Page 11 of Told You So
“Remind me, Jesse,” my mom says, “where is the school taking you today?”
“The Exploratorium,” he answers with a mouthful of food. He finishes eating the crust before he takes a bite of the gooey filling.
My mom gathers her shoulder bag from the counter stool. “Good.”
I hand Jesse a napkin and gesture to the corner of his mouth. “Strawberry filling,” I tell him.
“Bring him home straight from his after-school program, okay? No errands or ice cream stops today,” my mom says, and I heave my bag over my shoulder.
“Why not? He’s going to do homework at a friend’s today,” I remind her. “It’s been on the calendar since last week.”
She ties her coat over her suit and looks at Jesse. “I want to have a family dinner tonight, since your father will be back in town.”
I glower at her. “But socializing is good for him—”
“So is spending time with the family,” my mom scolds. “Don’t argue, Bethany. Just do it.” And just like that, she turns on her heels and disappears into the garage, the sound of the power door rattling open before the backdoor bangs shut behind her.
“God, parents suck,” I grind out. I have no idea why she cares about my dad being home, it’s not likehedoes. “Let’s go, J,” I say with a stifled curse and we step out the door.
I’m going to be late, again.
Two
Nick
After approximately 750 days of Construction Management and Architecture courses, nearly 240 project hours, and every elective I’ve thought to take in between, I sit in my Integrative Design class of my final semester at Benton University, wondering why graduation in two months’ time feels so goddamn depressing.
Benton U is a decent school, home of the Timber Wolves and the best college hockey team on the west coast. It’s not Yale or Princeton in the academia sense, not by a long shot, but its accreditation in the Arts and Architecture grad world is topnotch. In May, I’ll be graduating with above-average grades, even if it did take me longer to complete my certification than most, and I’ll be ready to work beside my dad at the firm. Someday, I think.
It’s what I’ve always wanted, at least that’s what I keep telling myself.
For months now, something’s been nagging at me, but I can’t quite put my finger on what. The closer I get to graduation, the more depressing it is because none of it feels right. Everything I’ve worked so hard for feels like a complete waste of time, making the idea of bartending at Lick’s the rest of my life sound more and more appealing. It’s fun, easy, and I’m really good at it.
“Good morning, pupils,” Professor Murray drawls, as he steps inside the lecture hall. It’s exactly 7:55, and I’d expect nothing less from him than to start class early.
“Being on time is average and expected, and in life, you can’t settle for less than anticipatory and extraordinary. Clearly, many of you have yet to embrace the notion of ‘quality’ in your work, much less extraordinary. That’s why I’m here, to raise the bar.”I’ve gotten that spiel from him exactly three times in my academic career, and it hasn’t grown on me yet.
Professor Murray walks over to his desk, opening his briefcase and pulling out a stack of papers, intent on ruining what remains of our weekend buzz. Pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, he peers around the room at expectant, anxious faces. By the severity on his face, you’d think this was a rocket science class, instead of a mid-level survey class for architectural and design students, who definitely aren’t saving the world one pretty rug or dramatically arched window at a time.
“I hope you’re caught up on your reading,” he says, and I’m not sure how the promise of being rid of him seven weeks from now doesn’t elicit some sense of relief.
Listening to him, a retired, know-it-all architect who moved here from San Francisco eons ago, condescendingly droning on and on the way he does, is unbearably grating, especially first thing on a Monday morning. And yet, part of me finds his class dependable and familiar. I doubt it’s his winning personality, though. I glance at the empty seat in the front row. I hate noticing that she’s not here or that I care.
Having Bethany in this class seems more probable a reason to look forward to Monday mornings, even if I hate to admit it. I spend half the class unsuccessfully convincing myself that I don’t care she’s in here, and on days like this, when she’s late, I can’t help but wonder if she’ll show.
“Let’s get started, shall we,” the professor says with zero affect. He’s a tall, spindly man who addresses the class like our mere existence is an affliction he has to manage the best he can. There’s always one student that gets singled out each semester, and once he picks his victim, he’s like a rabid dog with a meat-covered bone. This semester, that person is Bethany, and part of me hopes she doesn’t make it to class today, for her own sake.
The room rustles with turning pages, and I shuffle through my notes from last week. Quickly, I scan my chicken scratch before deciding this test is going to be difficult, regardless of a few seconds of studying; it’s not worth an aneurysm so early in the week, so I resign myself to my fate and close my notebook. My eyes find the clock again. Professor Murray is no longer starting class early; Bethany is officially late.
Having her in one of my classes, during my final semester of my final year, especially after her ditching me on New Year’s at Denny’s, seems almost poetic in the cruelest sense of the word. The one girl that’s haunted me for ten-plus years is the one girl I can’t have, and is the one girl I’m forced to see two days a week and pretend that life isn’t pissing itself in laughter.
Bethany’s tardiness is not my problem, but that doesn’t matter, because I always care when she’s late. I always wonder why. Elbows resting on the desk, I scrub my hands over my face, on the brink of laughing out loud at my insanity. It’s a timeless question: why? Why do I care about any of it?
“Put your books away,” Professor Murray drawls, and he licks his fingers to separate the stack of quizzes. “Your results today will not be graded on a curve, and I will not be offering extra credit to bump up grades for those of you graduating this semester. And don’t think for a second that the rest of this semester is going to be a breeze, either. There will be a project announcement on Wednesday”—the class gasps—“so don’t be late. And donot—”
The door creaks open, echoing in the cavernous room. Bethany pops her blonde head in, then hurries inside. Her hair’s damp, her chest is heaving, and her cheeks are rosy. She’s not wearing any makeup today, which would be surprising if that wasn’t the case every time she’s late to class.
Professor Murray glares at her. “Ah, Miss Fairchild.” He crosses his arms over his chest, the remaining tests in his hands crumpling against his suit jacket. “How nice of you to attend class today and act like you even remotely care about graduating. Now, the forty-seven of us who were on time today are going to continue with class, if you don’t mind.”
