Nope. Everyone was still there, all of them still staring. I sunk back behind my sketchbook.

“Ladies,” the professor honked in an amused tone, “as much as I’d like to issue you both detention slips and send you to the office, this is a university where we are beyond such things, wouldn’t you two agree? If my lecture isn’t properly stimulating, perhaps you both can sign up for a drama class instead.”

I happened to peak over at Tiffany who sneered with ample superiority at both me and Madison, resting her chin casually on her hand, her middle-finger extended against her cheek in a stealth flip-off.

Bitch.

There were several random chuckles from some of the students, but the professor resumed lecturing as if nothing was amiss. To say that he was unruffled by our antics would be an understatement.

I was impressed.

Did Dr. Dorquemann’s bizarre demeanor belie the most laid-back professor of all time? He had my vote for the Cool Cat of the Year award.

No wonder everyone liked his class.

Amazingly, I actually managed to take notes for the remainder of class.

SAMANTHA

Madison and I made our way to the Student Center. It was crowded as always. We got in line for coffee at the Toasted Roast.

“What the hell happened back in Accounting just now?” I asked.

“Oh, Sam, I almost died in there. Dorquemann? Really? I think we were in the Twilight Zone or a Saturday Night Live skit.”

“I know, right?”

“I think Managerial Accounting is going to be way better than Fundamentals was last quarter,” Madison said. “That class was a snooze-fest by comparison.”

I smiled. “Yeah, but how can you not laugh at Dr. Dorquemann’s voice for ten whole weeks?”

“If you keep drawing cartoons of murdered Tiffany, I don’t stand a chance,” she chuckled.

We made it to the front of the line and ordered our coffee, then sat down outside. The sun peeked between cloud banks intermittently, and the weather was slightly chilly, but not cold. My unzipped hoodie and jeans were more than enough to keep me warm.

Madison wore an SDU sweatshirt and shorts. She was always trying to catch as many rays from the sun as she could, even in winter.

I inhaled the aroma of my brew before taking a sip. “So, Mads, I was thinking about changing my major.”

“To what?”

“Art?” I said with a tinge more reluctance in my voice than I wanted.

“You should totally do it,” Madison said confidently. “Christos was telling me on Tiffany’s yacht the other night how far your drawings had come in a few short months. And based on your murdered Tiffany cartoon, I can see what he’s talking about.”

“You really think so?”

“Totally,” she reassured.

“Thanks, Mads.” Sharing that moment of comedy gold in Accounting with her was exactly why I was reluctant to change majors. “Would you be bummed if it meant no more accounting classes with you?”

Madison smiled. “Why would I be bummed? You’ve got to do what’s right for you.”

“But it’s our only class together.”

“It’s not like we won’t see each other all the time. Don’t worry about it, Sam. I’m not going anywhere.”

“You’re sure?”

She squeezed my wrist. “Totally, girlfriend. Besides, my stay in Dorquemann’s Domain will be more productive if you aren’t there busting my guts with your newfound cartoon genius.”

“But aren’t shared experiences like that an important part of the college experience? What if we never see each other?”

“Don’t worry, Sam. We’ll hang plenty outside of class.”

“Promise, Mads?”

“Totally,” she smiled.

I was suddenly on the verge of tearing up because I was so grateful to call Madison my friend. She was so understanding. After my outcast status for the last two years in D.C., being welcomed, valued, and accepted at every turn by my new friends was still a noteworthy experience for me. I still wanted to pinch myself every five minutes to make sure my friends and boyfriend weren’t all just a dream.

“And speaking of classes,” Madison said, “I’ve got Spanish in ten minutes.” She stood up and slung her book bag over her shoulder.

“Oh crap! My history class is on the other end of campus! How do I manage to have classes so fricking far apart?” I grabbed my book bag and we walked out of the Student Center’s outdoor seating area.

“Try taking the campus shuttle,” she suggested as we walked up the steps beside the zig-zag fountain.

“I hate waiting for them. I’d rather walk.”

“So take the underground riot tunnels,” she winked.

We paused at the top of the stairs, on the Central Walkway.

“What are those?” I asked.

“There’s some rumor about tunnels that run under the entire SDU campus like catacombs. Supposedly, they were used in the sixties by the cops when everyone was protesting all the time. But I think Morlocks live down in them now.”

“What are Morlocks?” I asked.

“Didn’t you have to read The Time Machine by H.G. Wells in high school?”

“No, we read A Brave New World.”

“Oh. Well, Morlocks are these horrid troglodyte things. Anyway, have you ever noticed all that steam pumping out through the tall vents near the music building? The ones that look like obelisks?”

“Yeah, I always wondered about that.”

“I’m telling you,” Madison looked around cagily, “it’s the Morlock machines. And they’ll kidnap any unsuspecting young maidens they find and enslave them to work in the bowels of the earth below campus until you die young from hard labor.”

I grimaced. “Who wants to work in a bowel?”

“I know I don’t,” Madison chuckled.

“I think I’ll skip the tunnels. Well, I better run, or I’m going to be late.”

“Bye,” Madison waved as I ran off. “Watch out for Morlocks!”

As I ran, I was on my guard for Morlocks and Tiffany Kingston-Whitehouse, because based on Madison’s description, they were pretty much the same thing. And I always seemed to stumble over Tiffany when I was in a hurry. I’m convinced she was bitch-stalking me. Was she the Morlock Queen? It made sense.

But I was in luck today. I made it to the other end of campus to my history class on time. It wasn’t nearly as packed as Managerial Accounting. But then again, the legendary Dr. Dorquemann wouldn’t be presiding.

I found a seat and pulled out my laptop, determined to do nothing but take notes about fascinating historical topics. I pictured myself recounting the highlights later to my friends while they all listened attentively.

Yeah, right.

Despite my best intentions, history class went over like a Roofinated sleeping potion. I could barely keep my eyes open.

I swear I had no intention of doodling during class yet again. But some alien pod creature must have suckered into my brain through my ear canal while I was carefully avoiding the Morlock tunnels. You were damned if you did, and damned if you didn’t.

When the professor finished his lecture, I realized that not only had I not taken notes, but my laptop was asleep. On the plus side, I had drawn more cartoon doodles in my sketchbook.

I did the math:

  One sketchbook full of doodles 

- One empty laptop

——————————————— 

= Time to change my major.

At least my Accounting skills were good for something.

I stuffed my laptop in my book bag and marched up the steps of the lecture hall, determined to change my major.

It was time.

Ten minutes later, I was smiling as I walked through the doors of the Registrar’s Office. Despite its DMV vibe and long lines, everything moved quickly and efficiently. I filled out the paper work to officially change my major to Bachelor of Fine Arts. And I dropped Managerial Accounting. My condolences to the great Dr. Dorquemann. I was going to miss him.

When I walked outside, the sun had broken through the overcast clouds that had hung over campus for much of the morning. Brilliant sun rays slid around the clouds, illuminating the cloudscape in shimmering bronze and gold.