Elliot ditched his jock reputation after high school. He happily traded his cleats and shoulder pads for college cafeteria food and seminars notes. Now, without the distraction of football, he has managed to find success at the University of Minneso...
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The lecture hall was too dry. The maintenance staff had left the heater on a continuous cycle to compensate for the lofty ceilings, but it made the whole building feel like a toaster.
"Someone's hungover," Hayden noted, eyeing Pierce's sweatpants and scruffy jawline.
"You're in my seat," he replied. Still standing, he grabbed her blueberry smoothie and took a sip.
She snatched the cup out of his hand and said, "That's how pandemics start, idiot. Since when do you even show up to this class?"
"Since I failed the last exam," he said.
"It's film studies," she deadpanned. "How'd you fail?"
Pierce ignored her comment. "Move your bag."
He sat in the chair next to her, wiggling uncomfortably. It was the type of classroom with tiny, theater seating. The chairs were always too close together and annoyingly squeaky. Finding an empty spot felt like a deathtrap because the stairs were so steep that a backpack could be used as a sled.
"Professor V is super easy," Hayden shared. She was so close to his face that he could've counted the freckles on her nose. "All his exam questions come from lecture. He has an obsession with Brat Pack movies. The smell of popcorn makes his eyes water. And he'll give you extra credit if you tattoo the entire Top Gun script onto your body...I'm still trying to figure out how that's legal."
"Have you had this class before?"
"No. Wyatt had it last semester," she said, speaking of her twin brother. "But I also read the syllabus...Always. Read. The. Syllabus."
Pierce mimicked her tone, saying, "Get. A. Hobby."
Hayden kicked him. "I have hobbies."
"Writing fanfiction doesn't count."
Hayden recoiled, outrageously offended.
Pierce moved her backpack without permission, mentally appreciating her politically progressive pins. They continued bickering like siblings until the professor strolled through the door.
Professor V was slightly beyond middle-aged. If he let his hair grow, it would probably be grey. His buzzed head seemed to match his rebel-like façade, complementing his tattooed arms and neck. But, in true academia fashion, he never came to class without a tie. He looked like the type of guy who would slash your car tires if you confused Marvel with DC.
"Good morning everyone," Professor V said. "As always, I'll pass around the attendance sheet. Please sign next to your name. Reminder - if you don't see your name, write it at the bottom. Sometimes the printer cuts the list short."
Pierce stared at the blank blackboard, wondering if anyone used chalk anymore. The entire west portion of the building hadn't been renovated since the 1980s. It was paradoxical watching Hayden take out her tablet in such a dated room.
"Mr. V, I have a question," one student spoke.
"It's Professor V," he corrected. "Like Professor X. But instead of mutants, I have a half-full classroom of sleepy college students. It's thrilling. What's your question?"
"When does the film contest end?"
"The film contest will be taking submissions until the end of April," the professor said. "As always, I will be one of five judges. Winner gets a cash prize. You can find more details on the university website. I encourage you all to submit something - whatever that something is. Even if it's ballet on a tractor...That happened once." He cringed.
Pierce slouched into his chair, preparing for an hour-long lecture of awkward coughs and more pointless questions.
