“Late on your first day of class, honey?”

Trying my best not to ignore Mrs. Tanner, I burst through the main doors of the Languages building. She’s an ideal receptionist, with a cheerfulness that borders on the pathological at times, and she’s been kind to me, but right now I don’t have time to talk, or indeed slow down. Self-defense class says that the best way to run in heels, even kitten heels, is to take them off, but this is only good advice if you’re running away from something. If you’re running toward it, and you need to arrive looking presentable, things get more complicated.

I clatter up the stairs and make the turn for the Medium Hall. Stupid name. If there was a Small Hall and a Large Hall, fine. But there isn’t. At least name it after some old dead guy. As I do, I feel an ominous click in the buckle of my left shoe. Two more strides, and the problem is clear; my shoe buckle is coming undone, and like a race-car running with a bald tire, that’s going to end badly.

Hiking my bag higher on my shoulder, I bend to fix it without slowing, turning my movement into a sort of crab-wise hop. This works better than I’d expected, although it gets me funny looks from the few students who aren’t already in class. I feel a surge of irritation for them - not only are they not in class, they don’t even seem to be worried about it. Assholes. The least they could do is feel guilty.

The furious hopping continues until I twist the strap and shove it into the side of my shoe, where my foot ought to keep it pinned until I can get to class. I increase my pace again, and wonder briefly if this is all really worth it just so I don’t make a bad impression with some wizened elderly Brit. William Spencer. Talk about an old dead guy name. Still, that’s what I get for taking Latin Lit.

Only one more semester stuck here at Lowell, then I’m done—twelve weeks, then I’m out into the world. I took this because I needed a General Studies course to finish my degree, and I‘ve always loved ancient history, but the reading list looks daunting—Juvenal, Ovid, Horace, Virgil. A vision of being drilled on verbs and tenses in a dusty classroom springs to mind, and I shudder.

Maybe I’ll get lucky, and he’ll be like Dumbledore, all kindly with sparkling eyes. And a robe. Yeah.

Getting to the hall, I slide to a halt and consider my options. There’s no-one around, and I can hear a voice talking from inside. Hell. He’s already started.

I’d like to say that I don’t turn up late to class often, but unfortunately that would be a massive lie. The truth is that it happens so often, I’ve invented my own word for the process of getting into class with minimal embarrassment: I call it latesneaking.

Now, the trick to latesneaking when you have a lecture hall with two side entrances is to pick the correct one, and that’s the one furthest from the person speaking. Get it right, and you stand a reasonable chance of being able to slip inside with minimal embarrassment. Get it wrong, and you’re standing directly in front of a pissed-off old person with an audience, inviting them to make fun of you.

College lecturers are creatures of habit, and they tend to stand in the same spot—so once you’ve been to class a few times, you learn which entrance is the best one for latesneaking.

But the first time with a new lecturer? Yeah, you gotta guess.

I take a deep breath and walk to the left entrance. Putting my hand on the door, the noise inside pauses, and then swells into laughter. That's a good sign—if he's making them laugh, maybe this class won't be so boring after all.

I push the door. Nothing happens. Locked? You are freakin' kidding me. I push harder, but not too hard—another rule of Latesneaking 101 is 'never rattle a locked door', because nothing attracts attention like rattle-rattle-rattle.

The door shifts a little under my hand. So, not locked, but stuck. This is the worst situation to be in, since you've got no idea how hard to push, and no idea what's on the other side of it. For all I know, there could be five hundred freshmen staring directly at this door right now.

Another deep breath, shove my stupid foot back into my stupid shoe which is coming loose again, and push. The door shifts a fraction, and the talking inside resumes. Good, that means they're not looking at the door. Here goes.

Sadly, there's no real patron saint of lateness—I’ve checked—so there's no-one specific up above I can ask to intercede on my behalf. I lean all my weight on the door.

Crunch.

Click.

Clop, clop.

Whoompf. Things happen in rapid succession.

'Crunch' is the sound of the door giving way after I lean just a bit too hard.

'Click' is the noise the toe of my shoe makes as it catches in the little frame on the edge of the door. I keep moving forward, but my stupid shoe and my stupid foot stay where they are.

'Clop, clop' is the noise I make as I stagger into the lecture hall. At that moment my shoe comes free. I lose my balance.

And, yep, you guessed it—'whoompf' is the sound of me tripping, backwards, about to fall on my ass in front of the entire class. My right leg goes out in front of me, and my shoe goes flying.

As I start to fall, I see a figure out of the corner of my eye, and I realize that in fact this was the wrong door to pick. I am directly in front of the lecturer, and I’m going to land right next to him.

Suddenly, there's an arm behind me, and I'm not falling any more. With weird clarity, I turn my head and get a glimpse of the owner of the arm.

Well, he's kindly alright. And he’s got sparkling eyes. But he damn well doesn’t look much like Dumbledore. Holy. Shit. He’s gorgeous.

And then, my shoe lands with a gentle 'clunk', right in the front row of students.

* * *