THURSDAY 11:35AM
While Professor Johnson droned on, Busby Tilden slipped her phone out of her purse and texted.
Miranda Sanchez elbowed Busby in the ribs.
“What?” Busby looked up from her phone to see Professor Johnson in his tweed jacket, smirk on his face, arms crossed, tapping his foot impatiently, glaring at her.
“Please answer the question, Ms. Tilden.”
The lecture hall was dead silent. All eyes on Busby.
“Interglacial,” Miranda whispered without moving her lips.
Busby sat up straighter, mustering fake confidence. “Winter glaciers.”
A smattering of laughter rippled from the class.
The fifty-something professor rolled his brown eyes and shook his head in disgust. “Ms. Tilden, I’m certain with whomever you are texting seems much more interesting than the epochs of Earth’s history, but please try to restrain yourself in the future.” He glanced around the lecture hall. “Can anyone who was paying attention answer my question?”
Hands from two dozen students shot up, while Busby slouched as low as possible in her seat. The class continued for another interminable fifteen minutes.
When the bell rang, Busby was the first to stand. She grabbed Miranda’s hand. “C’mon, Sanchez, let’s meet Williams for lunch.”
* * *
Busby and Miranda climbed the steps of the Student Center to the second-floor cafeteria, arriving moments before the noon rush. Busby grabbed a tray, passing by the fried chicken and pizza slices. She breathed through her mouth, avoiding the smells. How could people eat that junk? She selected a garden salad and a banana. At the drink fountain, she filled a glass with unsweetened iced tea. Miranda grabbed half a tuna sub, strawberry yogurt, and a Diet Sprite.
The volume of the room rose as a crush of students pushed through the doors. The two roommates headed to their traditional table along the far wall of the cafeteria, where Busby’s brother Rick was seated. He wore a green-and-gold varsity jacket. A plate of cheese nachos sat on the table before him.
Busby took the chair next to Rick, kissing him on the forehead. Miranda sat on the other side of Busby.
“Hey guys!” Mike Kwon, electrical engineering major, set down his tray of grilled cheese and tomato soup and grabbed the spot opposite Miranda. Mike wore a white polo shirt and thick-rimmed glasses. His dark hair an uncombed mess. “Where’s Jerry?”
“I was going to ask you the same thing, Kwon.” Busby scowled. “He said he’d meet us here at noon.”
“I’m sure he’ll turn up.” Mike shrugged. “But get a load of this, I was talking with Coma Guy an—”
“Coma Guy?” Rick mumbled through a mouthful of chips.
“Yeah, tall dude with stringy blond hair. Looks like he’s in a perpetual daze. I forget his real name. You must have seen him around campus. Anyway, he tipped me off to a brand new crypto coin. This is a chance to get in on the ground floor. It’s going to make BitCoin look like Monopoly money.”
Miranda tapped her phone. “I question the wisdom of taking advice from someone named ‘Coma Guy,’ financial or otherwise.”
“He wasn’t really in a coma. It’s just that there are a couple of months where he can’t remember what happened.”
“That’s much better.” Busby peeled her banana.
Miranda spotted Jerry in his black-and-red striped rugby shirt meandering across the room. She raised both arms and waved widely.
Mike ignored Miranda’s theatrics. “Anyway, Coma Guy tells me...”
* * *
Jerry balanced his tray of a bacon cheeseburger, curly fries, and a double chocolate shake while he scanned the student center cafeteria. He smiled when he spotted Miranda waving. As he negotiated his way through the chaotic lunchtime crowd toward his trio of friends, his smile disappeared. The trio was a foursome.
On the near side of the table sat his best friend and roommate, Mike Kwon, moving his hands animatedly.
“Hey guys.” Jerry slapped Mike on the back and took the open seat next to him.
“Perfect timing.” Miranda barely looked up from her phone that seemed permanently attached to her hand. Her jet-black hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and she wore a gray “Property of The Miami Dolphins” T-shirt. “You saved us from Mike’s latest Coma Guy pitch.”
“Hey, this is a chance to make some real money.” Mike rubbed his fingers together.
Jerry leaned across the table to kiss Busby, her red hair down today, resting on the shoulders of denim jacket.
Instead of meeting the kiss, she raised her watch and pointed to the time. “Glad you could make it, Williams.” A hint of annoyance in her east Tennessee accent.
Jerry leaned back and sat. “Yeah, sorry about that. I was—”
“Well, if it isn’t Jimmy Olsen,” Rick interrupted, his accent thicker, almost a twang. Jemmy Olsun.
Jerry silently counted five. As much as he adored Busby, he couldn’t stand Rick. Loud. Obnoxious. And full of himself. Typical football player. “I think you mean Clark Kent. Jimmy Olsen’s a photographer. I’m a reporter.”
“You ain’t no Superman, kid. You need one of those old-timey hats with a card that says ‘Press’ tucked in the band.”
Kid? “Yeah, that’s what I need.”
“And one of those cameras with the oversized flash bulb.” Rick pantomimed taking photographs. “Ker-chunk. Ker-chunk.”
“Knock it off, Rick.” Busby punched him in the shoulder.
Mike held up his hands. “Does anyone want to hear what Coma Guy had to say?” The table ignored him.
Miranda pointed with her phone at Jerry’s tray. “I see you haven’t changed your eating habits.”
“Soggiest bacon and limpest fries in the New York State.” Jerry lifted his drink and sucked on the straw. “But the shake makes it all worthwhile.”
“That stuff will kill you dead, Williams.” Busby jabbed at her salad and lifted a forkful of greens.
“Thank you, Dr. Tilden.”
“I don’t have to graduate from medical school to know that crap’s not good for you. My arteries are hardening just by being in the same zip code.”
“I’ll take your advice under consideration.” Baiting Busby, Jerry grabbed the ketchup, drenched his fries, and stuffed a half dozen into his mouth.
Busby let a deep exhale escape her lips. “Charming, Williams. It’s your funeral.”
Vince Murphy, his oversized neck straining the collar of his Van Buren U. sweatshirt, sat next to Rick and fist-bumped him. Vince leaned forward to peer at Miranda. “Hey, Miranda. How are you doing?”
“Fine.” She didn’t look up.
“I wanted to tell you I got an ‘A’ on that paper about Shaq that you wrote for me. I—”
“It’s Eugene O’Neill, not Shaquille, and can we not talk about it in front of hundreds of witnesses?” Still staring at her phone, she swirled her free hand in a three-sixty, pointing at the other tables.
“Sure, sorry.” Vince swallowed hard. “If you’re not busy later, maybe we could h—”
Miranda finally turned to face him. “No, I already told you. I have a boyfriend.”
Vince’s face burned beet red. “Whatever.” He reached across the table to snag a couple of fries off Jerry’s tray and knocked over the saltshaker, white crystals spilling across the table.
“Great hands!” Jerry clapped. “I’m sure the team will have no trouble dominating Fillmore this weekend.”
“Don’t pay him any mind, Vince.” Rick turned to Busby. “As much as I’ve enjoyed your company, sis, we have to go. Places to be. People to do.” Rick stood and pointed at Jerry. “Bus my tray, Peter Parker.” He made another picture-taking motion with his hands, and he and Vince left guffawing.
“Peter Parker’s not a reporter. He’s a photogr...” Jerry’s voice trailed off. “Buzz, did you ever consider that your brother might be adopted?”
She sipped her iced tea and dismissed the idea with a wave of her hand. “You wouldn’t say that if you met Daddy. Rick is just like him.”
“Maybe you’re the one who’s adopted.” Jerry chuckled.
“Nice one.” Mike high-fived his roommate.
Busby scrunched up her face and fumed, unable to respond with a snappy comeback. She grabbed a fry off Jerry’s tray and tossed it at him. It bounced off his forehead. He snatched it out of the air and jammed it in his mouth.
Jerry beamed with delight. “That’s the best you got?”
“She’s had a rough day.” Miranda clucked her tongue. “Professor Johnson called on her while she was texting. Busby had no idea what the question was and totally whiffed in front of the entire class.”
“Texting in class?” Mike made the shame-shame gesture with his fingers.
Busby glared at him. “Kwon, it’s a stupid geology course, and I’m pre-med. Plus, it’s pass-fail. When I save some patient’s life by sticking a new heart inside of her, she isn’t going to care if I don’t know the difference between magma and lava.”
“Magma is molten rocks beneath the earth. It’s lava once it’s on the surface.” Miranda didn’t look up from her phone.
Mike chuckled. “Someone’s paying attention in class”.”
Busby raised an eyebrow. “Sanchez, you want to talk about how Murphy has a crush on you? Because I think that’s adorable.”
Miranda frowned, tilted her head down, and continued tapping on her phone.
“Speaking of texting, this is a good time to segue into my latest invention.” Mike reached into his backpack and pulled out a metallic copper box, the length and width of an iPad, but two inches thick. Switches, dials, and lights covered the top.
Jerry leaned closer. “What’s that?”
“Cell phone jammer. Watch.” Mike grabbed the black power cord originating from the box, plugging it into a wall outlet. He flicked a few switches, and three green lights blinked.
“Hey, I’ve got zero bars,” Miranda whined.
“Brilliant, Kwon.” Busby pointed at the copper box. “But you can buy jammers on the Internet for two hundred bucks.”
Mike shook his head. “Not like this. I can jam selective frequencies: Bluetooth, Wi-Fi, cell phones, AM, FM, VHF, UHF, you name it. And it has directional capabilities. You can even create schedules. Imagine what the college would pay for one of these babies that can blanket a lecture hall. No more distracted students. No more cheating on exams.”
Jerry peered at the jammer. “Do you have one that powerful?”
“Not yet. I need some start-up capital.” He looked at his friends. “This is your chance to get in on the ground floor. A once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. This could be bigger than Google and Facebook combined.”
“Aren’t jammers illegal?” Miranda whispered.
“Asks the girl who’s writing English papers for the football team. Sure, there are federal regulations against them, but so what? That’s how big companies get so big. Break rules and move fast.” Mike put his hand on Jerry’s shoulder. “What do you say, roomie? Ready to invest?”
“Invest what? Hello? Starving journalism major.” He removed Mike’s hand from his shoulder.
“Busby?” Mike looked at her hopefully.
“Sorry, Kwon. All my spare cash is in a numbered account in the Caymans.”
“Miranda?”
“Can’t. As a condition of my parole, I am prohibited from investing in any illicit schemes.”
“You’re on parole?” Mike was wide-eyed. “What did you do?”
“Nothing, you idiot. That was a joke. I’m not putting my money into your stupid cell jammer.”
“Fine, but after I go IPO,” Mike pointed at the others one by one, “none of you are getting an invitation to cruise the Caribbean on my two-hundred-foot yacht.”
Miranda waved her phone in Mike’s face. “You want to shut that thing off? I need to text Dmitri.”
Mike flicked off the jammer and slipped it back into his bag. Miranda tapped away on her phone.
“One o’clock chem lab. I have to get going.” Busby stood. “Sanchez, you want to walk with me?”
“I’m headed to West Campus to see my guy.”
“Okay.” Busby picked up her tray. “You’re coming by to change my oil this afternoon, right Williams?”
“Is that what you kids are calling it these days?” Mike snickered.
Miranda groaned and threw a balled-up napkin at Mike.
Jerry lips curled downward. “Buzz, I can’t. Got an assignment. That’s why I was late.”
“You’ve been promising you’d do it for the last three weeks. Buzz, don’t pay to change your oil. Buzz, don’t trust those clowns at Twenty-Minute Lube,” she sneered.
Jerry’s shoulders slumped. “Sorry, but I finally had it out with Vanessa, and now she’s punishing me. Maybe I can do it tomorrow, but this afternoon, I have to interview a bunch of cheerleaders.”
“Cheerleaders?” Mike’s eyes widened. “That doesn’t sound like much of a punishment to me.”
Miranda looked up from her phone. “Shut up, Mike.”
Mike ignored her. “Think about it, Jerry. Glossy hair. Lithe. Flexible. And they wear those tiny little skirts.”
Jerry nodded. “You make a good point.”
“Do you think it would be okay if I tagged along? Maybe you need someone to take photos?”
“Really, Mike.” Miranda jabbed her finger at him. “Put a cork in it.”
“I suppose I could use some help.” Jerry leaned toward Mike. “What’s it worth to you?”
“Oh, man. Don’t make me beg. It’s not—”
“Fine!” Busby slammed her tray on the table. Heads around the cafeteria turned at the sound. “Williams, you’d rather hang out with some bleached-blonde airheads whose greatest challenge is spelling out ‘statesmen’ than keep your promises to me? Go ahead, see if I care.”
As Busby stormed off, Jerry glared at Mike. “Thanks for helping.”
Mike grimaced. “You’re blaming me?”
“I tried to warn you guys, but you wouldn’t listen.” Miranda held up her phone and snapped a photo of Jerry and Mike. “Let me caption this: Guys are morons.”
Jerry sighed. “I should go after her and apologize.”
“That’s the last thing you should do.” Miranda slipped her phone into her purse. “You need to give her space and time to cool off. And next time try not drooling over other girls.”
“C’mon Miranda, that’s not fair.”
“My advice is only helpful if you take it.” Miranda stood, grabbed her tray, and walked away.