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“Last time we did that, we almost accidentally became Scientologists,” Kayla points out with a visible shiver up her spine.
“You don’t just accidentally become a Scientologist,” Julia insists. “It’s this whole thing, I’m pretty sure. I don’t know, ask Tom Cruise.”
“We’re getting nowhere,” I remind everyone as my stomach growls for the hundredth time.
There’s a knock on the door of our small office, and Professor Olmsted dips her head inside.
“Julia, were you able to make those slides for Thursday’s lecture?”
Originally from Iran by way of London, Professor Olmsted has an accent that was tricky to place when I first met her. She’s in her late 50s, tall and lithe with dark brown skin. I’m so envious of her effortless style. She’s always so put together. Today it’s tailored wide-legged trousers that remind me of Katharine Hepburn paired with a crisp white button-down rolled to her elbows. I’ve never seen her in a dress or a skirt, and if I had any money to my name, I’d totally copy her outfit for outfit. As it is, I’m rocking a free Caltech sweatshirt and jeans.
“Yes, and I’ve emailed the new slide deck out to the class already. They should have enough time to review it all before Thursday.”
“Good. Thanks.” She props her shoulder against the doorframe, assessing us with an amused glare. “What were you all moaning about when I walked in?”
“Food,” Ryan replies. “What else?”
She rolls her eyes and disappears, returning a minute later with a tray of sandwiches in tow.
“I stole these from the faculty lounge. Don’t rat me out.”
She sets the tray on the edge of my desk, and like hungry vultures, we converge on it.
“Hey, easy!” Kayla says, shoving Ryan with her shoulder. “That was my finger you nearly yanked off.”
“You do all eat, don’t you?” Professor Olmsted asks, looking to me for an answer.
I shrug as Julia replies, “Sure. We’ve got our three basic food groups: cereal, ramen, and Pop-Tarts.”
“Lord help us,” Professor Olmsted says, pressing her hand to her forehead.
“I did have a vegetable last week,” Ryan says with a proud smile.
We all laugh as Professor Olmsted shakes her head.
“Right, well. I’m sure you all have enough work to get to so I won’t keep you, but I wanted to give you these.”
She tugs a white envelope out of the back pocket of her pants and holds it out for Ryan to take since he’s the closest to the door.
“What’s this?”
“A little treat.”
Ryan opens the envelope and slowly pulls out what looks to be a stack of tickets. His eyes go wide with wonder.
“No shit.”
“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,” Professor Olmsted says with a cheeky smile.
His gaze flits back and forth between her and the tickets. “Is this a joke? These are insanely good seats. Practically courtside!”
“Courtside for what?” Julia says, trying to grab for the tickets, but Ryan holds them just out of her reach. The two of them are eternally at odds and, I suspect, secretly in love.
She pokes his ribs and he finally passes three of them over. She takes one and keeps them moving so Kayla gets one and then finally the last one is passed to me.
I look down at the ticket in my hand and my heart stops, then immediately starts hammering hard in my chest, pummeling my ribs.
“These are basketball tickets,” I say dumbly.
“What gave it away?” Ryan asks sarcastically. “The huge basketball in the top right corner or…?”
Professor Olmsted laughs. “I know none of you are the sporty type—”
“I take no offense to that,” Ryan retorts with a wide-mouthed grin.
“But…I figure it’s a once-in-a-lifetime experience. And it’s free.”
“I love free,” Kayla says.
“Don’t you want to use them?” I ask, trying to foist the ticket back on Professor Olmsted. “I can’t accept this.”
She shakes her head. “They were a gift to my husband from his firm, but we have dinner plans that night. I thought I’d pass them on to you lot since I know how hard you all have been working lately. And they include a meal and drink package too. It’s a real splurge.”
“You had me at meal,” Kayla says before taking another bite of her sandwich.
Professor Olmsted smiles. “Good. Go and enjoy. Raelynn—” My gaze shoots up to meet hers, and she smiles gently. “You’ll go, won’t you?”
I nod gently, knowing full well that I’m lying. When she looks relieved, guilt washes over me. I know she keeps a careful watch on me compared to the others. She worries about me when she shouldn’t. I’m doing perfectly fine. I’m doing well in all of my seminars and courses, and my work on my master’s thesis is ahead of schedule. Though something tells me it’s not my schoolwork she’s concerned about.
After she leaves, running off to a staff meeting, I set my basketball ticket down beside my laptop, my attention sliding back to it every few seconds. Annoyed, I eventually shove it into my bag so I don’t have to keep looking at it—not that it truly matters. Even if I were able to focus on my work, the others are still chatting about the basketball game. They can’t believe their luck; I can’t believe the odds.
