Evelyn came back around five o’clock that evening with a thermos of tomato soup and a few warm grilled cheese sandwiches wrapped in foil. As promised, she also brought about a dozen sharpened number-two pencils. I raised an eyebrow questioningly.
“You can never be too prepared!” she said brightly, tucking them back into her purse, next to a small writing pad, a fresh pack of tissues, and a gold tube of lipstick.
I ate as quickly as I could, all too happy to deprive her of the opportunity to chide me to eat more. I cleared our plates with my good hand, ignoring her protests for me to rest, then hurried to the bedroom to grab my backpack. Earlier that afternoon I had dumped out my restaurant uniform – a white, button-up shirt, black dress pants and a green apron, which was in dire need of a good washing – and re-packed it with An Overview of Medieval Europe, an old spiral notebook, and a few mismatched pens I had amassed from around the house.
The backpack was bright red, which I had specifically chosen for its attention-grabbing color a couple years back since its main purpose was for carrying my things on my back while riding my motorcycle. Being highly-visible was a good safety technique on a bike, but a part of me couldn’t help but wish it was a little less conspicuous for this occasion.
You’re being paranoid, I scolded myself. There are hundreds of students in this class.
I wrestled my hair into a high ponytail – a hard enough feat to accomplish with two good hands – and surveyed myself in the mirror. It was a warm evening but I chose soft black leggings to cover the remaining bandages on my legs and a blue, long-sleeved blouse that hid the bruises on my arms and was comfortably loose around my ribs. It was pretty, I conceded, but not ostentatious. Satisfied enough with my reflection, I carefully slung my backpack over my left shoulder.
Here we go, I thought, feeling only a twinge of nervousness.
Emerging from my room a moment later, I walked over to Evelyn who was still sitting at the kitchen table. “All set!” I announced.
She surveyed my bandaged wrist and the residual scuffs on my face but simply smiled and said, “You look just like a typical University student. Except far prettier.” With a wink, she stood up, straightened the chiffon scarf on her head, then gestured to the Buick outside. “Your brick red chariot awaits!”
***
After naïvely wandering around the east side of campus for quite some time (in our defense, it was a sprawling campus with dozens of different buildings, and some of the building names were rather obscured by various overgrown flora), we finally found the right lecture hall at ten past the hour. Hastily taped to the right of the heavy mahogany doors was a sign that read “HIST 2109, Dr. Borstein”.
Flustered and breathless, I cautiously, and with effort, cracked open the heavy door and peeked through, observing a cavernous auditorium with three sections of theater-style seating, divided by two narrow aisles. Most of the seats were already occupied. The professor, a bearded man in his early seventies, sporting a hackneyed brown tweed jacket and stark white hair that was in slight disarray, stood at the front of the room. Far below us, already well into his lecture, he had an impressively stentorian voice. I quickly scanned the room and spotted two empty seats about a third of the way down on the far-right side and motioned for Evelyn to follow me.
She squeezed in behind me through the double doors as I did my best to be quiet and discreet. Naturally, the door forcefully slammed shut behind us, making a preposterously loud BANG.
It echoed thunderously through the great hall like cannon fire. Evelyn, wide-eyed and sheepish, made a wild I-didn’t-do-it gesture as every single head in the room spun around in unison, straining to see what the sudden racket was. My face felt as though it had turned a deeper shade of crimson than my backpack. The fluorescent lights in the ceiling flickered, making the entire scene even more dramatic.
The professor cleared his throat crossly, obviously annoyed by the interruption. I bowed my head in shame and made a beeline for the two open seats, stammering apologies to all of the toes I clumsily trampled.
“Aiden,” the professor addressed a dark-haired man sitting in the front row, who at that moment also happened to be staring at the maladroit buffoon – a.k.a., me – clamoring to get to a seat in the back of the auditorium. Hearing his name, Aiden turned back towards the professor.
“Yes, Doctor Borstein?”
“Please remind me to bring a screwdriver and a can of WD-40 before our next class. If the department won’t fix that damned door, then I will.” I saw the back of Aiden’s head nod as he leaned over in his seat to jot down the note. He looked older than the rest of the students by several years.
One of the Teaching Assistants, I figured.
Professor Borstein raised his voice. “If it would please the class, we’ll continue on with the Siege of Constantinople, which marked the culmination of the Fourth Crusade…”
I slunk down in my seat. Evelyn plopped down next to me, chortling like a school girl. I raised a questioning eyebrow at her but she just shrugged, flashing me a big grin.
“If I had known the professor would be this good-looking,” she whispered, “I’d have crashed this course a long time ago.”
I stared at her incredulously, my own heart still racing from the fresh humiliation. She, on the other hand, seemed positively unruffled. I looked around at the other students, but the rest of the class had mercifully gone back to taking notes or surreptitiously surfing through social media on their laptops. One guy hid a comic book in his open textbook. I glanced down toward the front of the class, where Aiden again twisted around to glance over his shoulder.
Probably at the loose hinges of that supernaturally-heavy door, I thought, my face flushing yet again.
“…therefore, the sack of Constantinople is a major turning point in medieval history. The Crusaders' decision to attack the world's largest Christian city was unprecedented and directly accelerated the collapse of Christendom in the east,” Professor Borstein’s booming voice lulled me out of my chagrin.
I pulled out my notebook and began scribbling notes. I tried to move my sprained wrist as little as possible to keep it from hurting, but nursing it made it impossible for me to be able to capture everything. To my right, Evelyn’s pencils and writing pad remained untouched in her purse, on her lap, upon which she rested her elbows. She had her chin balanced on her fists, appearing entranced by the lecture. Or perhaps the lecturer, I thought with a smirk as I quickly scrawled in slapdash letters: Facilitated the expansion of Islam into Europe.
After thirty or so minutes of Professor Borstein’s uninterrupted oration on the Fourth Crusade and its lasting ramifications, I took a break from writing, idly hoping that there was still some un-melted ice in the cooler Evelyn left in my kitchen. Rubbing my tender wrist, I looked around the room contentedly. I knew I wouldn’t be able to take the next exam or collect any credits, since I wasn’t actually enrolled in the class, but sitting in that room of similarly-aged students, learning, taking notes like the rest of them… there was just something inexplicably satisfying about feeling… well, normal. I wondered if they felt as lucky to be there as I did. I wondered whether they lived in dorms, with friends, or perhaps at home with their parents. I wondered what it would be like to go home to my family, switch on the lights in the living room and talk about what I learned over dinner with my parents. My chest tightened at the concept, so distant and foreign compared to my own situation.
“…That’s all for today, class. Today’s takeaway is this: The Crusaders' decision to attack the world's largest Christian city was controversial and unprecedented. Relations between the Catholic and Orthodox churches were catastrophically damaged for many centuries afterwards… This will be on the exam!” he added pointedly. The other students began bustling about noisily, shuffling notebooks and gathering belongings.
“Do not forget that after today I will be out for the next two weeks,” Professor Borstein spoke over the dispersing students, “and my Associate Professor, Aiden Lawson, will be taking over in my absence.”
Oh, so not a T.A. after all, I noted to myself.
Yelling now, over the noise, he hurriedly added, “Everything we’ve discussed since the last exam up to this point will be on Exam Two, which Aiden will proctor at the end of next week!”
Conceding to the bedlam of departing students, he threw his hands up and began gathering his notes from the podium. I turned towards Evelyn to say something, but she was gone. Looking around worriedly, I spotted her deftly maneuvering between students, her peach-colored scarf distinguishing the one head moving towards the Professor, and not the exits. I watched in mild amusement as she approached him, her body language indicating she was already smitten with the man. But I have to admit, from his wide, toothy grin and close proximity to her as they spoke, the feeling didn’t appear to be one-sided.
I shook my head, chuckling quietly to myself as I started putting my notebook and pens back in my bag. I slung it over my shoulder and stood up, my bandaged legs stiff from sitting still for so long, and glanced back down at the front of the lecture hall. Professor Borstein was handing Evelyn a slip of paper. I had started to turn away and head out the door to meet her outside when my eye caught the Associate Professor’s. Aiden was standing at the front of the room, turned in my direction and staring right at me, his expression cool and penetrating. His dark eyes didn’t move from mine when our gazes met. He looked… perturbed.
We stood for a moment, eyes locked from across the auditorium. His expression didn’t relax. Confused and ill-at-ease, I broke eye contact, ducking my head and hurriedly joining the ranks of stragglers leaving the auditorium. I had the urge to turn around to check whether he was still watching, but something told me to keep moving, and so I did.