CHAPTER TWO
Ethan Follett considered himself the luckiest sophomore at Browerton.
Sophomores never got into Constitutional Law—or Con Law for those in the know. Many juniors got turned away, too. Professor Wendell Sharpe had argued cases before the Supreme Court, and now Ethan would be mere feet from him twice a week while he mused on Ethan’s favorite subject: the law. He loved that we all had a set of rules to live by and our justice system kept those rules intact.
He had spent the first week back at school piecing together the ideal fall class schedule and mapping out his registration strategy. Despite being a sophomore, there was still risk of being shut out of the more popular lectures. He had experienced the rush of joy and crush of defeat registering for classes as a freshman. Clicking his mouse, then waiting countless agonizing seconds to find out if his selection went through. By the time he’d sign up for one class, another class would be filled. This year, he was prepared. His registration time was 1:15 p.m. By 1:10 p.m., he was already on the page for Constitutional Law, his mouse hovering over the sign-up button.
When he’d reached the confirmation page, Ethan had jumped out of his chair and broke out into a spontaneous dance move. Then he’d stopped himself and checked to make sure his door was still closed, twisting the knob to triple-check. Locked. Phew. Pure joy had coursed through his veins and made his blue eyes light up like a neon sign.
Unlike many kids at his college, Ethan wasn’t born into a wealthy family and wasn’t blessed with the right connections. Any headway he wanted to make in life would be up to him. First step would be sitting up front and wowing the professor with his intelligence, humor, and passion. (Some would call him a teacher’s pet. Ethan considered it networking.) By the end of the quarter, he and Professor Sharpe would be on a first-name basis. Next, the professor would recommend him for a summer internship at a top law firm, then for Harvard Law School, then a clerkship, until finally Ethan had worked his way up to being the first gay Supreme Court justice. Well, the first openly gay justice. That was how his life was supposed to go.
On that bright Tuesday morning, he zipped along the sidewalk, not cutting across the flower garden like some students, and finally reached Bamberger Hall, with its thick white columns and courthouse front steps. It had been more of a hike from his Spanish class than he’d realized, but he still got to class by 9:55. He ripped open the door and then charged up two flights of stairs to room 304.
Ethan paused outside the entrance to rip off his sneakers and swap them with loafers. This was Constitutional Law, after all. Ethan had made sure to wear a nice shirt and pressed pants for the occasion.
Once he entered the classroom, his face immediately sunk to the floor. He didn’t see a single empty seat, and Professor Sharpe was already lecturing.
Ethan crept down the right-side aisle to scope out seats near the front, but this wasn’t like high school; students wanted to sit in the front row. His gaze inched back and back, farther and farther away from Professor Sharpe, farther and farther away from the Supreme Court. All he saw were students being more studious than him.
“There’s a seat in the back row for latecomers,” Professor Sharpe said while shuffling through his notes.
The class went silent and 199 sets of eyes bore into Ethan. He felt like unscooped dog poop on a ritzy street. Professor Sharpe continued on with his lecture.
He calmly walked to the back row, to the back corner, where one seat remained. The dead-last seat in the class.
Φ
He was a latecomer. Who knew what the professor really wanted to call him? Ethan crumbled into himself.
His seat was so far back that the lighting didn’t cover it. The desk part wouldn’t come up from the side. It wasn’t even in a full row. There was Ethan’s desk, a guy next to him, and then a giant wooden column.
He glanced at his rowmate. The guy wore gray warm-up pants and a wrinkled T-shirt. He slouched so far down that he could rest his chin on the desk. Instead of taking notes, he was texting someone.
He remembered what his dad had told him: No matter what, just put one foot in front of the other.
I’m down, but not out.
Ethan took out his notebook and began listening intently to every carefully chosen word that came out of the professor’s mouth. He would find a way to make it to class earlier. He would write the best essays and score the top grades on the tests, and Professor Sharpe would have no choice but to take notice. Ethan breathed a sigh of relief.
The guy next to him laughed at something on his phone, breaking Ethan’s concentration. Ethan ignored it. A few seconds later, the guy reacted again with an “hmmm” and then another laugh. Ethan rolled his eyes and paid attention to the lecture, trying his hardest to focus on the overhead projector.
“Damn,” the guy whispered to himself. He leaned his head against the wooden column.
“Could you please be quiet?” Ethan asked him.
“I am being quiet.”
“Not really. I can hear all of your reactions.”
The guy cocked an eyebrow at Ethan. “You shouldn’t eavesdrop.”
“Well, you shouldn’t be texting in class.”
“I’m not. I’m taking notes,” the guy said. He returned to texting.
Frustration pumped up Ethan’s head like a balloon. This was the cherry on top of a crappy, potentially career-killing morning.
“Oh, man,” the guy said to his phone, shaking his head. Ethan stared daggers at him, and he turned to Ethan with a sly smile that brought dimples to his cheeks, creasing his deep brown eyes. He was a total jerk. A total hot jerk, but a jerk nonetheless. That didn’t make up for his behavior at all, but it helped just slightly. At least Ethan could have some eye candy in this situation.
“Whoa,” the guy said and exhaled a gust of air as his eyes bulged at the screen. “I’d hate to be his girlfriend right now.”
“Do you mind?” Ethan whisper-snapped at him. “Please stop talking.”
“Chill out.” He shoved his phone into his shorts pocket. “The TA posts the PowerPoint online after class.”
Maybe he had a point, which only frustrated Ethan some more. “It’s not the same.”
“Actually, it kind of is. Only better because you don’t have to listen to this guy.”
“I like listening to him.” Ethan turned to a fresh page in his notebook. He did hand stretches to avoid any premature cramping from his feverish note-taking skills.
“Planning to give a slew of hand jobs later?”
“Excuse me?” Ethan blushed red at the totally inappropriate—and untrue!—question. He was ready to learn, to let the knowledge and years of legal wisdom wash over him. He couldn’t wait for Professor Sharpe to fill in the flat text of the PowerPoint with life experience.
As the professor spoke about understanding legalese, Ethan scribbled down notes, but noticed that the lecture was hewing closely to the slides. Sharpe must’ve been having an off day. So am I! Soon, a thought burrowed itself into Ethan’s head.
“If you don’t like this class, then why are you in it?” He asked his rowmate.
The guy glanced up from his notebook, which was full of doodles. “What?”
“This isn’t a pre-rec or distro requirement. If you’re in this class, it’s because you want to be.”
That seemed to catch the guy a little off-guard, and Ethan took that as a small victory. “Hmm?” Ethan prompted.
“I thought it would be interesting. I was sorely mistaken. Just another example of a celebrity professor overpaid to bloviate and collect an inflated salary at the expense of more talented adjuncts.”
Ethan was taken aback—by the thought, the eloquence, the use of multi-syllabic words. “Well, a lot of students would’ve loved to be in this class, so you should—”
“I’m just kidding, dude. It’s near my frat house. Easy to get to.” The guy flashed him a snarky smile.
“That’s the only reason you’re here?”
“I guess it could be cool.”
“You guess?” Ethan thought about all of the dedicated students like himself who missed out because of this frat guy. He had never heard of someone signing up for such a coveted, specialized class just to sleep in a few extra minutes.
“As I said before, chill out. It’s just a class, dude.”
Ethan hated being called dude. He did not act like a dude. He was not naturally laidback like a dude. He was thoroughly un-dude-like in every conceivable way. “This isn’t just a class.”
“Actually, it is. And it’s just one class. Not the end of the world.”
“It could be for some.” The memory of stumbling in late permeated his brain. The Latecomer.
“This class has no real importance. I’m assuming you want to go to law school considering how much you give a shit?” The guy waited for Ethan’s answer.
Ethan deigned to play along. “Yes.”
“Well, this class has no bearing on that. As long as you have a good GPA and good internships, you’ll be fine.”
“That’s why I wanted in this class. To make the connections, to get the internship.”
The guy let out a high-pitched laugh and turned it into a cough when a girl in front of them turned around to scowl.
“You think Professor Sharpe is going to use his sway to get you an internship?”
“It’s possible. If I excel.”
“First off, you’re not going to get anywhere near him. The TAs do all the work, grade all the papers, hold office hours.”
Ethan heard students laugh. Sharpe had said something funny and he’d missed it. One less connection Ethan could casually bring up later. The professor clicked to the next slide.
“What’s number two?” Ethan asked.
“What?”
“What’s number two of your infinitely wise argument against this class?”
The guy put his foot on the column, leaving his legs spread like he was lounging on his couch. “Oh, right. He’s not going to help you because you don’t have tits.”
The girl in front swished around, her red hair flapping against the guy’s foot. She shot him a nasty look, and in return, he gave her the turn-around signal with his index finger.
“You think you know everything, don’t you?” Ethan said, his frustration turning to anger. Was this guy on a mission to crush his spirit, throw his future into a ditch face-first?
“Not everything. But I know that Professor Sharpe’s last four interns were girls. One of them told me Sharpe has a very…shall we say, ‘hands-on approach’ to learning.”
“He would never!”
“Because you know him so well? Oh, that’s right. You two are BFFs. He’s going to hook you up with an internship this summer and walk you personally into Harvard Law School. And why wouldn’t he be impressed with you? You wore khakis to class.”
Ethan glanced at his outfit and then peered at the auditorium, which was dotted with a few kids in blazers and dresses. They sat in the front row.
“You’re really going to stand out, what with that and your stellar note-taking skills.”
Ethan looked down at his half-empty notebook page.
“Next stop, Harvard Law.”
“And next stop for you,” Ethan said with a bristle, “academic probation.”
“You’re funny.”
“And you’re a dick!”
“Excuse me,” said a booming voice from the front. It was Professor Sharpe. How much had he heard? Was Ethan being pre-disbarred? He could feel his face burn up to equator levels. “Please keep conversations until after class.”
“Real smooth,” the guy said.
“What’s your name?”
“Greg.”
“Well, Greg. Don’t talk to me. Pretend there is a brick wall between us. Leave me alone.”
“I was. I was calmly using my phone until you began striking up a conversation.”
Ethan rolled his eyes. He was not going to win against Greg. Guys like him didn’t care about being rational or logical. They just wanted to be right, even if they were wrong. Ethan ignored him for the rest of class and swore to himself that he would make it here on time for the rest of the quarter, if only to permanently avoid his seatmate.