Finally, with heavy eyelids intent on closing, I’m convinced I could fall asleep to the tick of the clock before Hardwin clears his throat rather obnoxiously. Sleep is for the weak; I can sleep when I’m dead.
I zoom over to his desk in two long strides, accepting my freshly graded essay and fostering an iota of worry at the same time. He doesn’t say anything. No feedback, no praise. Just returns to his mindless blackboard scribbling, colder than glacier meltwater. When I brave a glance at my paper, a giant B+ is circled in crimson ink.
Holy shit. I fucking passed. Not only did I pass, but I aced it. B plus, baby! Read it and weep. I’m cleared for hockey until the final class exam. Oh my God. I need to find Staten and tell her the good news. She’s in Organic Chemistry. Where the hell is that? Screw it—I’ll find her. I’ll scour the entire campus if that’s what it takes.
“Thanks, Prof. H! Can I call you Prof. H?” I shout over my shoulder, pointing in his direction and receiving a deadpan look that would offend me if it wasn’t for its frequency.
I’m beginning to think he has the vernacular of a caveman because he just grunts again, not bothering to tear himself away from his blackboard. Not even Hardwin’s sour mood can rain on my parade. I’m on cloud nine. The only time I got this close was when I smoked a huge bowl of weed before eating an entire sheet cake from Costco while watchingThe Notebook. What can I say? I’m a hopeless romantic at heart.
Speaking of hopeless romanticism, I barrel down the steps of the English building like a car with cut brakes, nearly getting swallowed by a tide of students that eddies across the quad in impenetrable currents. It’s a bottleneck at its finest, and I’m not above shoulder-checking an irksome slow walker if I have to.
The yolky sun spills over the surprisingly cloudless sky, filling in the jagged outline of the faraway mountains, and there’s a warmth to the atmosphere that seems to celebrate my victory.
Heart cartwheeling in my chest, I eventually force my way through the midafternoon rush, bursting through the doors of the nearest science building and scaling the three-story stairs like my life depends on it. I just have to find a mounted plate that says CHEM 120. Texting Staten would be futile. There’s no way she’d be on her phone during class, and I don’t want to be the dick responsible for blowing up said phone.
My determination forges into a precious metal, participating in a feedback loop that works in tandem with thepumping of my hamstrings. If hockey didn’t test my athleticism every week, I probably would’ve keeled over by now.
Each classroom is a blur, my brain a convoluted mess with an impulse as finnicky as a weathervane. I don’t know how I register each plate considering the speed I’m moving at, but I smuggle my frustration like contraband, repeating the same tireless cycle over and over again until I reach the last classroom on the third floor.
She’s not here.
Now, any normal person would just, I don’t know, wait for Staten to get out of class and text her accordingly, but I’m not that patient, nor that levelheaded.
Cursing under my breath, I comb through the next building against an unset countdown, then the next, then the next. I need to find her. I need to see the look on her face when she hugs me, and I spin her around, and flowers swirl in the air like we’re in some cheesy Hallmark movie.
Ironically, the slow burn of regret is nothing compared to the actual burn thrumming in my overtaxed legs. Sweat glues the back of my shirt to my spine, my essay (and only evidence) nearly flying into a distant sector when I crash into the walking monstrosity that is MU’s very own parade of band kids.
“Sorry!” I yell, crumpling my paper in my fist, sprinting away from the almost-crime scene in case someone gets the idea of using their trombone for unsanctioned violence.
Fifteen minutes later, I’m on the opposite end of campus, huffing and puffing with my hands on my knees.
A metal scrapyard sits outside of a single-story building, left here by the preceding elements and patinaed in a gorgeous green that shimmers in the fading light. It’s as if the past itself has been mummified. Untouched vines and overshoots slither between long-forgotten beams, and a circlet of conifers surrounds the immediate area, segregating this secret haven from the rest of the structure-hugging core.
My ambition, if anything, is resistant to befall the despair that tries (and fails) to pull at my psyche—like an omnipotent hand uprooting something rotten.
When I step inside and peer through the vision panel of the first door, I scan every head until Staten’s jet-black hair enters my line of sight. She’s jotting something down in her notebook, her eyebrows folded in adorable concentration.
I know she’s probably going to snipe me for this, but I begin to wave my arms around like a madman, trying to get her attention. A few other eyes drift over to my spectacle, and I have to continue this sick humiliation ritual while my nerves marshal a new line of defense. I’m not above bursting into the room, but I think I speak for everyone involved that nobody wants that.
Realistically, it probably takes three minutes before she notices me, though I’d equate it to a goddamn eternity. Her gaze finally mirrors that of her distracted classmates—curiosity did kill the cat, after all—and she blanches the moment she sees me.
I gesture for her to come outside.
Her pale face is sheeted in annoyance.
I beckon her again.
No movement.
Jesus, I forgot how stubborn she was. I’m not caffeinated enough for this.
Since demanding doesn’t seem to be working, I clasp my fingers together in prayer, shake my hands through the glass, and silently beg her to come outside and put me out of my misery. We’re talking theatrics here, people. Over-exaggerated expressions, evicting tears from their goddamn ducts if I have to.
The classroom is soundproof, but I can practically hear the growl that egresses from her lips. She begins to pack her things up, and I have to refrain from punching my fist into the air victoriously.
Staten exits the room, and she doesn’t have the chance to berate me before I’m pulling her sideways and out the double doors of the building.
“What thehellare you doing?” she exclaims, impatience sprinkled in her tone.
