The class erupts into a smattering of applause as I feel heat pricking at my cheeks.
“Amy and her daughter were held captive by a drug gang last year. Why, she was even bound and gagged while her daughter was held at knife point!”
The class collectively gasps and my blush spreads down my neck.
“Yes! But Amy’s quick thinking helped save them all! She is a hero!” declares the professor as he claps his plump hands together enthusiastically.
The class is now breaking out into thunderous applause. I timidly raise my hand in a half-hearted prom queen wave and nod my head, acknowledging their recognition. This is all quite embarrassing.
“I feel that Amy should automatically get an A in this class because, what can I teach her about Tactical Response when she has already lived it? In fact,” the professor pokes the air with one finger, “she should be the one lecturing this class and not me. Amy, what do you say? Come on up and tell the class about your near death experience!”
The professor waves me to the front of the room and I shake my head with reluctance.
“Oh, come on Amy! Don’t be shy!” The class is now chanting my name. “Amy, Amy, Amy…”
My hair is now plastered to my head from profuse sweating as I pull the car into what appears to be the last available parking spot on campus within a six mile radius. Unseasonably cool, my ass. I am sweating buckets, but that may be partially due to my harrowing morning.
After dropping Lexie and Colt off at school, I had the pleasure of wrangling my youngest child into my sister’s house and detaching him, limb by limb, from my body where he had wrapped his legs around me like a monkey scaling a tree in the jungle.
As enthusiastic as he was about going to school, spending time with his aunt seemed to be corporal punishment in his eyes. I begged and pleaded with him as he screamed “take me to school!”. When that didn’t work, he started crying with hiccups mixed in and mumbling about wanting to “go home and snuggie with Mama”. I felt horrible; the kid sure knew how to work me over.
I am still shaking with guilt as I check my reflection in the rearview mirror. Scowling at my pale complexion and the dark circles under my eyes, I dig into my purse to retrieve my pressed powder compact and brush. Underneath mounds of gum wrappers and fast food receipts I find both.
Way back when I was young, naïve, and wrinkle free, I laughed at women who wouldn’t leave the house without make-up. Back in those days, I would have never purchased an expensive foundation, nor would I have toted it around with me everywhere I went. But right around the time my third child was born I realized that those lines I thought were from sleeping on a wrinkled pillow case were not fading during the day. That’s when little ole horrified me marched over to the Lancôme counter at Macy’s and demanded to be made into a twenty year old again. The lady laughed at me for a good five minutes before she unlocked a cabinet and brought out the secret formula. It cost me an arm and a leg, but I must have it or I can’t go out in public. The powder isn’t a miracle worker, but at least I can look in the mirror without scaring myself.
Even though I am five minutes late, I hastily apply the powder to my nose and forehead and then pinch my cheeks roughly, hoping to give my face a little color. Sighing, I run the brush through my hair; knowing nothing short of sheering my head like a sheep is going to cure that disaster. I toss my brush and my compact back into my bag, step out of my vehicle, and consult my crumpled class schedule.
My first class is in Milo Hall and according to my handy dandy map that I am confidently holding in front of me, Milo Hall is in that direction. It’s the same direction that all the other students seem to be heading in.
Satisfied that I know where I am going, I fold up my map, tuck it into my back pack, sling the back pack over my left shoulder, and proceed to follow the other swarms of students headed toward Milo Hall.
See Amy? You’re not that late! All these other students are just getting to their classes, too. I blend in with the rest of the crowd as I head to my first class. As the crowd and I arrive at the two story building situated in the middle of the campus, I glance at my schedule again, just to remind myself of the room number.
“Intro to Criminal Justice room 321,” I mumble to myself and then shove the piece of paper into my back pack. Yes, yes. I know what you’re thinking.
Criminal justice? Amy Maxwell, have you lost your mind? You’re a 36 year old mother of four! What are you doing majoring in criminal justice? Isn’t that what you’re screaming at me? Yup. I knew it. It was what everyone in my family was screaming at me.
After my brush with death last year, I realized that the experience was an eye opener. Despite the fact that my daughter and I were truly in danger, I never felt such an adrenaline rush in my entire life. Holding and firing a real gun…Holy crap! Words cannot describe how complete and powerful I felt. Yes, it was nerve wracking and yes, I was petrified, but damn it, I never felt so alive! And then when Jason had suggested that I would make a good agent? Well, it didn’t take much to peak my interest after that.
I started watching crime dramas on TV; they made it look so glamorous. The women in their sharp, oh so chic clothing from Nordstrom, heels that rivaled those in Imelda Marcos’ collection, racing all over the country tracking criminals and taking them down without even chipping their nails. They never seemed cross with their children and they were always beautiful, happy, and so damn brilliant. I have to admit, the first deadly sin that got me to this situation was my own. I was full of ENVY. I envied those women on TV, real or not.
Determined to be just like them, I started looking into what I would have to do to actually become a DEA or FBI agent. Alas, I discovered with dismay that I was several years too late to be embarking on that career. Had I finished out college when I had started way back when, I might have had a shot. But no, I had to up and quit.
At this discovery, I cried for two nights straight, ate ice cream straight from the carton, and refused to discuss why I was so bummed out with my family. Not that they tried really hard to get it out of me. Roger just shrugged and assumed it was “that time of the month again” and warned the children to stay away.
Beth however, was not convinced. She hounded me relentlessly via telephone. After three days in the same grungy sweats and not so subtle hints from my sister that I may need to see a therapist to sort out my “post-traumatic stress syndrome”, I decided that I was not going to be defeated by my age. After a little bit of research, I discovered that our local police force had a hiring age limit of 45; I was not even close to 45, even though I was a lot older than the kids they usually hired. Then I got to thinking; if I had an actual degree, it would sweeten the pot and give me a better shot against those twenty year old boneheads who were swallowing steroids in their smoothies while lifting at the gym for seven hours a day.
So I downloaded the course catalogue for our state college and decided to start working toward a criminal justice degree. If I took three classes a semester, including the summer semesters, it would take me six years to get a four year degree, but I would still make it under the wire for the age cut off with three years to spare. If they were hiring, of course, but I wasn’t going to ruin my mojo by thinking about that quite yet. I was going to take it one step at a time, doing what I needed to do at each specific moment and not worry about the future moments ahead.
Right now, at this moment, I need to find room 321. Glancing at the sign in front of the building, I confirm that this is indeed Milo Hall.
I wander into the building with the throngs of other students (To quote Lexie, OMG, I’m a student!). I find myself standing in a vast room that is filled with rows and rows of tables and a deafening clatter. I practically need to cover my ears as I glance around and realize that I am actually standing in the middle of the dining hall.
Crap! Where are the classrooms? Who puts classrooms in a dining hall? I resist the urge to break out my map. I definitely do not want to look like a freshman. Even though tec
hnically, that’s exactly what I am. It may be almost twenty years since I’ve been in college, but I do know some things have not changed; freshmen to college students are what tourists are to New York City natives. They’ll chew me up and spit me out if I appear vulnerable. I’ll end up huddled in a corner next to the vat of pudding, bawling my contact lens out.
Out of the corner of my eye I see a student who looks a little more mature, and by mature, I mean she’s closer to my age. After all, she’s sporting a few wrinkles on her brow. She is wearing a bright red peasant blouse with ties across the front, mini buttons dotting the sleeves, and a flowing multicolored skirt that looks suspiciously like something my sister Joey would design. She has jeweled sandals on her feet and a messenger bag made out of burlap slung over her right shoulder. Her reddish blonde hair is short and cropped around her ears making her look cute and pixie like.
I would love to get a low maintenance cut like that, but my chipmunk cheeks won’t allow such a look. Besides, Roger hates short hair on women. He sulked for a month the last time I had the nerve to get a shoulder length bob… Oh, crap, ADHD again. The girl, Amy!
Well anyway, she appears earthy and grounded. I’m hoping that means she is nice. And possibly sympathetic to my plight.
“Excuse me?” I call out as she brushes past, her flowing skirt skimming my leg.
“Yeah?” She pulls her earbuds out. Upon closer inspection I realize I have been mistaken. If I thought this chick was near my age, I need to take a good long hard gander in the mirror. She’s is 25 at most. Those teeny tiny frown lines don’t have anything on the craters on my own forehead. Nevertheless, I take a shot.
“Do you know where room 321 is?” I ask, trying not to appear too desperate. “I’m late for my class there.”
She rolls her eyes before tucking her earbuds back in. “You have the wrong building. This is the dining hall. This is not a classroom.”
I can see that. I may not be a rocket scientist but I know the difference between a classroom and a dining hall. Duh.
She starts to walk away, but I urgently grab at her sleeve, ripping a button off in the process. The edging on the fabric begins to unravel and the girl glares at me, eyes shooting death rays that rival my daughter’s.
Holy crap! Are you kidding, Amy? My face turns bright red as I stammer, “I’m so sorry! I…I’ll pay for that…let me get you my phone number…”
“You can’t pay for that,” the woman/girl snarls as she snatches the button from my hand. “It was handmade by my grandmother. Who is now dead. Thanks a lot!”
A hush seems to fall over the crowd as the girl berates me and I feel like every eyeball in the place is burning a hole in to the back of my head like I am personally responsible for the death of this girl’s grandmother. With a huff, the girl stomps off leaving me holding a piece of red thread and absolutely none of my dignity.
Despite my desire to crawl into a hole, I tuck in my chin, take a deep breath, and head in the direction of the exit door. Maybe I can get someone who didn’t just witness that horrific display to help.
“Wait,” a voice calls out as I feel a hand on my shoulder and I halt in my tracks. Whipping my head around, I see a tall lanky young man dressed all in black. That includes black eyeliner, black shit kicker boots, and a black skull cap, in addition to his black pants and black cotton threadbare sweater. In stark contrast, his face is deathly pale and the skin underneath his eyes casts a purplish hue. He is so skinny that I swear if he turns sideways, I wouldn’t be able to see him anymore. His gaunt face sports a full beard and some sort of bone like earring stabbing through his nose. It is connected to the earring in his left ear via a chain.
I shudder, wondering how he can breathe with that thing and what happens if he gets it caught on something. When I have my earbuds in while I’m cleaning the house, I manage to get caught on almost every single doorknob. Not to mention the one time it got stuck on the toilet bowl handle and yanked my earrings clean out of my ears. I shudder again, imagining this kid going to the bathroom getting that chain stuck on the toilet bowl handle and it ripping out of his nose.
“Um, yes?” I stammer, not quite sure what this weirdo wants with me. Should I be afraid? Maybe he’s part of a cult that he wants me to join. I scan his hands for pamphlets, but the only thing he is holding is an iPhone (and my shoulder).
“It’s easy to get the two places confused,” he tells me in a surprisingly melodiously voice.
I am not sure what the hell he is talking about. Perhaps he has me confused with someone else. Oh dear God, I hope he doesn’t think I’m his dealer or something. I read about this sort of thing happening in that book. The woman was approached by a guy who thought she was a hooker and well, she ended up dead in a ditch on the side of the road. Oh crap, what was that book called?
“Uh, thanks,” I mutter as I am about to wrest free from his clutches and find my way to my class. But he isn’t letting go.
“Milo Hall and Milos Hall. This is Milos Hall. You’re looking for Milo Hall,” the boy in black explains. “Some sadist thought it would be funny to give the dining hall almost the exact same name as the social sciences building. You won’t believe how many freshmen find their way in here looking for a class.”
I turn bright red as I think, Crap. I look like such a freshman now.
I smile awkwardly at the boy. “Oh, thanks. That explains it.”
He nods at me. “I can show you where Milo Hall is-”
“No! That’s okay!” I quickly say. This kid is helpful but that doesn’t mean he’s not an ax murderer. After my experience with undercover DEA agents and mobsters in my neighborhood, I am a little leery of trusting people. Especially people who might be the love child of Morticia Adams and Ozzy Osbourne. “I can find it.” I shoot him a fake smile.
“It’s no problem at all,” he tells me as he practically glides with me out the exit door. “I’m going there anyway.”
Damn it. I’m not going to be able to shake this kid loose, am I?
“Thanks.” I follow my newly acquired vampire tour guide. At least I won’t have to break out my map again. He can probably find his way around the campus with his eyes closed. In the dark. Bad joke, Amy, bad joke.
Nevertheless, as we exit the dining hall, I start searching the ground for a large stick or something that can be used as stake in the event of an emergency. Glad we had garlic bread with dinner last night…
He screeches to a halt as soon as we get about twenty feet away from the dining hall. I glance down at my watch. Hello! We’re going to be late! Scratch that. We’re already late. I’m already late. I don’t really care if this kid is late. I just want to make it to class before it’s over at this rate. But my Twilight friend seems to be oblivious to this fact. Offering me his hand, he says, “I’m River.”
What? This isn’t ‘Getting to Know You 101’! I just want to get to my class, kid! And what kind of a name is River anyway?
Figuring the fastest way to get there is to play along; I grasp his offered hand (which is freakishly smooth and un-calloused) and pump it. Not enthusiastically, mind you. I don’t want him to get the impression that I’m happy to make his acquaintance or anything. I’m not going to follow him on Twitter, nor are we going to be Facebook friends.
“Amy,” I tell him in a curt voice leaving my last name out of it. There’s gotta be five million Amys in the world; he most likely won’t be able to track me down with just a first name if in fact he does turn out to be a stalker creep.
River nods in acknowledgement and then begins to stride toward the direction I originally came from. “Milo Hall is on the other side of the parking lot,” he tells me. I cringe inwardly at this revelation.
Crap. I must have held the map upside down and went in the wrong direction! Roger is constantly telling me I have no sense of direction and I always beg to differ. (I hate when he’s right). He claims it’s because I’m a woman and women don’t understand geography and maps, but I don’t think that’s
it. Seriously, who needs maps nowadays? Can’t get somewhere? Google maps will take you there. Or Onstar. Or Garmin. Nobody knows how to read a map anymore. Men or women.
“Oh,” is my only response as I trail after River. We are backtracking my route now, passing the lot where my car is parked. I can see that on the other side of the lot is a grassy area leading up to several enormous ornate buildings. One looks like it may be the library. I make a mental note of that for future reference in case I ever need to visit the library. I don’t want to end up at the anatomy and physiology lab with dead half skinned cats. You know, with my horrible map reading skills and all.
The cracked and uneven sidewalk begins to wind into a garden with flowers on either side of a pretty gray slate path which has now replaced the concrete.
“This campus is 117 years old,” River explains as he sweeps his arm around the gardens. “These gardens were planted by the class of 1901 and have survived every major storm to ever hit this area. Some of these buildings are original, including the one that you’re looking for, Milo Hall. Milos Hall was built in 1976 and some jokester decided to give it a similar name to the original hall to confuse the incoming freshmen.”
Apparently including yours truly, I consider with annoyance. I am certain the jokester was of the male variety. No woman would ever think it was funny.
“There’s even a special on the menu, Milo Meatloaf. It’s served freshman week as a nod to the confusion,” River tells me, a smirk playing on his lips. “I hate to admit, I fell for it too, when I was a freshman. I guess that’s why I’m sympathetic to your plight.”
Oh. Well that’s nice.
I don’t know what I’m supposed to reply to this statement so I simply offer him a half smile and a nod.
“What are you majoring in?” my tour guide asks as he ducks his lanky body to avoid facial contact with a tree branch hanging over the walkway. All five foot three of me wouldn’t hit that tree branch if I was hopping on a pogo stick, but Lurch is directly in its path.
Amy Maxwell & the 7 Deadly Sins (The Amy Maxwell Series Book 2) Page 3
