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“Today we’re going to talk about the Stroop test, its theory, and execution.”
The students drink in his words, attentive. I listen only with a distracted ear, leaning toward Sanchez to place the small water bottle over his head.
“Any volunteers to talk about it?” the teacher continues with a big smile on his face.
When a small trickle of water falls on Sanchez, he wakes up with a start, lets out a little scream and jumps to his feet.
I almost burst out laughing when his knees hit the wood of the table. He glares at me, and a few people turn towards us, noticing that he is standing in the middle of the row, looking half crazy, half asleep.
“You?” the teacher says, catching sight of Sanchez. “Please remind me of your name, young man.”
Sanchez turns to me, silently cursing.
“Next time, snore in someone else’s ear,” I murmur with an innocent air, with a small smile.
He sticks his tongue out childishly, letting me see the piercing that goes through it, then he turns to Tamells.
“Sanchez,” he answers boldly. “I, um…”
“Well, please tell me about the John Stroop test.”
“So, um, John Stroop was…an important man?”
A few laughs erupt, my teacher grumbles something.
“Sit back down, you little clown, and try to open both your ears.”
Sanchez sits and throws me a glare.
“The Stroop effect,” my teacher continues, writing those two words in large letters on the board, “also known as the Jaensch effect, is the disruption of a cognitive task caused by extraneous information.”
The teacher starts spouting a steady stream of information at us while writing on the board.
“You’re so uncool,” Sanchez grumbles, leaning toward me. “My hair is all wet now.”
“Oh, you poor dear. I’m so sorry. What do you say we go get a blow-out together after class?”
He settles back against the backrest without answering, arms crossed.
“This effect is traditionally attributed to the interference of one cognitive process on another. In this test, the reading of the word interferes with the naming of its color,” says Tamells.
I glance at Sanchez, realizing that he is really offended. When he leaves the lecture hall half an hour later, his jaw still clenched, I give in.
“Oh, come on, Sleeping Beauty,” I exclaim as I walk beside him, “stop pouting.”
He grumbles and finally holds the door for me so we can get out. “I’m not pouting,” he mumbles as we walk onto the lawn of the west wing of campus. “I’m just in a bad mood. You might know that.”
I’m about to answer him but I hear exclamations from about thirty feet away.
“What’s all this noise?”
Sanchez shrugs his shoulders, throws his backpack over one, and walks towards the small gathering. “I don’t know. Let’s go and see.”
My curiosity pushes me to follow him, and I discover a small white sign with a fluorescent orange inscription in the center:
“$3 to come and face one of the arms of the hells!”
This puzzles me. I elbow my way through the waiting students. The first thing I see in the middle of the crowd is TJ collecting dollar bills and writing names on a notepad. His baseball cap partially conceals his blond hair.
