The gold trimmed acceptance letter hadn't included anything about Dr. Marks' seminar. None of my older friends had warned me beyond the vague “he’s tough” with a smile. My advisor, the tough-loving Dr. Campbell had said taking Marks’ seminar was unavoidable. It was a graduation requirement, one they never told you about when you were deciding to attend the university. You didn't even have to be an undergrad. Grad students often did it, too.
“Arianna,” Selena waves a striped straw in my face. “Do you want to be late? Kenna promised it’s a simple 'A' if you do the work well.” My friend sips her sweet tea, standing up from her chair. I look down. I’ve barely touched my lunch, chicken salad sandwich, sweet potato fries, and a Red Delicious apple with Cherry Coke.
I take a big bite out of the apple, tossing my phone into my bag and picking up the rest.
We pass a trio of overexcited prospective students, two girls and a boy on a shadow as we approach the social sciences complex. Greg Bath, a sophomore second string cornerback for the football team, holds the door for us. Maroon 5 Animals spills through his DJ-style headphones. He smiles at Selena. She kisses his cheek. It's partly in thanks, but mostly to see his reaction. As we start up the main stairs, we look back. He stands just inside the door, headphones askew with a euphoric expression. He’s too shy to ask her to a party, but they’ve gone out a few times casually -- though she's never kissed him in the past. We hustle up to the second floor, seeing Daniella, our suite-mate, looking over the rail at us.
The lecture hall is one we've never had classes in. I’ve heard from grad students that it's reserved specifically for Dr. Marks’ senior classes. I see namecards on the backs of seats. I find mine in the middle of a row. There are only six people in each row. A guy I recognize vaguely from an English class takes the seat next to me.
“Gabriel Shaw,” he extends his hand. “What do you think the class is about? Marks wouldn't see me to talk about it.”
“I have no clue. Arianna Dye.” I shake his hand.
“Cool,” he smiles and pulls out his laptop. I do the same.
Once every seat is filled, Dr. Marks enters through a door situated near the lectern that we can't see.
He’s exactly how I remember from declaration day, spring of freshman year. Tall with honey hair, green eyes, tan, and muscular. He has a few tattoos.
“Good afternoon class. Welcome to the School of Life.”
His grin is sincere. His eyes are devious.
