Noah
I hate being on campus. I feel old. Which isn't entirely logical because I'm only a few years older than the kids plugged in and tuned out around me. Part of me envies them. The casual nonchalance as they stroll from class to class, listening to music without a care in the world.
It feels surreal. Like a dream that I’m going to wake up from any minute now and find that I’m still in Iraq with LT and the guys. A few months ago, I was patrolling a shithole town in the middle of Iraq where we had no official boots on the ground and now I'm here. I feel like I've been ripped out of my normal.
Hell, I don't even know what to wear to class. This is not a problem I've had for the last four years.
I erred on the side of caution - khakis and a button down polo. I hope I don't look like a fucking douche bag. LT would be proud of me. I think. But he's not here to tell me what to do, and I'm so far out of my fucking league it's not even funny.
I almost grin at the note. LT is still looking after me. His parents are both academics, and it is because of him that I am even here. I told him there was no fucking way I was going to make it into the business school because math was basically a foreign language to me.
My phone vibrates in my pocket, distracting me from the fact that my happy ass is lost on campus. Kind of hard to navigate when the terrain is buildings and mopeds as opposed to burned out city streets and destroyed mosques.
Stats tutor contact info: Beth Lamont. Email her, don't text.
Apparently, LT was serious about making sure I didn't fail. Class hadn't even started yet, and there I was with my very own tutor. I was paying for it out of pocket. There were limits to how much pride I could swallow. It was bad enough that I wanted to put on my ruck and get the hell out of this place.
Half the students looked like they'd turn sixteen shades of purple if I said the wrong thing. Like look out, here’s the crazy ass veteran, one bad day away from shooting the place up. The other half probably expected the former soldier to speak in broken English and be barely literate. Douche bags. Need to get working on that whole cussing thing, too. Couldn't be swearing like I was back with the guys or calling my classmates names. Not if I wanted to fit in.
I’m not sure about this. Not any of it. I never figured I was the college type - at least not this kind of college.
I tap out an email to the tutor and ask when she's available to meet. The response comes back quickly. A surprise, really. I can’t tell you how many emails I sent trying to get my schedule fixed and nothing. Silence. Hell, the idea of actually responding to someone seems foreign. I had to physically go to the registrar’s office to get a simple question answered about a form. No one would answer a damn email. Sometimes, I think they'd be more comfortable with carrier pigeons. Or not having to interact at all. I can't imagine what my old platoon would do to this place.
Noon at The Grind.
Which is about as useful information as giving me directions in Arabic because I have no idea a) what The Grind is or b) where it might be.
I respond to her email and tell her that.
Library coffee shop. Central campus.
Okay then. This ought to be interesting.
I head to my first class. Business stats. Great. Guess I’ll get my head wrapped around it before I meet the tutor. That should be fun.
I didn't think that fun and statistics going in the same sentence but whatever. It was a required course, so I guess that's where I was going to be.
My hands start sweating the minute I step into the classroom. Hello school anxiety. Fuck, I forgot how much I hate school. I’m at the back of the room, the wall behind me where I can see the doors and windows. I hate the idea of someone coming in behind me. Call it PTSD or whatever, but I hate not being able to see who’s coming or going.
I reach into my backpack and pull out a small pill bottle. My anxiety is tripping at a double time, and I'm going to have a goddamned heart attack at this point.
I hate the pills more than I hate being in the classroom again, but there's not much I can do about it. Not if I want to do this right.
And LT would pretty much haunt me if I fuck this up.
I choke down the bitter pill and pull out my notebook as the rest of the class filters in.
I flip to the back of the notebook and start taking notes. Observations. Old habit from Iraq. Keeps me sane, I guess.
The females have some kind of religious objection to pants. Yoga pants might as well be full on burkas. I've seen actual tights being worn as outer garments and no one bats an eye. It feels strange seeing so much flesh after being in Iraq where the only flesh you saw was...
Well, wasn't that a happy fucking thought.
Jesus. I scrub my hands over my face. Need to put that shit aside, a.s.a.p.
The professor comes in, and I immediately turn my attention to the front of the classroom. She looks stern today, but I'm pretty sure that’s a front. She’s got to look mean in front of these young kids. She’s nothing like she was when we talked about enrollment before I started. She was one of the few people who did respond to emails at this place.
"Good morning. I'm Professor Blake, and this is my TA Beth Lamont. If you have problems or issues, go through her. She speaks for me and has my full faith and confidence. If you want to pass this class, pay attention because she knows this information inside and out."
Beth Lamont. Hello, tutor.
I lose the rest of whatever Professor Blake has to say. Because Beth Lamont is like some kind of stats goddess. Add in that she's drop dead smoking hot, but it's her eyes that grab hold of me. Piercing green and intense. She looks at me, and I can feel my entire body standing at the position of attention. It's been a long time since a woman made me stand up and take notice. And I'm supposed to focus on stats around her? I'd be lucky to remember how to write my name in crayons around her.
I am completely fucked.