Page 32 of Strelitzias in Spring

Fucking prick.

15

Serena

Unknown: Hey, how are you?

I glance at my phone, confused by the unknown number and question that arrives in the middle of my linguistic theory class. The class, which is one of the most intensive I have ever taken, requires my full attention, and I have more notebooks dedicated to the structural properties of human language and the principles of universal grammar than I care to admit. And we’re not even at mid-term yet.

What I should do is put my phone back in my bag and devote my attention to the instruction on phonemes, graphemes, and morphemes. But, while I may be book smart, I am abundantly curious and can’t resist finding out who the sender is.

Serena: Who is this? How did you get my number?

I bite down on my lip, waiting for the response. Minutes pass as I drown out the droll lesson and stare at my phone in anticipation. I’m just about to put it away when an incoming message pops up on my screen.

Unknown: It’s Wolf McCleery. You didn’t save my number?

I squeak, dropping my phone in my surprise, and feel the incinerating stare of my seatmate as I try to right myself.

“Are you okay?” Heather, another junior, whispers, handing me the pen I knocked over.

“Yep,” I yelp, my voice so high-pitched that it’s unrecognizable.

“Well, keep it together; the last thing I want is Forester paying us more attention than necessary. She’s like a predator hunting for prey, and I’d rather not be on her radar.” I nod my agreement because she isn’t wrong. Dr. Susan Forester is a leader in the linguistics field and the most terrifying person I have ever met. But she’s terrifying in a subtle way, like a shark mistaken for a dolphin in the Atlantic Ocean. She looks like everyone’s favorite brooch-wearing grandma: tiny and unassuming, but the minute she opens her mouth, you know you are in the presence of extreme genius. She’s kind, ridiculously smart, and takes no bullshit or interruptions in her class. The fact that my phone is out during her lecture hall is enough for Miss Manners to pen an entire article about my lack of professionalism.

Glancing back at my phone, I type eight different messages, continuously deleting the words until I settle on a simple update on how I feel. I ignore his question about saving his number; I deleted his contact information after my solo visit to Ink & Needle.

Serena: I feel fine, thanks.

Certain that there’s no more expected conversation, I shove my phone into my backpack and return my attention to the front of the room, where Forester continues to speak as though my entire being hasn’t just been shaken from the impact of two short text messages.

With my phone in my bag and complicated subject matter, it’s easy to throw myself into her words and compartmentalize the last five minutes.

“Who can tell me what a phoneme is?” Forester asks, looking around the room at the sea of hands, all desperate to impress her.

A girl three rows in front of me, Bethany, waves her hand so violently that I think she might fall out of her seat if she isn’t called on within the next two seconds.

“Bethany, yes?”

“A phoneme is the smallest unit of sound. Like a syllable.”

I cringe at what I’m about to do, but the academic in me can’t help it. Also, Bethany is a jerk who asked if I was in the right place on my first day of freshman year. In every class I’ve had with her, she’s never failed to make me feel like a freak because of my age. I raise my hand.

Dr. Forester nods her head at me, a silent gesture for me to respond. “It’s the smallest unit of sound to make a meaningful difference to a word. The word ‘cat,’ for example, has three separate phonemes, /k/-/a/-/t/, though it only has one syllable. The two aren’t mutually exclusive.”

I blush as soon as the words leave my mouth and sink in my chair, embarrassed at the attention the room is now paying to me and the glare that Bethany shoots. I’m not trying to be a know-it-all, but sometimes I just can’t help it.

“Thank you, Ms. Castillo. Now, who can tell me what a morpheme is?” Dr. Forester continues, not paying my flushed cheeks any attention. I look up and see Bethany eyeing me with disgust, a snarl on her face.

“You’ve done it now, Serena,” Heather whispers, leaning over to speak directly into my ear. “Maybe don’t eviscerate the queen bee during class next time.”

“I didn’t eviscerate her; I just corrected her. It’s not my fault she was wrong. If it wasn’t me, Forester would have said something.”

The lesson continues in the same manner, with Dr. Forester asking us questions to assess our knowledge and verify that we read the assigned chapters in the book. As soon as she wraps up the lecture, with external assignments tossed like confetti, and dismisses the class, I run out of the hall, intent to avoid every person who was just in that class. Once I step into the hallway, reality crashes back into me, and I grip my bag, eager to check my phone. I make it out of the building before I pause long enough to pull the device out of my backpack. I’m surprised to see not one but three texts from Wolf in the last hour I’ve been occupied with class.

Wolf(1:34 PM): Good. Happy to hear it.

Wolf(1:47 PM): How are the cuts on your elbows doing? Did they get infected? What about your back? Is that monstrosity feeling any better?

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