“The comic strip? By Cathy Guisewite?”

Still not getting it, I shook my head.

“Do you even know what a comic strip is?” he smiled.

“Duh.” I wasn’t an idiot.

“Didn’t you ever read the comics in the newspaper? I know it’s totally unhip for people our age to admit to such a thing, but you can tell me,” he winked, “I won’t out you on Facebook or Twitter or whatever.”

Now that he mentioned it, my parents still got the newspaper. My dad couldn’t go to the office without first reading the comic strips at breakfast. He called them ‘the funnies.’ I used to look at them when I was a kid and try to copy the drawings, but I hadn’t done that in a long time. Then a hazy memory locked into place. “Oh! You mean Cathy, the comic strip!”

He nodded, smiling. “Yeah. I mean, I know the series ended three and a half years ago, but I figured you may have seen it once or twice before all the newspapers started going out of business.”

Who was this guy? He was bizarre. He was way too cute to be into something as last century as comic strips. “So, um, why are you calling me Cathy?”

“I’ve seen you drawing cartoons during class. Do you ever take notes, or just doodle?”

Guilty as charged. I blushed. “Is it that obvious?”

“Probably not to the professor and the T.A.’s, so your secret is safe with me,” he winked. “You know, your work is pretty good. Have you ever considered submitting some of it to the school paper?”

I’m pretty sure he was pulling my leg. “No, those guys are all Snooty McSnoots-a-lots.” The SDU school newspaper, The Sentinel, had a reputation for being a high-brow elitist newspaper for preppie journalism majors. And considering I’d been ejected from high school society back in D.C., I didn’t have any desire to go before a tribunal of hip socialites and have them tell me I wasn’t good enough to join their club.

“The Analites at the Sentinel are totally snooty,” he smiled. “I was talking about The Wombat.”

The Wombat was SDU’s comedy newspaper run by the Associated Students of SDU. It was full of funny spins on current events, humor about college life, party reviews of actual parties (on and off campus), and the ever famous Wombat comic strips. I’d read the comic strips before. They satirized the seedier social aspects of college: drinking, drugs and doing it with members of the opposite sex, same sex, or even different species. Some of them were hilarious and some of the art was amazing.

I raised my eyebrows. “You think I should submit my cartoons to The Wombat?” I didn’t think my stuff was good enough.

“Yeah. I’ll put in a good word for you with the editor.”

“Who’s the editor?” I asked.

“Me,” he smiled. “Justin Tomlinson.” He leaned down and offered his hand.

 I had to awkwardly turn in my seat to shake it. “Samantha Smith. Isn’t Tomlinson the name of one of the guys in One Direction?”

He rolled his eyes. “Don’t remind me. If I’d had a choice at birth, I would’ve had the stork deliver me to another house,” he smiled.

He sure had a great smile. Now all he needed was four more cuties and a boy band anthem and the girls would come out of the woodwork like termites. If they weren’t already. For all I knew, Justin had a limo filled with fan girls waiting outside.

“Anyway,” he said, “nice to meet you, Samantha. Email me some of your samples and I’ll show them to my peeps at the paper.”

“I’ve never written a comic strip. I mean, I just doodle in my sketchbook.”

“Do you have your sketchbook on you now? I’ve seen you drawing in it before.”

Ah, creepy stalker much? Or, had I been drawing in my sketchbook in History so often that it had become obvious to anyone who sat near me? That seemed unlikely. I religiously took notes in History class as if it was the most interesting topic ever invented. Not. “Yeah, I have it in my book bag.”

“Can I see it?”

I had never shown my sketchbook to a stranger. I was somewhat reluctant. Oh well, if he mocked me, then he was a jerk, boy band cute or not. I pulled my sketchbook out and handed it to him.

He flipped through it casually, smiling the entire time. He stopped to linger at various pages, I didn’t know which ones. He even chuckled a few times. “Yeah,” he said, “these are great. Do you have any strips? Like multiple panels telling a cohesive story?”

“Not really,”

“No worries. What do you think about working with a writer?”

“What do you mean?”

“Some of the strips in The Wombat are written by one person and drawn by another. I could team you up with a writer if you needed help. Until you get the hang of it. But I get the sense you’ll figure it out pretty quick, based on what I see here. Then you can write your own if you want. It would be up to you.”

Wow, this guy was really nice. And cute. Not that I was interested in him. But he was being totally helpful, and he didn’t even know me. “Okay. When do I start?” I wasn’t sure how this was supposed to work.

“I have to show your stuff around first. But, like I said, I think the other guys will dig your work. Gimme your number and I’ll give you a call after our next meeting—”

Oh. How smooth of him. I’d almost fallen for it. He was a master pickup artist.

“—or better yet,” he continued, “why don’t you come to our next staff meeting? It’s this Friday.”

Maybe I was getting ahead of myself. Maybe he was being genuine. “This Friday?”

“Yeah. We meet at 4:20 at Toasted Roast.”

I did a double take. “You guys meet at Toke Time? Do you smoke joints during the meeting?” I smiled.

“It’s up to you,” he grinned. “so bring your own joints. But usually we stick to coffee.”

“Sounds like my kind of crowd.” But it was on Valentine’s Day. The day of Christos’ trial. Shit. My guess would be that I wasn’t going to make their meeting. “But I don’t think I can make it. I have…something really important to do that day.”

“That’s cool. If you want, I can snap some pics of your sketchbook and show them on Friday.”

“Okay.”

“Shoot me an email and I’ll let you know what everybody says.”

Wow, he backed off quick. Maybe I had judged him too hastily. Maybe he was totally just trying to help. “What’s your email?”

“Look up The Wombat website online. You can find it there.”

The professor walked into the lecture hall and set his briefcase down, getting ready to start.

“Okay,” I said to Justin, “I’ll do that.”

Why did I suddenly feel like my life was being pulled in one too many directions at once? The one direction it was already heading was stressful enough.

And why was I thinking in boy band puns all of a sudden?

Groan!

I secretly wondered if Justin Tomlinson would try to chat me up after History class, but he was gone when I finished packing up my laptop.

On my way to the Student Center to meet Madison for lunch, I texted Romeo and Kamiko to see if they wanted to join us.

Madison was already waiting in line for fish tacos, decked out in an SDU hoodie, Hollister sweats and flip flops. For a certain contingent of students, sleepwear was acceptable school dress. I couldn’t blame her. I knew she was jonesing to be back in short sleeves and board shorts. “What up, girl!” she cheered and gave me a big hug.

“Hey, Mads,” I smiled.

“Did you find Christos last night?”

“Yeah.”

“So what was the emergency?”

Hmm. How to explain that I was secretly worried he was going to commit suicide last night and still had no idea whether or not he had tried? And he was going to trial in two days? Yeah, not exactly an easy breezy topic. I wanted Madison to distract me from my pressing troubles, not dredge up my drama.

She nudged against me. “Come on, girl. Dish. I’ve got a scoop right here.”

I sighed. Was there something else we could talk about, like boy bands? No, not that either. There had to be at least one topic I could come up with that wouldn’t leave me dramatized.