Being a Barrow - A Sequel to Barrow's Boy

If You Don't Have Class, Fake It

     The History of Medicine was going to be Theodore's undoing. 

     He'd arrived at his first class that Monday, his second-ever university class, to be met with Dr. Lohengrin, a man old enough to be history itself and a personality to match that of a person whose bones were turning to dust.

     Teddy had sat in the front row. That was a mistake. He had counted at least five times that he had been spit on. Dr. Lohengrin handed out the syllabus, informed the students that they could go over it in their own time, and immediately began going through questions based on the textbook.

     Yes, the textbook that they had gotten at most five days before the class. Why did this man think they would have had time to read it between orientation activities and adjusting to their new school?

     "You," Lohengrin's eyes turned to Theodore. Teddy had to try not to cower in his seat. Honestly, even Carson would be getting a run for his money right now. "Front row? That's eager. What's your name?"

     "Theodore Barrow, doctor." Why couldn't Ashton be in this class? Teddy would even take Dansworth or Montgomery right now, even though he had only just met them.

      "Barrow," the professor repeated. "Alright, Barrow, who wrote De humani corporis fabrica libri septem."

     Theodore only knew that whatever title Lohengrin had just said was not one of their textbooks. 

     "I'm not sure, sir."

     "You're not sure?"

     "No, sir. I've never heard of that work before."

     Lohengrin looked down at Theodore, over his nose, clearly unimpressed.

      "I see that someone has neglected his readings. Fine then, Barrow, if you don't know that, try this; which king developed the first sanitary laws in England?"

      Thank God for Mr. Molesley. Theodore knew this one. They had gone over it in class the year before.

     "Richard II."

     Lohengrin hummed in a suspicious tone, though Theodore could not see why. Surely the man was not upset over him getting a question right when he'd just been mad at him for not knowing.

     "It would have been the 1380s?" Theodore added.

      "That won't get you a mark in this class, Barrow. I need the exact years. Now-"

     Lohengrin's attention turned to another student, and Theodore turned his gaze down to his book.

      He was not sure he could do this anymore.

      The first thing that Abigail's art professor, a younger man who somehow already had white paint splattered on one sleeve, told them was to pack up their things. 

     "We're going to get creative outside while the weather still permits it! Come on, grab your books, don't dawdle! Nature is waiting!"

     Abi quickly packed away her pencils, returning them to their box and closing it. As everyone was moving, the door opened, and someone stepped in.

     "Sorry that I'm late, sir. I just transferred in."

     Abi looked up as she closed her sketchbook, smiling at the familiar face. Violet, from her education class that morning, stood with a bag hanging over one shoulder. She held out a paper to their professor, whose name kept escaping Abi's mind. He took it and smiled.

     "Not to worry-" he read off of the paper- "Miss Sinclair! The more, the merrier, I say. Don't bother finding a seat. We're going to work outside today."