. And then when we’re locked out, we can’t turn in our assignments. How fucked up is that?”
Nigel remained calm and collected, as if I were reciting the periodic table and not tearing him a new asshole.
“And for the record”—I raised my index finger—“keeping an eye on us in the hallway is just weird. If anyone needs the Depression Center, it’s you.”
I brushed the sweat from my hands on the side of my jeans, leaving behind two dark prints. “I’d rather take my chances with the dean of students or president or whoever the hell I’m sent to than have to jump through anymore of your hoops. I thought you were actually being cool with all that talk about how great I’ve done with my mental illness….”
My mental illness was something I shared with strangers at a frat party because they were so drunk I doubted they’d remember. And even if they did, they didn’t matter to me. But schizoaffective was a part of myself that I didn’t disclose to teachers or anyone who was in a position to use it against me—because over time they would.
“Whatever.” I shook my head. “You weren’t being cool, you were just playing another one of your mind games. Freak.”
Nigel returned his attention to gathering the papers off the floor as if my outburst was nothing.
I scoffed and turned toward the door. “I don’t need this. I don’t care what you do to me. I won’t let anyone mess with my mind again.”
He cupped his knees and stood. It was something my old man did. And I always popped up from a kneeling position whenever he did it, like a reminder that youth was on my side. I would’ve done the same thing to Nigel, but I was already standing.
I grabbed the handle and the door swung open more quickly than I anticipated, almost knocking me in the face.
“Mr. Kovak.”
“What?” My tone was terse.
“I lock the door after class begins as a safeguard. Campus security and student safety—your safety—is a top priority for me.” He leaned against the front table and went quiet for a minute. When he spoke again, his voice was different, softer. “I was teaching right here in this classroom.” He tapped his finger on the table. “I was right here when it happened.”
“What happened?” I still didn’t care how my tone came off, though it seemed to have lost a slight bit of the edge it had before.
“My dear, dear friend and colleague Dr. Kincaid was killed by his daughter.” Nigel started twisting the ring on his finger. It looked painful, but I understood. Sometimes physical pain was easier to deal with.
“Dr. Kincaid and I went to grad school together.”
I remembered the story. I was in the mental ward of the hospital when it happened, but the headline was unforgettable. “Daughter Kills Father” was plastered on every newspaper and shown on every cable channel. It was like some Greek tragedy, only it really happened—and in Casper, Wyoming, no less.
“It was fall, so when Dottie—that was his daughter—showed up on campus with a compound bow, no one thought otherwise.”
Hunting. It was the one part of the forest service I hated, enforcing hunting regulations. It’d just be easier if hunting was eliminated. Hell, if wild animals like the gray wolf and grizzly bear were as fiercely protected as Wyoming’s right to bear arms, they wouldn’t be endangered and a father would still be alive. But this was Wyoming. Owning a gun, weapon, or compound bow was tantamount to manhood. Or in this case womanhood.
“I didn’t see it happen, but students told me,” he said. “Dottie walked into the classroom, drew back the bowstring, and fired an arrow.” The memory of the event was etched on his face. “And then she shot another arrow, and another.”
“I can’t imagine,” I said truthfully.
“It was pure chaos. Students ran past my classroom screaming and crying. I didn’t know what happened. I thought maybe someone got sick. You know, sometimes the nursing students get sick during dissection labs.” He looked at me, a plea for understanding filling his eyes. “I didn’t know. How could I?”
He stared at me, waiting for an answer, but there wasn’t one.
“Jesus” was all I said.
“I managed to stop a student, and that’s when I heard.” He cupped the back of his neck as if cradling the grim memory. “I ran to Bryan’s classroom, but she had locked the door. She locked herself inside with him, with her father. He couldn’t get out, and no one could get in.”
“Damn.”
“By the time the police arrived, well”—his voice dropped—“it was too late. They were both dead.”
Nigel dropped his hand and slightly tilted his head. “There was speculation that Dottie suffered from Asperger's, but that’s all it was, speculation. I do know that she suffered horribly from depression. Bryan often spoke about the treatment centers she went to for her depression.”
Oh, I get it. “Is that why you want me to go to the Depression Center, because you’re afraid I’m gonna go all postal on you?”
He waved his hands like he was trying to flag down a moving train. I was sure with the way I’d run him over with my rant, that was how it felt.
“No, not at all. But I hope it explains why I lock my classroom,” he said. “After Bryan’s death, we had mandatory training on school shootings and shooters. The proposed logic is that a locked door is a deterrent to an active shooter.”
“Or you’re locking yourself in with the danger,” I said.
“Exactly my thinking!” His eyes flashed with life. “I couldn’t agree more. By their logic, we’re locking out danger, but we could very well be locking ourselves in with danger as well.” He rolled his eyes. “But I’m just a cog in the wheel.”
I laughed. “Seriously? You have tenure, which makes you untouchable.” My mom had worked in higher education my entire life. She had her own rants about education, but tenure wasn’t one of them. Tenure was as good as it got.
“I knew your mother,” he said. “I didn’t… uh… well, I wasn’t a very supportive colleague.”
I shrugged. “She lost her career because of me.”
The lines around his eyes wrinkled even more.
“When I was in my illness.” I stopped. “No, I mean before I got the help I needed, my mom read my English journal, which basically made her mad at this girl because she thought she was bullying me. It’s a long story, but”—I scratched my head—“she tried to protect me and lost her job in the process.”
“I’m sorry. That must’ve been difficult,” he said.
“It’s not something I’m proud of, but we’ve all moved on from it.”
“That’s good to hear. Please tell her I said hello.”
I swayed my head slowly from side to side. “Man, I don’t get you. If you knew my mom, why now? Why tell me this? Why make a connection now?”
“Fair questions,” he said. “But to back up a moment, I told you about the tragedy on campus because I thought it was important that you understood my reasoning behind the locked door. And I suppose I did want to make a connection with you.”
“Okay. I get locking the door and not keeping it open because that’s how that girl got in and did what she did. But if a student’s late, why can’t you open the door? I mean, if they’re armed with some weapon, don’t you think you’d see it?”
He grinned. “Valid point. I could be a bit more….” He paused. He did the same thing during his lectures, like he was searching for just the right word. “Flexible,” he said finally. “I could be a bit more flexible.”
I crossed my arms. “So why the Depression Center? I mean, I get the essay and the disability office, but….”
“The Depression Center helped me after Bryan’s shooting,” he admitted. “I suffered, and I supposed I still suffe
r at times, from PTSD.”
I thought about Blaze and how he’d said PTSD was caused by anxiety—extreme anxiety. “I mean, I get that what I did was wrong by coming into your classroom, but the Depression Center? That just seems way extreme. I was just trying to get a look at the midterm. I wasn’t hacking into your computer to change my grade or destroy your classroom.” I held up my hand in my defense. “Granted, that still happened, but it was never my intent.”
I’d never heard Professor Nigel laugh. It was almost like a wheeze, but even better than that, his entire face looked ten years younger.
“Mr. Kovak, you have a wonderful sense of humor. Well timed.”
“So does that mean the Depression Center is off the table?”
Again, he wheezed a laugh. “Yes, yes. Though I’d still like you to write an essay for the scholarship.” He raised a finger. “I can’t force you to go to the Depression Center or go to the disability office. However, I think both would benefit you greatly.”
“Yeah, I can check into the disability office.” I paused a moment, contemplating. “But I’m not making any promises about the Depression Center. Thanks, you know, for not….” I wasn’t sure what to say.
“Well, even Professor Douchebag has his days,” he said, which made me laugh.
“Oh, damn. You heard that?”
He slowly nodded. “Like I said, you gave quite a stirring lecture.”
“I was….” I rolled my eyes. “Well, I don’t know what I was doing.” I glanced toward the hallway and its busy design. I imagined blood splattered across the black-and-white tiles. It was just where my mind traveled. “So, essay by Friday and disability services the following week?”
When Nigel smiled, it had the same effect as his laughter. He looked like an entirely different guy. “That would be fine.”
“Okay, so do I just email you the essay?”
“Yes. I’ll make sure it gets into the right hands.”
“Cool.”
“Have a good night, Mr. Kovak.”
“Yeah, you too.”
That time when I walked into the hallway, I no longer worried about what or who was hiding around the corners.
17
Aaron
Twenty minutes remained in Professor Whitman’s class. Even though her PowerPoints were usually top-notch, today’s topic on the foundation of democracy and how it’d been implemented in different countries wasn’t only a yawnfest, it was pointless.
Sure, there were different types of democracy, but at the end of the day, it didn’t matter. If a country had a parliament, congress, president, or prime minister but practiced democracy, then they represented the will of the people. Regardless of the system or how fancy it was named, the bottom line was the same: the decision-making processes were for the people, which made the entire conversation useless and boring. So boring.
But since attendance was mandatory and I had already blown through my three allotted absences, I was stuck.
However, on a high note, Professor Whitman was in a blinding yellow outfit. I couldn’t look away from the podium if I wanted to. The glare from her clothes was like a gravitational pull, but it was the first time she’d worn something other than black. With her Harry Potter-like glasses and standard black suits covered by a long black jacket, she looked suited to teach at Hogwarts. But today in her yellow top with matching jacket and pants, she reminded me of the Man with the Yellow Hat in Jack’s Curious George books. All she was missing was the hat.
When Jack was much younger, I used to read to him. His favorite book was a collection of George’s misadventures. Jack loved that curious little character so much that when I took him shopping for a Mother’s Day gift and we passed a shelf of stuffed monkeys, I pointed to one.
“Jack, what’s this?”
“It’s a George,” he’d said.
The more I stared at Professor Whitman, the more I thought of home.
It made no sense. A week ago, I was home and couldn’t wait to leave. Now I wanted to return.
I pulled out my phone and started going through people’s stories on Snapchat.
A picture of Caleb and Big Mike surfaced. They were guys I’d met when we all studied abroad. Instead of staying in Jordon on the weekends, we headed to the airport and traveled wherever Ryanair flew. The tickets were unbelievably cheap, and as long as we packed our shit in a backpack, it didn’t cost anything extra. In Morocco we visited the Blue City, in Rome we toured the Colosseum, and in the Sahara we rode camels. I couldn’t have asked for better travel partners. We visited the most beautiful places and drank the best ales, wines, and whatever the locals handed us. It was awesome.
The picture of my boys at their homecoming football game at Columbus University made me thumb over to my message app. The last text from Hannah appeared.
Hey I'm heading to my parents' house 4 w/end. Last chance to join me!
A smile returned to my face. Sweet Hannah. I wasn’t ready to meet the parents, so I passed. I didn’t even make up an excuse, just texted Next time.
But now I had no weekend plans. I tapped my thumbs against the side of my phone. Columbus was an easy two-hour drive away. Not that I had a car, but there was always Greyhound.
That was what I needed—an adventure. Halloween was coming up, and I’d bet CU would be a fuckfest. Girls dressing slutty and guys showing off their masculinity.
I group-texted Caleb and Mike.
Yo itz bn a while. We should chill agn.
It didn’t take long for Caleb to reply.
Hell yeah. Hallo- w/end. We’re goin as a tequila shot: salt, lime, n tequila. We’re lookin 4 our 3rd amigo! When u comin?
My fingers couldn’t text fast enough.
Checkin Greyhound now. Packin a bag & I'm outta here.
With a plan in place for the weekend, my loneliness vanished just as quickly as Professor Whitman’s class ended. I’d just started for the door when my name was called.
“Mr. Kovak, a moment.”
I cocked my head toward the podium at the bottom of the lecture hall. Professor Whitman’s cupped hand beckoned me forward. My classmates brushed past me like a herd of wild animals suddenly set free. Lucky bastards.
“Professor Whitman,” I said when I approached.
The lenses in her black-framed glasses were thick and made her eyes practically bug out of her face.
“Mr. Kovak, you haven’t given me or your classmates your hundred percent.” She paused, and I said nothing. What was there to say? She was right.
“If you want to pass this class, you need to give the class discussions more than you’re giving,” she continued.
“Understood. I’ll participate more,” I said.
“Was there something about the topic that disinterested you?”
Where to begin?
“No, not at all.” But I could tell from the pained expression and her squinty eyes that she expected more. She needed something to assure her that it wasn’t her lecture or the topic of democracy that nearly put me to sleep.
“My mom’s cancer spread from her breasts to her ovaries,” I blurted out like I was back in elementary school and not a senior in college.
But it did what I’d hoped. Her expression changed, turning from irritation to sympathy.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” she said. “We have trained counselors on campus who can help during this transition.”
Counseling? No thanks. Been there, got the T-shirt. But I said what was expected of me. “Thanks, I’ll look into that.”
“If you need an extension on the paper that’s due Monday,” she started, but my face must have conveyed my surprise that a paper was even due, because she continued, “I believe you chose the topic of refugees?”
“Right.” At one time, refugees were the most saturated topic in the news. But that was months ago. Fuck.
“Have it to my office by Wednesday of next week,” she offered.
“Will do. Thank you.”
My phone buzzed
in my back jeans pocket, and I knew it was Caleb or Big Mike wondering when I’d be in Columbus.
I nodded toward my professor. “I’ll make more of an effort in class.”
“That’s all I ask.” Her nod was my cue to exit.
I was careful not to take the lecture hall stairs two at a time, lest I look too anxious. But once I was outside the building, I glanced at the text from Mike.
Pick u ^ @ station.
And just like that, my weekend plans took shape.
* * *
Talk about the freaks on the bus. For more than two hours, I listened to a man talk to himself and considered introducing him to my brother. Of course, I wouldn’t, but the thought kept me entertained and took my mind off the floor that my shoes stuck to. Nasty.
As if my first ride on a Greyhound wasn’t enough of a shit show, as soon as I stepped off the bus and walked outside the station, a homeless guy immediately approached me.
“Where you from?” he said, crowding me.
“Toledo.”
“Oh, you’re a LeBron fan?”
“Yeah, I guess.” I made my way toward the sidewalk, where two more homeless dudes descended upon me.
“This one’s a LeBron fan,” the first homeless guy said.
“Oh, you know he’s a Trump supporter and a racist,” another chimed in.
Three black men surrounded me. And they all began talking.
“Hey, whatever you need, we can get it for you,” one guy said.
“Nah, he’s a Trump fan. He don’t need nothing,” another replied.
