Page 37 of My Cosplay Escape
“Mom, please!” I yell. “I’m going to be late.”
“But you are such a beautiful girl, and you’ve worked so hard at the gym. You don’t have to hide in these oversized, old clothes."
“Bye, Mom. Love you.” The words come forcefully before I am out the door, keys in hand. It’s nice of Mom to let me borrow her car, but if the true cost is a monitoring of my wardrobe choices before class, I’m going to need to budget more money for Lyfts. If only the trolley were done by now.
Lucky for me, traffic isn’t yet snarled. I’ve got more on my mind than just reacclimating to student life. Gone are the days when all I had to worry about were academics. Running your tush off and working two jobs will do that. Especially if one of the jobs has you dressing up in a catsuit and kissing strange men in dark alleys. Yeah, I’m still chewing on that. Maybe it doesn’t count. Maybe it was a mistake. Maybe it is still fun to think about.
I arrive at SDSU and find my way to the Nasatir lecture hall, where I choose a seat at the top in the very back.
Minutes later, a cliché of a college professor walks in—horn-rimmed glasses, white hair, bow tie. If it were cold outside, I’m sure he’d be wearing a tweed jacket with patches on the elbows, but September is the hottest month in San Diego. Professor Burnbalm opens up a PowerPoint. His name and face illuminate the giant white screen. The professor is flanked by a row of what I guess are his graduate students. I’m glad I’m sitting in the back where no one can see my lip quiver. I focus hard on not crying by twisting Dad’s old wedding band around and around on my thumb. It’s too loose, but I can’t stomach the idea of having it resized.
I had no idea I was going to be this emotional. The last time I sat at one of these desks… my life was ending.
Thankfully, life is different now. I’m at a different school. I’m not married, or about to be married. True, I am divorced, but no one on this campus knows that. I work at PB’s Fit Gym 24. I have already defaulted on student loans for an education I haven’t finished. I have a second job playing Catstrike in Adam McKinney’s superhero-themed escape rooms.
And then, as if I conjured him up, here stands Adam McKinney in front of the lecture hall. That shock stops my weepiness cold.
What the fudge?
I grip the strings of my hoodie tightly. I blink again as I slouch lower in my chair. Oh my fudge.
“Afternoon,” Adam says. “Sorry I’m late, Professor.”
The professor waves his hand in one of those no-worries gestures but insists that Adam introduce himself.
Adam slides one of his hands through his dark blond hair. “I’m Adam McKinney. I did an internship this summer with Halifax Sisters. I’ve got one more semester left in my MBA. I’m writing a thesis on entertainment-driven consumerism, specifically the intersection of superhero pop culture, merchandising, and experiential entertainment.”
My jaw is practically unhinged from the rest of me. Holy smarty-McSmarty-pants, Nightbat.
Dr. Burnbalm interjects, “Adam is being modest. He’s also an entrepreneur and the only undergrad in the history of our department to attempt a raspberry blancmange at the annual bake-off.”
A whoop sounds from a girl two rows in front.
Adam laughs. “‘Attempt’ being the operative word.”
“Yes, we take our potlucks very seriously in the Econ Department. My Victoria sponge is responsible for half the talent you see up here.” Dr. Burnbalm gestures to his TAs and garners modest chuckles from my fellow students. “Adam is one of the TAs for this class and will be heading up the Friday morning lab. Make good use of him.”
“Early and often,” another TA says.
“Easy,” Adam says good-naturedly.
More TAs introduce themselves. Meanwhile, my jaw continues to sway. How is this happening?
“All right. For a class of this size, we’re going to assign you all TAs.” Professor Burnbalm clicks to the next slide. The alphabet is fragmented on the screen above. He clears his throat. “We thought it would be best if we use the rest of this lecture for you to get to know your TAs as they explain the course requirements, assignments, and grading system of Econ 101.”
I can’t decide what I want more—for Adam to be my TA, or for him to not be my TA. I can’t bring myself to glance back up at the screen and learn my fate.
“Last names ending in J through N to the back of the hall,” Adam yells, pointing to my corner of the lecture hall.
Holy fudge-covered goldfish. M comes before N. What’s my last name? Miller? Shirley Temples. I pull my hoodie up and bury my face in my sleeve.
“Hey, Hoodie, wake up.” Adam is inches from me. Holy empty chair, Nightbat. He’s taken the seat right next to mine. I wish I wore five hoodies. The cluster of students now around me could not have filled in the seat next to me?
“So, J through N,” Adam begins with a smile. “I’ve already been introduced. But you, of course, haven’t. Let’s go around the huddle. Tell us your name, major, and what you did this weekend.”
“You go first,” a pretty brunette in eyelet shorts says to Adam. Fudge, but her legs must be as long as my entire body.
“Again?” There’s a laugh threaded through Adam’s voice. He passes out the syllabus. “Sure. I’m Adam. I graduated with a major in economics two years ago. I’m getting my MBA.”
