Third Degree (13 page)

“I’ll be at the game Saturday,” Marshall says, “but I’m sitting in the alumni section.”

The girl practically bats her eyelashes at him. I roll my eyes and scowl at her back.

“I’ve got an extra ticket in the student section. You could always give your seat to someone else, couldn’t you?” she says in the singsong voice that I’ve heard when nurses are trying to convince pediatric patients to take their meds or eat their lunch. It’s part sales pitch, part I-don’t-care-either-way. “Give me your number and I’ll text you where I’m sitting. Just in case.” She holds her hand out, and it takes me a minute to figure out what she wants.

Marshall removes his cell phone from the pocket of his gym shorts and hands it over. They chat about some TV show I’ve never heard of while she enters her number into his phone and then sends herself a text from him.

It occurs to me right then that Marshall’s never given me his number. But then again, I’ve never asked or offered up mine. It’s not like I can’t find him if I need to. But still …

Finally the blond girl heads toward a building in a different direction and Marshall stops and turns to face me. I jump because I had no idea he knew I was behind him, and I end up dropping my books onto the slightly damp grass.

Marshall bends over to pick them up, dusting off the front cover of my notebook before dropping them into my arms again. “So,” he whispers, glancing around, “how’d I do?”

“You got an eighty-eight.” I pick up my pace, heading toward the building where my next class is held.

He jogs to catch up with me. “Do you think there’s a Roland Juniper enrolled in this school?”

“Why? Is that the name you made up for your test?”

He shrugs. “Maybe.”

“Most people put something like Donald Duck or Miley Cyrus to avoid further investigation when a university employee attempts to enter the grade into the system.”

Marshall’s amused expression falls, and worry replaces it. I don’t know why I’m snapping his head off. Maybe it’s PMS. Maybe it’s the fact that I’m not in his phone like the random blond girl and he’s never sent me a text.

“So you
have
done this before,” he accuses.

I roll my eyes but keep them forward. “No, but I’ve been a TA for three different professors at the University of Chicago and shredded plenty of Donald Duck’s exam papers.”

“So that’s how you came up with this plan,” he says, the smile returning. “And what course was Donald Duck enrolled in? I never took him to be an intellectual.”

“Intro to Bioengineering. And believe it or not, they let all kinds of unintelligent people into college classes.” I blow a wisp of hair off my face in an effort to calm myself and then point a finger off to the right, where our dorm is located. “Shouldn’t you be going that way?”

“I’m coming to class with you,” he says, as though we’ve discussed this on many occasions, when in fact we haven’t at all. “You helped me, I’m gonna help you now.”

I stop in the grass, possibly to prevent him from knowing where my class is, but that’s pointless since there’s a big brick building in front of me and not much else. “Thanks, but I don’t think I’ll be needing your assistance in my lit course. I’d like to pass this class if that’s all right with you.”

“Ouch.” He frowns but doesn’t budge. “I’m getting A’s in everything but anatomy. And
I’m not here for academic assistance. You said that you’re very close to getting booted out of this class, too, and we’re almost past the drop deadline.…”

I release a frustrated breath and take off at my brisk pace again. “Whatever.”

He nudges my shoulder with his, then tugs at my ponytail. “What’s with you today?”

“PMS.” It’s the best answer I can give him, because honestly, I don’t know what’s with me.

“I see what you’re doing,” he says, holding the door open for me. I refuse it and open the door on the left, letting myself inside. “But you must have forgotten that I have sisters, and it’s been a long time since I could be scared off by female problems. Plus, if I’m gonna teach high school gym, I gotta be ready for the girls who want to use menstrual cramps as an excuse to get out of running laps or whatever, right?”

“Right. Because menstrual cramps are never a legit excuse for omitting strenuous exercise.”

His mouth falls open. “Well—”

I pound my feet into the stairs, taking them two at a time. “Have you ever experienced the sensation of your body shedding its uterine lining?”

“Pretty sure that I don’t have a uterus …”

“Would you let a male student sit out after getting kicked in the balls?”

We reach the second-floor landing, and this time Marshall doesn’t even try to hold the door for me. “We’re about to have a feminist lecture, aren’t we?”

I groan. “This is why you suck at anatomy. Which is what we’re discussing right now. Not feminism.”

Ken, my instructor, who refuses to be called by anything but his first name, immediately forms his mouth into a thin line at the sight of me entering the classroom. “Izzy,” he says with a nod, then turns his eyes curiously to Marshall. After a couple of sessions with Ken, it’s pretty obvious that Marshall is more his type than mine. “And I don’t know you …?”

“Marshall Collins.” He grins and sticks out his hand to shake my teacher’s.
Suck-up. Seriously
. “I’m Izzy’s friend. She told me how amazing this class is, and I need an English elective next semester, so I figured I could sit in, if you don’t mind?”

“Izzy said my class is amazing?” Ken’s eyebrows are practically to his hairline. “That’s very … interesting.”

I smile sweetly but can’t bring myself to speak for fear of saying what I’m thinking. Instead, I slide into my usual seat in the middle of the room.

“Which electives are you considering?” Ken asks Marshall.

“Well, I’ll be honest with you. Twentieth-century American literature is appealing to the World War I lover in me a bit more than poetry is, but I’m not making any hasty decisions.”

Oh, God, please tell me Ken is going to see through this bullshit and kick him out. If not, I’ve lost faith in the human race.

“Wow, that is a tough choice. Even I don’t know which is better. Of course, my first answer is both, but that’s the English major in me talking.” He scans Marshall from head to toe. “And you don’t look like an English major.”

Gag
. Talk about a lack of professionalism. I tune them out and turn to the guy beside me. He sits in the same seat every class and always has a carton of chocolate milk. He’s not hot like Marshall, but he’s decent-looking. That could be perfect for me. Someone who wouldn’t be capable of both pissing me off and turning me on in a span of five minutes. And he’s not my resident advisor. Another plus.

“So …,” I say, waiting for him to look up. When he does, I blurt out, “Can I have your number?”

His eyes widen and he actually leans back a little, putting more space between us. “Um … what—I mean, why?”

I suddenly realize this is probably not the best approach. “I have to miss class next week. Just wanted to be able to call someone to find out the—”

“Homework?” he finishes, and I nod. “Uh, sure.”

He jots down “Lance” in messy chicken scratch on the corner of his notebook page. He’s got nothing on Marshall’s mastery of cursive writing. I accept the phone number on torn paper even though I’ve already memorized it.

“Thanks, this could come in handy.” I think for a second about how Marshall has mentioned several times the need to be relatable, to make people feel at ease. “Ken seems to have put me on his watch list, so I don’t want to take any chances by missing classwork, you know? My parents would kill me if I got a C in an English course.”

He blows air out of his cheeks, looking relieved. “Yeah, totally know what you mean. But my mom would freak about a B, so consider yourself lucky. I thought being out of high school would keep them out of my grades. Apparently I was wrong.” He must be less afraid of me now because he actually leans in closer, just as Marshall slides into the seat on my other side. “You know, just a suggestion, but some people find it easier to get a good grade when they adopt the teacher’s opinions. My mom always tells me that you only have to agree with them for a semester and then you can go back to your own ideals.”

It takes every ounce of effort I can muster to avoid rolling my eyes. I’m not an expert, but I’m pretty sure repeated mentions of your mother’s sayings are not the best way to impress a college girl. I force a smile. “Thanks for the tip. I’ll remember that.”

Marshall snorts back a laugh but does nothing except shake his head when I glare at him. I make a big deal of entering Lance’s number into my phone and then tuck it away when Ken
stands in front of us ready to force more idealistic views on impressionable young minds.

“Let’s pick up where we left off last time,” he says. “The Edgar Allan Poe poem, the eleventh and twelfth stanzas …”

“This poem is so freakin’ long,” someone behind me mutters. Maybe I do have things in common with my peers.

Ken clears his throat and begins reading:

“
And so it lies, happily
,

Bathing in many

A dream of the truth

And the beauty of Annie—

Drowned in a bath

Of the tresses of Annie
.

She tenderly kissed me
,

She fondly caressed
,

And then I fell gently

To sleep on her breast—

Deeply to sleep

From the heaven of her breast.
”

“Do we know who Annie is?” a girl behind me asks.

Ken walks to the board and picks up a dry-erase marker. “We know that Poe was engaged to a woman at the time of his death, but we don’t know her name. Before that, he was married to a woman named Virginia—”

“Yeah, his cousin,” I can’t help adding despite the fact I highly doubt Ken is interested in hearing my thoughts.

The marker pauses against the board. “True, Izzy. Virginia Clem was his cousin.”

Maybe it’s because Marshall’s here today, or maybe I’ve caused Ken to hit his boiling point, but he surprises me by turning around and addressing me. “I’m sure you are packed full of details on Poe and his life, which is extremely useful information to have. However, I would really love to hear your thoughts on the actual poetry.”

I hate his condescending tone. I hate that he’s intentionally trying to embarrass me, and that my face is heating up, though I’m pretty sure it’s more from anger than anything else. I think Lance the momma’s boy had a point when he recommended I shut up and nod my agreement with Ken’s every thought and feeling.

“I find it hard to truly analyze his creative words without holding them beside his life and
what kind of person he was,” I say, forcing myself to speak slowly and carefully.

Ken walks around and sits on the edge of his desk. His gaze flits to Marshall for a moment and then back to me. “What kind of person was Poe?”

I snort back a laugh. “That’s impossible to answer in the span of this class period.”

“Five words or less,” he challenges.

“Spoiled.” I hold up one finger, preparing to tick them off one at a time. “Churlish, alcoholic, petulant, underachiever.”

I don’t usually think much of poets or songwriters, I don’t care about their lives or backgrounds, but Edgar Allan Poe and I have quite a few things in common. Poe’s parents died when he was very young. He was taken in by a rich man who wanted nothing but to help Poe reach his intellectual and human potential, thus creating a spoiled, ungrateful man. My birth mother died when I was a baby, and foster families took me in, then rejected me. But my parents did the opposite—they adored and cherished me every second of my childhood. Then take that kid and make her the poster student for a prestigious university, have adults fawn over her on a daily basis, and watch the monster she becomes. I snapped my fingers and professors, secretaries, and TAs came running to listen to me whine and give me whatever I wanted.

Lucky for me, unlike Poe, I had a year of being a surgical intern that almost completely wiped that attitude from me. It’s strange to even think of myself as that monster of a girl anymore. I hope she’s gone for good. And looking back on her reign, I think I’ve always held on to some of that loneliness from my first five years of life, from not belonging to anyone or any specific place.

And now my dad has his own condo. My mom will have her own place soon. And strangers will move into the house that I grew up in.

I know it isn’t true, but it feels like I’m back to where I was years ago: lonely.

“Interesting description, Izzy,” Ken says, interrupting my thoughts. “Anyone else have trouble matching the author with the words in the poem?”

“Spoiled and having material things and opportunities doesn’t equate to happiness or success,” Marshall says. “Maybe he was lonely? He sounds lonely in this section of the poem.”

I snap my head around to gape at him. Did he read my mind?

“I like where you’re going with this,” Ken says to Marshall.

Seriously? He’s not even in this class.

Marshall flashes me a devious grin and then goes on to compare the physical actions of Poe laying his head on Annie’s breast to a majorly far-fetched theory that Annie is actually his pillow. After his first wife (and cousin—gross) died and he needed someone to take care of him while he was sick, add some feverish delusion and you end up with a pillow impersonating a woman.