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They have never let me live it down since. “Not any time soon, Conner – sorry, you’re just not my type.”
Conner smiles at me salaciously. “Shame,” he says as he eyes me up and down, “red-headed nymphs with ocean-blue eyes areexactlymy type.”
Sarah rolls her eyes for what must be the third time this morning. I think she’s going for a record. “Conner, anyone with boobs is your type,” she sasses, saving me from any further embarrassment.
Conner seems to want to argue but is cut off when Dr. Parnard addresses the class to quiet down. Making sure to give me an exaggerated wink, Conner turns back to look at the board.
We all have to pinch our lips to stop smiling when our friend Isaac, who looks half-dead, walks in just as the class settles down.
Isaac keeps his head down, making no eye contact as he’s forced to make the walk of shame across the front of the class and up the stairs to our spot.
Dr. Parnard doesn’t appreciate tardiness. He makes sure to give Isaac the class’s undivided attention while he unpacks his laptop and gets settled. By the time Dr. Parnard starts to speak again, Isaac looks like he may have a sunburn from the shade of blush on the back of his neck.
Today’s tutorial isn’t exactly exhilarating – we’re covering the dawn of the digital age. I try to stay focused as Dr. Parnard begins writing a timeline on the board.
The professor doesn’t believe in lecture slides. If he only writes his material on the board, students are pushed to attend his class rather than try to understand the material from home.
A lot of this tutorial is review. I spent most of my Saturday afternoon preparing my notes. The yawns arealready starting and are spreading through the class faster than the common cold. To avoid the yawn plague, I turn my attention from the professor to the scene outside.
Students taking classes with less insane professors are starting to arrive on campus. While most hustle from one building to another, others are content to sit by the central fountain, enjoying their morning coffee.
The school isn’t very old, maybe 50 years from what I remember seeing on a plaque outside. I haven’t found many ghosts in the school buildings, probably due to its recent founding. I can only imagine how haunted some of the older colleges might be.
After learning how to help free the faceless, I took another shot at communicating with the local ghosts. I had an abundance of local history assignments in my first year. I was hoping some of the older ghosts I’d seen around town would be able to offer some insight.
My efforts were in vain. No amount of coaxing, smiling, or bribing would get the ghosts to give me the time of day.
How does one bribe a ghost, you ask?
Apparently, not with wine.
The ghosts’ attitudes just mirror those of the ghosts in my hometown. If I dare to look at them, it’s like I’ve grossly invaded their privacy. So, I’ve left them to their own musings and adopted the ‘I’ll pretend I can’t see you if you pretend you can’t see me’ strategy.
I still think my life would be cooler if I could at least talk to them.
Stupid jerk-faced ghosts.
When the tutorial finally ends, most students are slow to get up, their muscles cramped from sitting still for so long. Sarah stretches lazily beside me, and I’m content to hang around in my seat, as the guys get up and turn towards us.
Our little group consists of four people. All history majors, Sarah, Conner, and Isaac became friends while partying in our first year. They only ‘adopted’ me months later.
My adoption was less than subtle.
I’m sitting at one of the larger library tables, pouring over some study notes, when the three hooligans plop down next to me.
I feel like a deer caught in headlights when the overexuberant energies of Conner and Sarah sit on either side of me. Isaac sits in front of me, offering a shy smile. That’s the only thing I notice about him because a second later, Conner and Sarah demand my undivided attention.
Sarah introduces herself, noting that she’s seen me in many of their classes and that it’s high time we become friends. She then pushes her phone in front of my face and asks for my contact info because we will be hanging out.
She’s as subtle as a freight train.
I’m shocked and speechless, but I enter my contact info as asked, only to be added to a group chat with the three of them a moment later.
Conner doesn’t miss his opportunity to hit on me, but Sarah swats his hand, demanding he not scare me off and make me think they’re weird. This instigates a heated yet playful argument between the two, which onlyfinishes when Sarah declares that I’m off limits as a hookup for at least a few hangouts. Just so that they can show me what a great group they are.
Conner relents, and as they leave, Sarah tells me she’ll be saving a seat for me at our next shared class.
Who in their right mind could resist that kind of friendship offer?
