A short story
because why not?
August, 2008
Beep. Beep. BEEP. BBBEEEPPP.
Fuck. My alarm clock. The one I specifically placed across my apartment so I wouldn’t be late again. How long has it been going off? 5, 10, 20 minutes? I glance at my phone. Shit. Shit. Shit. I’m late. Again. I quickly throw on a pair of cutoffs and a t-shirt. My hair goes into the newly popular “messy bun.” It’s my second week of classes and I’m going to fail French. Why couldn’t I have just taken Spanish? I already tested into the 400 level course and I could have had a minor. Instead, I decided to branch out. I also decided to have sex with my French professor last semester and then promptly dump him for my ex-boyfriend. The ENTIRE French department hates me. Not a single “bonjour” gets tossed my way in the hallway. Now, I just feel like I’m wasting money. The private scholarship I have is contingent upon getting good grades and being poor. Right now, I’m only doing one of those. Great start to the year, Sabrina.
I hit the door and hike up the enormous hill to the closest bus stop. It’s my second year and I’m still not entirely comfortable getting on the bus, but it’ll be faster than a walk across campus. Especially in this heat. The combination of smelly strangers in close quarters and the lack of air conditioning leaves me feeling like I’ve been on a 3 day bender, but I manage to make it to Gregory Hall without vomiting. I hit the doors and remember I have another 5 floors to climb. Damn it. By the time I reach my classroom, class has started and apparently everyone has been choosing partners for an upcoming presentation.
“Bonjour, Sabrina. Vous êtes en retard,” I hear Antoine, my professor say. “Je suis désolé,” I respond in horribly accented French and drop into my seat. I can feel half the class staring at me and I’m suddenly aware of my appearance. The fact is I just don’t fit in here like the sorority girls to my left and the bros to my right. I’m not even cool enough for the handful of nerds that take up the first row of seats. My cutoffs are too tight on my thick, runners thighs and my white t-shirt is sticking to me in all the wrong places. The sweat that was just pouring down my back is now freezing to my body and what was a cute bun is now a lop-sided mess with sweaty bangs plastered to my face. I try to turn my focus to my bag and pull out my notebook. I frantically begin searching for something to write with when the door flies open again.
Timothy, or Timothée, as snooty Professor Antoine calls him, strolls in. He receives a simple, “Bonjour” from Antoine and languidly slides into the seat next to me. I dislike him. Not only because Professor Ass didn’t chastise him for being late, but because he just annoys me. He is rich. If his Tumi messenger bag and the Rolex he wears didn’t give it away I also notice the keys hanging from his khakis have a Mercedes logo on them. He does smell good though. So good, I casually attempt to smell myself and realize I definitely forgot deodorant. “Sabrina. Sabrina, are you listening? You and Timothée will be partners since everyone else has chosen. Timothée, is this acceptable?” Professor Antoine is pouring the accent on a little too thick, if you ask me. “Qui bien,” responds Timothy. I catch his chocolate colored eyes as he glances at me briefly, then back down to his fancy new iPhone. Antoine doesn’t address me, again. Neither does Timothy.
I spend the rest of the hour trying to focus, but eventually I give up and begin to daydream. I get that I probably shouldn’t have picked Antoine as my teacher this semester, considering Louis (my old French teacher) is Antoine’s best friend. But, alas, my only other options were Louis himself, or his new girlfriend, Bridgette. For a big school Dunn State feels awfully small sometimes. Obviously, I’m used to small, but I came here for change. I guess I’m learning the new Sabrina I was hoping to be is just the same small-town Sabrina from back home. New town. Same old bullshit.
I hear a few students mumble, “Au revoir” and I begin to pack my things. I look over to ask Timothy when he would like to meet to get started on our presentation due Friday, but realize he’s grabbed his things and out the door. I throw my bag over my shoulder and run for it. Maybe I can catch him. “Timothy! TIMOTHY!” I’m now hollering (as Grandma West would say) down the hallway. I grab his arm and spin him around. “What’s up?” he asks as he removes his headphones. “Um, when do you want to meet?” I gasp, embarrassingly out of breath. “This grade is really important to me so I need the presentation to go well.” “Yeah…I’m not sure. I’m super busy right now. Hit me up on Facebook and we’ll find a time,” He puts the earbuds back in his ears and turns to go. “What the hell?" I say under my breath, but apparently loud enough he actually hears. He turns over his shoulder and says, “Don’t sweat it, Samantha," winks, then disappears into the crowd of students.
Ugh. Why is he so frustrating? Who even goes by Timothy anyway? Not Tim or Timmy? He is so pompous and he’s just dripping with privilege. I’m fuming as I speed walk to my next class. I won’t be late to this one. This class in women’s studies counts toward my major and I love it. My professor is from California, doesn’t shave her legs, and refuses to acknowledge the two men in our class. I love her so much I would listen to her lecture about anything. As I get closer to my next class, I feel my tension ease and decide to bring my computer to dinner with my best friends. We can look Timothy up on Facebook together. Maybe they will know how to talk to him. They get rich people. Hell, they are rich. They just don’t act it. Cara and Eloise always have a plan. Even if they might be morally questionable at times.