Historically Inaccurate

🌥 S E V E N 🌥

Here is the thing about volunteer work: It sucks.

You're not happy about it, the people in the office aren't happy about it, really the only person winning is the Dean of the department because he doesn't have to see you or the secretaries sulking. It's a slow death. Arranging flyers, taking out the trash, taking letters to different departments, resisting the urge to play minesweeper in the old laptops of the department.

"If I placed a picture of your face right in front of you I bet you wouldn't even be able to tell the difference," Carlos says, slapping something against my shoulder.

"What does that even mean?" I ask, removing the sticky note he just pasted on my shirt. It's a badly drawn zombified version of me that looks like it's about to fall asleep.

"That if you keep staring at the clock for so long people are going to start thinking you're a statue instead of a volunteer." He tries to stick another note on me but I give him the glare of death and he stops. "And you shouldn't let the secretaries see you so bored for so long or they'll start complaining."

"Who are you, the volunteer police?"

"No, but I am your club vice president, and should tell you that if you get kicked out of the department for not doing anything you could get in probation with the club."

I narrow my eyes, looking at him between a few hair strands that fell over my face as I turned.

"No you can't, that's against club policy and I literally went to deliver a message to the business building five minutes ago." I know what he wants me to do, he has a stack of educational magazines that are supposed to be delivered to the professor's offices and he doesn't want to move his lazy ass off his chair like he has for the past hour or so.

"Tell you what, why don't I help with the emails you've been going over while you go deliver those academic papers to the professors?" I ask, scooting my chair closer towards him.

"I think I'm fine."

"En serio?"

"Really."

We stare at each other, trying to convince ourselves that it won't be us who will have to walk all around the building for some stupid magazines, but not even five minutes later both of us have half a stack and are walking down the hall.

"I mean think about it: it's faster this way," he says, placing a magazine on the box outside a teacher's door.

"Whatever, I'm not talking to you for five minutes."

"You just talked to me right now."

"Shut up."

"You just did it again."

I roll a magazine in my hand, approaching him like I'm going to hit him when I remember something. I take out my phone which has been on mute for a while because I didn't want to be that volunteer that is on her phone the whole time instead of doing work. I much rather prefer to look like death than to appear distracted by social media. There's still about two hours left for the club meeting and a bit of an hour and a half left to meet Ethan outside of the Liberal Arts building, which was where we arranged to see each other two days ago.

Carlos pushes his head against mine, trying to catch a glance of my phone's screen.

"Who you texting?"

"No one." I elbow him away and squeak when he pokes my side. "Stop it."

"Your boyfriend?"

"He's not!"