9
I open the door to a large lecture hall. Somehow, I’m late. Everyone else is already seated in a semi-circle around multiple levels of whiteboards. A few people turn around to look at me as I make my way down. I find a spot in the middle. Not too close to the front and not too far in the back.
When I put my bag on the floor, I look up and find a small thin woman with large disapproving eyes standing over me.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” I say.
“I would just like to make you all aware of the fact that in the future, the door to the room will be locked and no late arrivals will be tolerated.”
I look down at the syllabus that she’d put on my desk and read her name.
Dr. Polk returns back down to the podium. Behind me two girls giggle.
“Where do you think she got her paisley shirt?” one whispers.
“Goodwill. Oh, and what about those disastrous shoes. How awful.”
I hope Dr. Polk doesn’t hear them and try to focus on what she’s saying.
“Many of you are here because you’re genuinely interested in reading some of the best books from the 20th century. Books like The Great Gatsby, To Kill a Mockingbird, Catch 22, 1984 and House of Mirth. And as for all the rest of you, who aren’t interested, frankly, I don’t really know why you’re here, then. This isn’t a required elective and I hope you don’t waste either my time or your time taking a course that you’re not interested in.
“Also, as many of you know, this is a second-year course, which has only recently became open to first year students,” Dr. Polk continued. “We don’t recommend you take it unless you’re prepared to work really hard. That goes out to all of you, but specifically you freshmen.”
The girls behind me giggle with the laissez-faire of sophomores. They’ve been here for a whole year and they’re apparently not threatened by statements like that. Unfortunately, I’m not so at ease. Perhaps I’m in the wrong class altogether, I wonder. Just because I did really well in high school doesn’t mean that college will be a cakewalk. Especially this college. Especially this course.
Dr. Polk starts to go over the syllabus and introduces the books that we’re going to read this year. I’ve read most of these books in high school. Some just for fun, some for school. Suddenly, the floodgates from the recesses of my mind open and all sorts of unwanted thoughts and memories rush in.
To Kill a Mockingbird. I read it in 11th grade English. Our teacher, Mrs. Danes, let us choose our own seats and Tristan and I sat next to each other. Mrs. Danes was one of those progressive, non-hierarchal teachers who liked to challenge patriarchy at every turn, so she arranged all the desks in the room in a circle so that we could all face each other when we spoke. In a circle, there’s nowhere to hide, she liked to say. I looked forward to that class every day, not just because I loved English, but also because I sat next to Tristan. There were all of these moments before class started where we joked and laughed and all of these moments after class. Sometimes he walked me to my next class, sometimes to my locker. And one time, he kissed me. He walked me all the way to my locker and waited for me to switch out my books.
“So I meant to ask you, how was your date?” he asked. He had heard. Of course. I went on a date with a senior who didn’t go to our school, a brother of a friend of ours.
“Fine.” I smiled. He was trying to be casual about it. Like he was just asking about it in passing. But he was a little flushed. Not like his usual self.
“I was just wondering,” he said very quietly as he leaned closer to me. His face was inches away from mine. His eyes sparkled in the sunlight. He licked his lips and pressed them against mine. Lightly, at first. And then with full force. He put his hand on the back of my neck, pulling me closer.
“I was just wondering if you could not do it again?” he whispered.
That was our first kiss. Real kiss. That night, we went out together and I never saw that other guy again.
Dr. Polk moves on to Catcher in the Rye. Another book that I’ve already read. I started Catcher in the Rye the night after Tristan moved away in August of our senior year. For the first couple of days, I was a frenzy of activity. I did a million things to turn my mind off the fact that I wasn’t going to see my boyfriend for five months. I wrote, I did a ton of math homework, went running twice a day. But no matter what I did, I couldn’t shut my mind off. I couldn’t make myself feel better. So then I stopped. Gave up. Just got into bed and didn’t leave for days. I didn’t know what else to do with myself. I was drowning in anger. And my anger made me feel like the whole world was phony, including me. It was then that I started to dream of walking the streets of New York, just like Holden Caulfield, in a daze in search of something. But definitely not a prostitute (like Holden was).
“That’s enough for now,” Dr. Polk interrupts my train of thought. “Look over your syllabus. Decide if this class is really for you. If it is, go buy all the books and start reading House of Mirth for Thursday’s class.”
I wait for the bell to ring. But this is college. There are no bells. Everyone simply gets up and leaves and I follow them out. If only my dad knew that we had to read books in this class that I’ve already read over the last two years. This time, however, his likely response makes me chuckle.