Rhombus [h.s]

11

11

It was the eve of finals week. Books are being read in a rush, and notecards, written and memorized. The four of us were sitting at the lawn that Monday: Murdock and Woody were busy exchanging notes and Garfunkel, after taking some sort of study drug to help him concentrate, was reading Jane Austen.

I studied for my Philosophy exam and felt like my head was going to explode after being yelled at by my dad on the phone earlier. He told me to study extra hard and focus and asked me if I was taking drugs or smoking pot.

Because apparently after that incident when Professor Peabody sent me out of the class the idiot called my father (who was at that time having a wonderful day playing Monopoly with his compadres) and told him I was starting to become a "rebellious slacker". What the hell, right? What's that even supposed to mean? Rebellious slacker? Knowing Dad he probably freaked out. He'd never want his daughter to become like him, to be associated with the word "rebellious" or anything close to that.

As much as he liked to curse around me and narrate his beatnik-like youth like bedtime stories, having me, his only child, become a rebel, would be the death of him.

And Peabody? Yeah, I might have slept in the middle of his lectures a few times and bluntly criticized his wack philosophy through written essays but that's part of learning, right? We're not tin men, or robots. We're Men. Human beings. With individual minds and beliefs. We're more than mere cogs and gears in the machinery of a society, but we are also more than prejudiced thinking beings living passively through armchair speculation.

Learning's an activity, an activity, a healthy process of gaining knowledge and skill. It's supposed to be an interaction. A balance between professor and student. Peabody and his droning taught me nothing but to dissent.

"Peabody's really messed up in the head," I had to say to the Freethinkers that Monday. I was highlighting terms in my Philosophy book; flushed red and frustrated. "After I ace that test," I said. "I'll shove the paper down his throat and we'll see if he'd still have the balls to call me a slacker."

"Nice idea, Howler." Murdock said. "We shall all ace our exams and watch our evil professors choke on perfection."

"Styles," someone said. I looked up and there was a guy standing in front of us, clutching a book in his hand. From where I was sitting-and where he was standing, with the sun behind his head-he seemed seven feet tall. I squinted up but didn't recognize him.

"Tomlinson," Murdock said with a subtle smile. Woody and Garfunkel nodded at him. "What's up?"

"Are you done with your essay?" He stepped out of the sun and sat on the grass next to me. He looked like your regular frat boy, or an athlete, or a handsome tech geek, or somebody attractive who'd be on the Titanic. He had a considerable amount of stubble on his face and his sandy brown hair was brushed up.

"Yeah." Murdock said with a nod. "And you?"

He shook his head miserably. Like, it was the end of the world for him. "Not quite. I'm having trouble with my references now that the library catalog's messed up."

Murdock gave Garfunkel a swift glance and said "What do you mean?", rather innocently.

"Somebody broke in the library last Friday and jacked up the computers. Didn't you hear?" He frowned, as if disappointed. "You should come by the West Library and see for yourself. It's total pandemonium in there. Everyone's blaming the library staff for not installing CCTVs. But you know what? I honestly think our lack of video surveillances isn't the root of the matter here. It's obviously campus security. They're always too languid."

"I agree with you on that, Louis. One hundred percent." Woody said softly. I heard her voice break but she had covered it up with a quick decrescendo. That was her way to conceal uneasiness. "And the Playboy magazines on the tables? Have you heard about that?"