My first class was Sociology 2, another one of my General Ed classes. The professor was ancient and looked ready for the grave, or else she was back from the grave. Either way, she had a distinctly mummified appearance that matched the tone of her lecture delivery.

I think every sentence she uttered slowly suffocated my will to live. I pictured each one of her drowsy utterances fluttering out of her mouth like mummy bandaging that wrapped me up from toe to top, slowly mummifying me as she droned on and on and on. And on.

And on.

Groan.

I imagined by the end of class, I too would be completely mummified. Perhaps the entire class would be similarly swaddled. And you wouldn’t even hear crickets chirping in the tomb-silent room because the crickets would be mummified as well, laid to rest for eternity inside their little cricket sarcophagi.

Sigh.

Last quarter, I’d sort of enjoyed Sociology 1. I don’t know what had changed. This time around I could barely keep my eyes open for the entire hour, and I’d gotten plenty of sleep, and other wonderful things, the night before.

Maybe I couldn’t focus because images from last night with Christos kept flashing through my mind. The tingling between my legs wasn’t helping either.

I willed my memories to take a breather while I tried to concentrate. But Professor Tutan-yawn-yawn’s droning delivery was putting me to sleep.

I did the only thing I could think of. I pulled out my sketchbook and started doodling. The next thing I knew, I had drawn a picture of Christos in a sexy pose, wearing a Pharaoh hat and mummy bandages for pants, showing off his awesome eight-pack. That wasn’t helping any.

Determined to pay attention to the lecture, I closed my sketchbook and put it away like a good girl…and realized class was over. Not only that, the text document on my laptop intended for note-taking was blank. Great. But I did have a great drawing of Christos the Pharaoh in my sketchbook. Why did I feel like I was in the wrong class?

Groan!

I swear, I’d tried hard to listen to the lecture about the structure of society and how it impacts the people who are a part of it, but it wasn’t doing it for me anymore. I scooped up my laptop and my bag and headed to my next class.

Hopefully, Managerial Accounting would be better.

I cringed at the thought.

Oh, joy.

At least Madison was in accounting with me.

SAMANTHA

The lecture hall for Accounting was on the other side of campus from my Sociology 2. I had to hoof it not to be late, but I knew exactly where I was going. The perks of experience! I would be on time to class so I wouldn’t have to miss a single riveting Accounting fact!

Can I get a fist pump?!

Yeah!!!

Sigh.

At least I was getting better at this college thing and didn’t feel like a newbie anymore. That was something, right?

Yeah.

:-(

I opened one of the double doors at the back of the hall and was greeted by a packed theater-style room with plunging rows of seats that brimmed over with chatty coeds. You’d think from the energy in the room that it was a nightclub before some hot new band hit the stage.

Was I missing something?

I was in Managerial Accounting, right?

I scanned the room for Madison. I’m sure she’d saved me a seat. There was no sign of her that I could see. I texted her.

I’m here. Where r u?

A minute later I spotted Madison waving at me. She sat in the middle of the room, amongst a crowded row of students.

I trotted down the stairs and squeezed into her row. I nearly tripped on a half-dozen people as I made my way toward her. At one point I stepped on some girl wearing a purple hoodie and Converses.

“Hey!” she snarled.

“Sorry,” I mumbled as I stumbled to avoid landing in her lap. This move caused me to sway back toward the row below, but I righted myself by flailing my arms. I swung forward and almost landed palms-first in the lap of the guy next to Purple Hoodie.

He of course smirked and nodded. “My lap is free,” he said suggestively, “if you need a place to put your hands.”

I scowled at him. “Uh, no?” I blundered past and scrunched my way through more knees and backpacks until I plopped down next to Madison. “What up, Mads,” I sighed, sinking into my seat. “Do I have, like, huge flipper feet or elephant ankles? I barely made it through that gauntlet,” I said sarcastically, nodding back the way I’d come.

“No, Sam,” Madison smiled. “Your feet and ankles are normal. Sorry about the crowd. It was totally empty when I got here.”

“Fundamentals wasn’t nearly this packed. What’s the rage with Managerial Accounting?”

“Easy A? I have no idea,” Madison confessed. “So, have you recovered yet from our New Year’s cruise?”

“You mean from Tiffany bombarding me with her all-night Bitchkrieg?” I rolled my eyes, then thought about last night with Christos, and smiled. “Pretty much.”

“I can’t get over that she slapped you.”

I’d almost forgotten. “Yeah, Tiffany is over the top. She should be locked up in a padded cell. With any luck, we’ll never see her again. At least she’s not in any of our classes.”

Madison laughed sarcastically, “Probably because she’s a Cosmetology major.”

I grinned, “Does SDU even have a Cosmetology major?”

“If they don’t, maybe Tiffany’s dad can donate a Mani-Pedi Building or a Salon Wing to the university.”

“Would they call it the Kingston-Whitehouse Whore College for Women?” I said snidely. Something suddenly smashed into the side of my head. I whipped around. “Hey!”

Tiffany Kingston-Whitehouse’s book bag had just clipped me in the back of the skull, nearly beheading me.

“WTF!” I growled while ducking in case of another sneak attack. “Watch where you’re going, Tiffany!”

“You got it wrong, Scumantha,” Tiffany sneered, “they’d call it the Poor House College for Campus Pumps like you, and I’m not talking about shoes, you cum-dumpster.”

Madison rolled her eyes. “Shut your barking vagina, Tiffany, I can smell your dog breath from here.”

I giggled.

“Twat did you say?” Tiffany snarled at Madison.

Madison stood up in her seat. “I said, how would you like me to shove your designer book bag up your ass, buckles and all?”

Had Tiffany just called me “Scumantha?” Wow, that meant Tiffany theoretically remembered my name. Not that I was flattered, just surprised.

Tiffany scowled. “I don’t know what Christos was thinking when he invited you ho’s on my yacht,” she hissed. “I had to have it fumigated after your skanky asses left.” She flipped me and Madison off before turning and walking away.

“Shouldn’t you be in Intro to Arithmetic or something?” I growled at Tiffany’s back.

She stopped in her tracks and turned around. “Just because I’m richer and prettier than you doesn’t mean I’m stupid, you butt plug,” she spat, then continued toward the far side of the lecture hall. She must have made a special trip behind our row just to whack me on the head.

“Wow, I didn’t think she had it in her,” Madison said gravely.

“What, to be such a terrific bitch?” I said, rubbing my head.

“No, to be clever. That means she’s a dangerous bitch.”

Tiffany sat down and flipped up the collapsible desktop hinged to her chair and slammed her book bag on top of it.

Boy, she really didn’t like me, did she? I don’t know how I’d gotten so far under her skin without even trying. Served her right for blindsiding me like that.

Madison shook her head, “That girl is trippin’ monkey nuts. I thought she’d gone over the edge on her yacht, but now I’m worried we’ve only seen her at stage-one crazy.”

I didn’t want to consider the morbid lengths to which Tiffany might go when pushed to her limits. She’d demonstrated her penchant for violence toward me twice already. For all I knew, she was planning on making me the first tragic victim in her very own true-crime documentary about girl murderers gone wild. “What’s she doing here anyway?” I sneered. “She wasn’t in Accounting last term, was she?”