“Um, criminal justice,” I mutter, suddenly shy, my cheeks turning crimson. Somehow it sounds rather stupid now that I’m saying it out loud.
When I told Roger, Beth, and my mother about majoring in criminal justice, I immediately assumed a self-protective stance because I knew they would laugh or object (which they totally did, Beth causing wine to shoot out of her nose and onto my already stained carpet in a very unBeth-like fashion).
Nothing they could have said would have deterred me in the least. In fact, their opposition only fueled me more. But now that I am telling a complete stranger, who has absolutely no stake invested in my life whatsoever, I realize that maybe, just maybe, I have completely made a mistake. It wouldn’t be the first time.
But apparently River does not feel that way at all. His pale face suddenly lights up. “No way! Damn, that’s awesome! Me too!”
I am confused. Him too what?
“Although, I’m technically in my second year. I got all my core classes like math and psych out of the way last year and now I’m starting in on the criminal justice ones. I’ll never have to use Algebra again, thank God.”
He’s majoring in criminal justice? I had him pegged as a random arts major. Like pipe cleaner sculptures, potato carving, or something.
“I hope you don’t mind my saying so, but aren’t you getting a rather late start?”
I am instantly on the defensive. I pull myself to my full height which obviously is no match for the giant toothpick in front of me. “I’m not that old!” I snap at him.
He immediately blushes. “Oh, shit. That’s not what I meant at all,” he stammers. “I meant that it’s the third week of school. Most people don’t enroll this late. I didn’t mean your age…” He trails off, clearly embarrassed by my misunderstanding and its implications. Misunderstandings…ha! They seem to be the story of my life.
Oh Amy. When will you ever stop jumping to conclusions? Didn’t you learn anything last year?
But I was right back then! I find myself arguing with…myself. There was something amiss! Even if it wasn’t what I thought it was, I was still correct! And people died!
I realize that River has stopped walking and is staring at me, presumably waiting for me to explain why I, in my advanced age, have decided to enroll in college. Or maybe why I appear to be muttering to myself.
“Oh, um…it’s a long story.” In reality, it’s not a long story at all. It’s a pathetically short story. I hemmed and hawed, not sure if I wanted to take a giant leap of faith by going back to school and actually succeeding while holding my life together. But last week’s CSI episode totally changed my mind and I hastily had my transcripts sent and signed up for classes the next day.
River doesn’t ply me for an explanation as he shrugs his bony shoulders and lumbers forward toward our destination. I am pretty certain that I have missed at least half of my first class and I am becoming increasingly agitated with myself.
I really need to get up earlier tomorrow. We turn the corner and are confronted with a humongous historical building. It is at least nine stories high and the entire front façade is flanked by ginormous crumbling steps. Sighing, I begin to climb the steps after River dashes up, taking them two at a time.
When I reach the top, I am breathless, but my companion, who is half my age and has legs at least as long as I am, is not. He is clearly in much better shape than I am.
I really need to start that exercise program that Beth keeps bugging me about. “Everyone needs to exercise, Amy.” I can practically hear Beth taunting me in my head.
I shake off the inner monologue that Beth is guest starring in, as River holds the door open. I nod a thanks at him and step through. My nostrils are immediately assaulted with the aroma of decrepit rotting building. I glance around and notice the collapsing arches and the warped floor. It looks like the building is slated for demolition and will be immediately razed to the ground. Someone is going to get hurt in here for sure.
“Milo Hall.” River beams with pride as if he has built it himself. He sweeps his lengthy arm around, his words bouncing off the crumbling plaster walls and cathedral ceilings. “My great-great grandfather was the architect for this building and his brother laid all the brickwork. It was completed in 1916 and will be celebrating its 100th anniversary soon. It’s the second oldest building surviving on the complex.”
Oh. Or a family member built it. No wonder why the kid keeps spouting out history at me.
He keeps glancing at me expectantly. I couldn’t care less about history. Roger is the history buff in our family, dragging me to boring old places like Lexington and Concord (on our honeymoon), Fort Sumner (on our first anniversary), and Gettysburg (when I was eight months pregnant with Colton. In July). He would be impressed by the historical aspect of this tour, but I’m just thinking that this old building is a fire hazard and a death trap.
“Oh, wow,” I manage to stammer, feigning interest while wondering whether it would be rude to ditch my tour guide now and dash off to room 321.
“You going to Intro?” River asks as I crane my neck around his skeleton like form. I’m attempting to gage the distance to the stairs. I can see an old fashioned elevator tucked into the corner but it has one of those cages over it that you have to pull down to close the door. You probably have to crank it to get it to move, too. There is no chance in hell I’m risking my life to get on that thing. Plus, it would probably take the next hundred years to creak to the third floor.
“Into?”
“Intro to Criminal Justice,” River explains as his Stretch Armstrong legs begin to stride down the hallway. I tag after him since it seems as if he is heading in the direction of the staircase.
Is that what the class is? It’s been so long since I actually looked at my schedule I think I have forgotten where I’m going. I bob my head.
“Me too!” River comments enthusiastically. “We can be like, class buddies or something. Study buddies.”
Yah! Study buddies! Every study needs a buddy! I offer him another one of my fake smiles. “Sure, whatever,” I manage to mumble as we reach the staircase and begin to ascend.
It feels like we are climbing forever, my heart pounding and my lungs gasping for sweet precious oxygen, when we finally reach the third floor landing. I stop to catch my breath and then grab the exit door when River says, “Where are you going?”
I point to the placard by the door frame that says 3rd floor. “Room 321. That’s the room my class is in.” Maybe we are not in the same class? I feel a little more hopefulness than perhaps necessary.
River shakes his head. “Common misconception, man,” he moans in a Keanu Reeves sort of way. “This building’s backwards. Another campus joke. There’s nine floors and the 900s are on the first floor and the 100s are on the ninth floor. We gotta go up to the sixth floor for the 300s. Three more flights.”
I stare up at the stairwell above me, instantly becoming dizzy from the upward winding. We have to go up three more flights of stairs? Are you freaking kidding me?
“You’re lucky you ran into me,” River continues. “Most people don’t know that little tidbit about this building until they’ve gone up and down this staircase ten times looking for their classroom.” He snorts as he continues up the steps.
Lucky. Oh, so lucky.
My legs are burning, in addition to my lungs screaming and heart pounding by the time we get to the sixth floor. I really ought to get my fat ass to the gym more often. I swear I feel my lung collapsing in my chest. I’ve been fooling myself thinking that chasing after four kids is actually legitimate exercise. Maybe I’ll see if I can go to Beth’s club with her. Nah, on second thought, she’d get too much of a kick out of being right and would lord it over me for decades. I should go running with Joey instead. She’d be nicer to me. Or get those PX90 videos I see on the late night infomercials. Then I wouldn’t have to exercise in front of anyone. Maybe I can order them…
I am so caught up in the ludicrous idea that I a
m actually going to have time to exercise, that I don’t even notice that we have gone halfway down the long corridor and River has opened the door to room 321. We are now entering the lecture hall from the back of the room. River closes the door behind us, trapping the bottom with his foot, in attempt to be quiet, but the old building has other ideas as the door bangs shut like it is possessed by a ghost. Loudly.
Fifty heads swivel around to stare at us accusingly, the foremost being the professor at the front of the room. Even though he is dressed professionally in suit pants, beige button down shirt, and a paisley tie, he almost appears cartoon character-ish. His bottom shirt button is straining from the stress of his paunch and his shiny balding head has three strands of hair wrapped around it, like we are being fooled into thinking he actually has hair. His nose is red and bulbous, his eyes tiny and beady behind his coke bottle glasses.
He peers at us as we step toward the desks in the back of the room, giving up any hope of a discreet entrance.
“Well, how nice of you two to join us, Benjamin Braddock and Mrs. Robinson,” he practically sneers while pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose.
The collar on my shirt feels like it is restricting my oxygen flow and I flush visibly at The Graduate reference. As if! I would NOT be cheating on Roger with this scarecrow of a kid. He is so not my type!
“No, it’s not Benjamin. It’s River,” my companion politely corrects the professor.
I stare at him, thinking he is being sarcastic until I realize, he has no idea that the professor was being facetious himself. He doesn’t have a clue who Mrs. Robinson and Benjamin Braddock are. And judging by the blank expressions on the faces of my youthful classmates, neither do they. My embarrassment is unfounded since I’m the only one who gets the joke. I’m in a room full of children barely older than my oldest child. I stick out like a sore thumb, old lady that I am. And judging by their casual attire, I am completely overdressed in my dress pants and blouse.
Geez, what the hell were you thinking, Amy? Did you ever wear something like this back in college? Of course not! You practically rolled into class in your underwear. Allie’s outfit today would have been much more fitting than this getup.
The professor scoffs as he waves his arm impatiently toward the front of the classroom. I can tell he doesn’t appreciate the lack of response to his joke. “You can sit at the front of the class. Two seats right up here. Front and center.”
He scowls at us, the room suddenly feeling incredibly claustrophobic, as I head down the middle aisle toward the desks that the professor has indicated. “Since neither of you felt the need to be present for the first part of my lecture, I’m assuming you will ace the quiz,” he remarks as he waves a stack of papers in the air.
Quiz? What quiz?
Unfortunately, I am thinking out loud, causing the professor to glower at me even more, his wrinkles on his forehead touching, making him look like a Shar-Pei puppy.
“The quiz that was on my syllabus, Miss…” He trails off, urging me to fill in the blank. I stare at his meaty hand, his wedding ring on his finger; it appears to be cutting off his circulation. I practically gag at the thought that someone actually married him.
I don’t offer my name, instead, I quickly retort, “Oh, well, it’s my first day. I didn’t get a syllabus yet.” I breathe a sigh of relief. He can’t possibly expect me to take a quiz if I haven’t even come to the class yet. Can he?
“My syllabus are online. When you registered for the class, you were supposed to click the link for my textbook requirements and my syllabus. The required reading for this quiz was listed.” He slaps a quiz on the first desk and points at it. “So unless you literally registered ten minutes ago, you will be expected to take this quiz.”
Sliding into the desk, I am instantly brought back to high school. With my face flaming, I feel the professor’s eyes boring through me, knowing that I am not up to this task of going back to school and embarking on a career.
Who was I kidding? I can’t do this. I can’t even make it to a class on time. Hell, I couldn’t even get it together to register on time. There’s no way I can raise four kids, run a household, graduate from college and have a career. Maybe some women can do it, but I’m not one of them.
I am considering just walking out, when River slides into the desk next to mine. The professor offers him a quiz paper, but with a lot less venom and absolutely no disgust. He then slithers up the aisle like a fat snake that has just devoured his prey, slapping quizzes onto the desks behind me.
I swallow hard, willing myself not to cry like an idiot, when River leans toward me and whispers, “Don’t take it personally. I had Professor Cummings last year. He’s a total male chauvinist pig jerk off.”
I stare at him incredulously. The guy’s name was Cummings? Really? River winks as he adds, “Yes, pun intended.”
“Miss ‘Late for Class’, do you have something to add?” I don’t turn around as the sharp voice of Professor Cummings slices through me.
I shake my head, not taking my eyes off of the paper on my desk. If I look at the professor, I know I’ll start blubbering and he’ll probably get a kick out of it. He most likely goes home and proudly logs all the students he has made cry that day into his diary.
“Then you may all begin,” Professor Cummings remarks sharply and I see his ugly brown shoes whisk past my desk. I flip the paper over, revealing a crammed ten question multiple choice quiz in the smallest font imaginable. I squint to read the questions, having absolutely no clue what they are in reference to and immediately feel hot tears stinging at my eyes.
Resisting the urge to hurl the paper at the jerk off professor and flee the room, I do the only thing I can. Start answering C for every question.
~Three~
I am sobbing by the time I get to my car, my eyeliner streaming down my cheeks, the rest of my make-up sliding off of my face like a pancake on a griddle. Fortunately, nobody notices me; the campus seems to be deserted.
I do see a swarm of students headed toward the main building on campus. River had been babbling about something as we left class, some demonstration of some kind, but I darted away from him as quickly as possible after class so I didn’t hear everything he was saying. Nor did I care. It was probably something else I was supposed to attend, but didn’t get the memo or check online.
I click open my car and slide into the front seat, tossing both of my bags on the passenger seat.
“At least you didn’t cry in front of the macho man professor,” I remind myself out loud as I reach for my phone. I might as well look online and find the textbook I am supposed to read while I’m on campus. Maybe I could actually have a clue on my next exam.
“Ugh, what a jerk,” I mutter as I stare at my ancient phone which is loading as slowly as humanly possible. I am certain the rest of the students in the class have newfangled phones and can whip up the internet on a moment’s notice.
I pause in my thinking. Did you just say newfangled phones? You sound just like your father.
My parents are both extremely adverse to technology. My mother’s skills are limited to occasionally surfing the web, ordering things online (much to the dismay of my father), and reading my sister’s blog. Mom has a Facebook account where she posts three or four pictures a year and one of us has to help her upload them. She can also answer email (as long as it’s only a reply) and send a text in under ten minutes, which is a huge accomplishment for her.
My father, on the other hand, may actually be retarded when it comes to technological advances of this era. Mind you, he has no problem with technology that enhances his TV or movie viewing experiences, like Netflix and Dish TV, but he is constantly screwing up his computer, loading up viruses and freezing up the screen. He calls me or Beth at least once a week with some sort of technology problem. Last year he actually dropped his phone in a puddle and then put it in the microwave to dry it off. Then, he tossed the cellular phone that we got him for Christmas at me like it was on f
ire, refusing to have anything to do with the “newfangled” phones. Hence, the old person phrase that popped in my head.
I only wish I had one of those phones as my screen loads at a painstakingly slow pace. My phone isn’t due for an upgrade for three more months; it’s been running incredibly slow ever since Evan covered it in Destin and tried to diaper it like it was a baby doll.
Finally, the professor’s page pops up, a picture of his hideous face in the corner next to his contact information. I resist the urge to smack the phone against the dashboard as I slowly scroll down the page to find the required reading material.
“Criminal Justice and You,” I scoff. Really? It sounds like an elementary school book. I nearly swallow my gum as I continue to read. $278???? For a book? And that’s not all that’s listed. There are four other required books and none of them are under $200.
“There is no way I can shell out $1000 for one class! I have two other classes!” I say out loud to no one in particular. It’s bad enough that going back to school is costing me $3000 a credit. Roger is going to blow his top when he finds out I’m going to need and additional $3000 for books.
Suddenly, it feels like the roof of the car is closing in on me, and once again, I find myself gasping for air. The tears are flowing as if they have been held back by a dam.
“What the hell were you thinking, Amy?” I ask myself as I dramatically bang my head against the steering wheel. Roger was right. Beth was right. Everyone was right. It was my first day of my first class and I have fallen apart already. This might be a new world record. There was no way I was going to be able to raise my kids, run a household, AND handle the stress of college. Hell, I couldn’t handle the stress of college when I was a teenager with nothing to do but be a college student. And someone else to pay the bills, too.
“Deep breath, Amy,” I murmur in the calmest tone I can muster. “Don’t worry about the book right now. Maybe you can get it cheaper on eBay. Go home and take a deep breath.”
Amy Maxwell & the 7 Deadly Sins (The Amy Maxwell Series Book 2) Page 4
