Ethan

One week later...

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“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!” My Econ IV professor stood at the front of the classroom. “I want to personally welcome you to a special class called Hell on Earth.”

Everyone in class laughed as he hit the lights.

“I’m not joking,” he said, his voice terse.  The laughter dissolved into silence, and everyone opened their notebooks as he wrote a few words on the whiteboard.

“Hey.” The girl on my left cleared her throat, making me look at her.

“Yeah?” I whispered.

She smiled and just stared at me. Then she snapped a picture and left the room.

I held back a laugh.

Definitely a freshman...

“My name is Professor Hughes,” my teacher continued. “For the next semester, you need to be prepared to be pushed like never before. My job is to weed out the people who won’t make it in business school from the people who might survive a week or two in business school.”

He began passing out his syllabus as the screen behind him lit up. The words on the screen read You have until next week to drop my class without penalty. When he reached my desk, he raised his eyebrow, but he didn’t say anything.

“If you want to pass this class, you will need to eat, breathe, and sleep economics. You will have a test every other Thursday, an analysis paper due every Tuesday, and you’re responsible for presenting a fifteen-page thesis paper on a topic that I must approve by the fifth of next month. Are there any questions?”

A few people raised their hands.

“None at all?”

More hands flew into the air.

“Very well, then.” He smiled and hit the lights. “Class dismissed.”

A few students tried to approach him with questions, but he only said, “Class dismissed” repeatedly until they walked away.

I shut my notebook and stood to my feet.

“Mr. Wyatt?” He said looking at me. “Can you join me down at the podium for a few minutes?”

“Sure.” I made my way down, and he waited until no one else was left in the classroom.

“Mr. Wyatt, why are you taking my class this semester?”

“Because I need it to graduate.”

“You took the more advanced Econ V last year, and it pained me to give you my first A in six years,” he said, smiling. “You’ll more than likely breeze through Econ IV, and I’ll be forced to give you another one.” He tapped his chin. “That might affect my reputation around here as the ‘C-plus & B-minus professor, and I’m not sure how I feel about that.”

I blinked. I could never tell if he was joking or being serious.

“Aren’t you double majoring in Creative Writing? Can’t you take one of those classes instead of this one for the semester?”

“I’ve already completed all the required courses for that major,” I said, somewhat upset that the rest of my classes for my senior year would be devoid of any writing.

“Tell you what, Mr. Wyatt,” he said, clapping his hands together. “I’m going to give you an S-grade for this course, which means you don’t have to show up, but it comes with two conditions.”

“I’d really prefer an A.”

“Let me finish. Condition number one: I’m always in charge of overseeing the final logistics of annual senior lodge trip, and I’ve never once worried about the students who were voted to be in charge of it. This year is the first year that I’m concerned.”

“What do you mean?”

“The mayor’s son, Greg Charleston III, is the committee president. Yesterday he came into my office and asked if there was any extra money in the budget for a TF-fund. He said he wanted to make sure that everyone has a good time.”

“What’s a TF-fund?”

“I had to ask him that same question.” He rolled his eyes. “It stands for The Fucking Fund. He wants to purchase three packs of premium condoms for every person on the trip.”

I held back a smile.

“He’s already spent ten percent of the budget on alcohol and S’more ingredients, and yesterday I saw a charge for some type of specialty fire lighter.” He shook his head. “I’m too old for this shit, so you’re officially responsible for handling the oversight on this trip as of today.” 

“Noted. What’s the second condition?”

“The one that might actually help you put your business skills to use,” he said. “My wife owns a floral store on Main Street that only makes a profit during the summer season,” he said. “I’ve been meaning to have some students complete a semester-long research project on it so I can get some answers on how we can make it profitable year-round, but –” He paused. “I don’t trust any of them. There. I said it. So, in exchange for a recommendation letter and an S-grade—”

“A recommendation and an A-grade.”

“I’ll still have to take a super hard look at the work you turn in if you want a real grade, Mr. Wyatt,” he said tersely, as if giving me another A would kill him. “Anyway, I’d like for you to do a thorough analysis of my wife’s shop for the semester instead of showing up to class and wasting my time. What do you say?”

I hesitated to answer, not wanting to give away the fact that his offer was perfect.

“I accept your offer, Professor Hughes.” I extended my hand, and he shook it. “What’s the name of the store?”

“Oh, right.” He opened a briefcase and handed me a business card. “It’s called The Silk Stem, and it’s right across from The Ripped Bodice. It’s that bookstore that only sells romance books.” He laughed. “I’m sure you have no idea where that is.”

I know exactly where that is...

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AN HOUR LATER, I STOOD across the street from a pink and white building – looking up at the glittering silver Ripped Bodice letters. 

I came here every few weeks out of habit, armed with a list of Rachel’s favorite authors. Since she made it a point to beg for a shipment of new books whenever we were on good terms, I always checked for new releases.

Sure enough, Rachel was already inside the store—staring at the New Releases shelf. She was dressed in bleach white shorts with a bright yellow tank top, and her hair was tossed to one side in loose curls.

All last night, while I was at a bar, I’d listened to all of my friends talk about “the new Semester at Sea girl.”

“Sexiest girl on campus. Hands down.” “Where the hell has she been, and who the hell is she dating?” “What do you mean she’s your roommate?”

Before I could make my way over, my phone sounded in my pocket. A call from my father.

Groaning, I debated whether I should answer it.

“Hello?” I caved before it went to voicemail.

“Hey there, son.” My dad’s voice sounded less condescending than usual. “How are you doing today?”

“Good. What’s up?”

“I’m wondering why you’ve canceled all your work hours at the site for the next few months. I logged into the system, and I can’t figure out why the hell you would ever think that this is okay.”

Spoke too soon about you not being condescending today...

“I have a new assignment that’s going to take up a lot of my time this semester. I need to get an A.”

“Son, in case you’ve forgotten, you’re on track to take over this business the moment you get your MBA. If you think for one second that anyone here gives a damn about whether you make a C or an A in your college classes, you’re sadly mistaken.”

“The grades are for me.”

“Yeah well, you can work at least fifteen hours a week, can’t you?”

I didn’t answer him. I didn’t feel like arguing about this today.

“You’ve been telling me the truth about completing the business degree, right?” He asked. “You’re not going to pull a fast one on me with a degree in that pansy-ass shit you were talking about last year, right?  What was it called again? Creative penmanship?”

“Creative Writing.”

“Yeah, that.” He laughed. “The one that doesn’t make any money. I’ll try to find someone to fill your shifts over the next few weeks, but next time, a heads-up would be greatly appreciated. Anyway, let me run this week’s numbers by you.”

I didn’t listen to a single word he said. I muttered “Um hmm,” and “Yeah,” every few seconds so he would think I was paying attention.

My father had yet to admit it, but he lived vicariously through me. He wanted us to have the relationship he never had with his own dad. Wanted to hand over his company to me, in a way his father didn’t for him.

The idea of this was cool when I was younger — when I was tagging along to his construction worksites all week, dragging Rachel along with me to some of the more exciting meetings at baseball games. But as I grew older, I realized that although every subject in school came easy as hell to me, the only one I actually enjoyed was writing. 

I told him this on my thirteenth birthday, showing him an essay called, “I Hate My Next-Door Neighbor,” but he never read it. Instead, he laughed and said, “If you ever plan on knowing what it’s like to get a girl, I highly suggest that you don’t tell anyone what you just told me about wanting to be a writer.”

So, I buried the thought and never brought it up again. But when I came to college, I couldn’t help but pursue it as my second major. And although I would never admit it, I enjoyed writing letters over the years; it kept my skills sharp.

“Can I expect to see you at the grand opening of the Perlman offices next week?” My father asked, finally done talking about the numbers.

I doubt it... “I’ll let you know later,” I said, watching a guy approach Rachel in the store. She smiled at him, quickly gave him her phone number, and blushed once he left.  

“Hey, Dad.” I watched Rachel pick up another book. “I have to go. I’ll call you later.”

“You better, son.”

I ended the call and crossed the street, stopping when I made it into the store. The walls were freshly coated in pink, and with the exception of the cashier and Rachel, no one else was here.

“May I interest you in some erotica today, sir?” The cashier smiled. “Each purchase comes with a set of fluffy pink handcuffs.”

“I’ll think about it.” I smiled, and her cheeks turned red.

I walked over to Rachel, and she immediately turned around.

“Why are you in this store?” she asked, making her way to the register. “The sign out front says, No Romance Haters Allowed.”

“This place is across my senior research assignment.” I noticed light pink makeup on her eyelids. “And I’ve told you before that I don’t hate romance. Since you know flowers, I may need your help from time to time. If I can’t find someone else who I can tolerate better, that is.”

“Well, in that case, I’ll need your help giving me a ride to campus every day and not leaving me like you did this morning.”

“I’ll think about it.” I pulled out my wallet and paid for her books. “How are you adjusting to the first week of classes on land so far?” I held the door open as we stepped out of the shop.

“The classes are fine. The social life isn’t what I thought it would be.”

“Why not?”

“Because I think I’ve ruined my chances of making any life-long college friends since I was away for so long,” she said. “Everyone already has their set group of friends and we’ll all be going our separate ways in less than nine months.”

“Well, if you can’t make life-long friends, try making life-long enemies,” I said, smiling. “You’re great at making those.”

“Thank you for that excellent advice.” She rolled her eyes. “Always good to remember why the two of us will never be friends.”

“I’m always happy to remind you of that,” I said. “Just go to some more clubs and parties this week. It’s not that hard. Hell, you should probably go to one of the bars up the street right now and meet someone new. That would also save us from this conversation.”

“Does that mean that you’re not willing to give me a ride home?”

“It means that I’ll do it, but only if you can agree not to talk the entire way there.”

“Ugh. Fine.”

As we walked, I couldn’t help but notice how every man who caught sight of Rachel did a slow and noticeable double-take, and for some strange reason, I felt some type of way about that.

When we made it to my car, I took one long look at her as she tossed her stuff onto my back seat.

“Why are you staring at me?” she asked, looking up.

“I’m not staring at you.” I rolled my eyes. “I’m waiting on you to remember how to ride in the front seat of a car and put on your damn seatbelt.”

“Would you like me to sit in the back seat, then?”

“If Greg’s stuff wasn’t back there, I’d highly suggest it.” I cranked the engine.

“Well, if you’re going to be like that—”

“You agreed not to talk,” I said. “If you don’t want a ride, feel free to get out. If you do want one, I would prefer driving in silence.”

She glared at me as she clicked her seatbelt.

She really is gorgeous as hell now...