ODD MARCO
He was looking at me.
The boy with the pale face and hair as black as midnight was leaning lazily against the chiseled foundation of the Technology Building looking at me as we were passing by, wondering where the room for our next class is. He was tall and of slight build with rich, dark brown eyes that seemed to bore straight through me and a small, somewhat mysterious smile. Tantalized, I slowed down as we pass him and lagged a little behind my newly-found friends. What he’s doing is quite rude, of course, staring at people like that. But with him it was different. There was curiosity and just the faintest light of mischief.
“Gwyn! Hurry up, we’re late.”
I was still looking over my shoulder at the boy when Kayla’s impatient voice snatched me out of my ‘trance’.
“Well,” she said, “I guess we’ve had enough sight-seeing for today, haven’t we? Let’s go and look for that Room 3 then.”
I frowned. Surely my friends noticed the boy. It’s not like them to ignore such cuteness. Now it’s either they’re just pretending not to notice or they really just don’t. But what was that? If it is the latter, does that mean I am seeing things now as well? I quickened my pace anyway to catch up with them and glanced back as he turned left and vanished from sight.
Sure thing, I thought, that boy was no apparition.
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College Algebra was exceptionally lousy; I was called three times for a board work and came up with nothing to answer for three times as well. My instructor looked disappointed. Well, she should be. I won’t blame her. Really, I barely scraped by an 80 with every form and branch of mathematics when I was in high school and now this? I say we should totally hang those people who thought it was a very utilitarian thing to do to share the wonders of mathematics to the world. I mean, every Math class is a nightmare for every student who lacks the aptitude with the subject. No offense meant for Math whizzes everywhere, of course. What I’m trying to say is, the problem is me. Not my instructor, not my book and certainly not my calculator. When it comes to Math, I feel like I’m the stupidest person alive. Sighing in exasperation, I turned away to stare outside the window and amuse myself with the variety of faces and fashion sense that pass by our class room. I found myself wondering over Mr. Mysterious again. What was his course by the way? What was his name? Was he a freshman like me? I was in the middle of contemplating how on earth I will be able to meet Mr. Mysterious when a flash of white and a movement caught my periphery and there he was, standing just outside the room shaded by a short mango tree. He seemed to be very interested with the tree because he keeps looking up at it so I took the liberty to give him a thorough once-over again. So, his uniform was from the Engineering Department. He was wearing clean and immaculately pressed clothes, the standard black leather shoes but no I.D. My assessment stopped right there because he focused his eyes to the object directly in front of him, which is me. He stared back and I froze. I got the strongest feeling telling me I should be panicking. My hand holding the medium sized; leather-bound book trembled and the book landed on the floor with an attention-grabbing thud. Mr. Mysterious smiled and pointed inside our room. I turned, only to see twenty-three pairs of curious eyes and the bespectacled, irritated glare of my instructor directed at me. I’m so dead.
“I wonder what keeps you staring outside in deep thoughts, Ms. Otrera. The solution to the two remaining problems, perhaps?” our instructor said.
“I’m sorry, Ma’am. I was just a little … preoccupied.” I put on my best apologetic face and hoped it would work.
“You were indeed,” came her reply. “Your apology is accepted. Now go to the board.” My heart sank. Can’t I get enough humiliation for one day? I crossed my fingers and prayed, please; don’t let Mr. Mysterious witness my fall from grace. I looked out of the window. Not a soul was around so I stood to face yet another of my nightmares.
