The teacher, a large, friendly-looking woman (but not f**kable), asks, “Sean?”
Crossing my legs (no one can see, just a reflex) I sit up, “Yes?”
Teacher asks, “Why don’t you tell us what the last paragraph means.”
All I can say is “Um.” Look at the last paragraph.
Teacher says, “Just encapsulate it for us.”
I say, “Encapsulate.”
Teacher says, “Yes. Encapsulate.”
“Well…” and now I get the awful feeling that this girl in the sunglasses is laughing, smirking at me. I glance over at her quickly. She’s not. I look down at the essay. What last paragraph? Lauren.
Teacher’s losing patience. “What do you think it means?”
I skim the last paragraph. What is this? High school for Christ’s sake? I will drop out of college. I hope that if I stall long enough she’ll ask someone else and so I wait. People stare. Boy with cropped red hair wearing a “You’re Insane” button on his ratty black Nehru jacket raises his hand. So does the idiot at the end of the table who looks like he’s the lead singer of the Bay City Rollers. Even the blond dude from L.A. whose I.Q. has got to be in the lower forties manages to raise a tan arm. What in the hell is going on here? I will drop out of college. Was I learning anything?
“What is it about, Sean?” the teacher asks.
“It’s about his dissatisfaction with the government?” I ask, guessing.
The girl with the sunglasses raises a hand. Do you wear a diaphragm everywhere you go? I want to scream, but stop myself because the idea really excites me.
“Actually, it’s about the opposite,” the teacher, who has got to be a dyke, says, fingering a long string of beads. “Clay?” the teacher asks.
“Well, like, the dude was totally depressed because, well, the dude turned into a bug and freaked….”
I look down and want to shout out, “Hey, I think it’s a f**king masterpiece,” but I haven’t read it so I can’t.
That girl sitting across from me doesn’t remind me of Lauren. No one does. She puts a piece of gum in her mouth. I don’t feel excited anymore.
And leaving class during the break with the intention of not going back isn’t any better since I have to see my advisor, Mr. Masur, whose office is in the Barn. Otherwise known as Administration Row. And walking up the small graveled path I wonder what Lauren is doing right now, this second. Is she in her room at Canfield, or over with friends carving pumpkins and getting drunk in Swan? Up at the dance studio? Computer room? With Vittorio? No, Vittorio’s gone. With Stump? Maybe she’s just hanging around Commons talking to Judy or Stephanie or whoever the hell she knows, reading the Times, attempting Friday’s crossword. I pull my coat tighter around me. I’m nauseous. I walk faster. The Swedish girl from Bingham who I always thought was sort of good-looking (who’s also f**king Mitchell) is coming down the path, toward me. I realize that I am going to have to pass this Swedish girl and say something or smile. It would be too rude to not say anything. But she passes and smiles and says “Hi” and I don’t say anything. I’ve never said anything to the Swedish girl for some reason and I feel guilty and turn around and say “Hi!” loudly. The Swedish girl turns around and smiles, puzzled, and I start jogging toward the Barn, blushing, heavily embarrassed, feverish, walking in through the main entrance, wave to Getch who’s setting up some fossil exhibition, take the stairs up two at a time, and then it’s Masur’s office. I knock, winded.
“Come in, come in,” Mr. Masur says.
I enter.
“Ah, Mr. Bateman, it’s good to see you, every, what is it now? Month or so?” the sarcastic bastard asks.
I grin and plop myself down in the chair across from Masur’s desk.
“Where have you been? We’re supposed to meet every week,” Masur says, leaning back.
“Well…” Duh. “I’ve been real busy.”
“Oh, you have?” Masur asks, grinning. He runs a hand through his long gray hair, sucking in while lighting his pipe, like a true ex-boho.
“I got your note. What is it?” I know it’s going to be something bad.
“Yes. Well…” He shuffles through papers. “As you know it’s mid-term and it’s come to my attention that you are not passing three of your courses. Is this true?”
I try to look surprised. Actually I thought I was failing four courses. I try to guess which one I’m passing. “Um yeah well, I’m having trouble in a couple of classes.” Pause. “Am I failing Sculpting Workshop?”
