Mila's Reckoning

Chapter 1

Mila

I shouldn't be surprised that I am late on the first day. This is my eighth and final semester, and they always start the same way. Either my makeup didn't look right the first time, I studied too late the night before, or more recently, Papa's nurse didn't show up on time. In college, you learn to live with your excuses rather than dwell on them. Because in reality, we are all screwing it up, and every single professor is right there to tell us so.
My freshman year, I almost had a panic attack. My alarm didn't go off, and my Papa didn't wake up. I swear it was the first time in his entire life that he hadn't woken up at five a.m. just to eat breakfast, and of course, it had to be on my first day of college. I was embarrassed as I did the walk of shame into the class. You would think that at least one other person out of my 60-something person seminar would have done the same thing, but no, life just doesn't work out that way for me, Mila Thompson.
My sophomore and junior semesters were no different, except for the fact that I became numb to the gawking eyeballs.
Accepting defeat, yet again, I rushed down the stairs, grabbed my bag, and searched for Papa. As usual, I found him in his recliner watching the news. Holding the remote in his right hand, his face was stern. His few pieces of white hair that he had left above his forehead were sticking straight up; he must have forgotten to comb it this morning.
"I wonder what these news crews would do if I gave them a piece of my mind about interrupting Criminal Minds last night," Papa said.
I chuckled, as this was the fourth day in a row that he's chosen that line to be the first thing he tells me in the morning. I leaned down for my kiss on the cheek, and returned one back to his. As I was about to walk away, I tagged him and said, "You're it."
And his response, as always, "Until I see you tonight."
I peeked in the dining room to see Helen, Papa's nurse, getting his pills ready for him. "I'll be home by 3," I said to Helen. She waved me on as I shuffled out the door.
Driving to the university is always a mess. Between the stoplights, crazy idiot freshman who don't know what they're doing, and slow-walking professors, it is enough to drive a person mad. Thankfully, it is a chaotic chapter in my life that is about to close.
As I was tediously looking for a parking spot, I saw one other guy jump out of his car and take off in a dead sprint toward the campus. This guy was running late, yet was dressed in a suit from head to toe, minus the jacket. Here I am, late, looking like I've just died, and that guy looks like he just ran out of a GQ magazine. Well, it could be worse, at least I'm not the only one running late on the first day.
After dodging many people who were showing up early for their nine a.m. class, I finally reached the door and looked down at my watch: 8:03. Great, I'll be walking in right when the professor is giving his introduction. Well, here goes nothing.

***
Gino

When I heard the door open, I was thankful to see that I wasn't the only one who had shown up late and was stuck sitting in the front row. As she sat down next to me, I was overwhelmed with the scent of something familiar - sugar cookies? Great, that makes me realize that I forgot breakfast.
"I beat you by 30 seconds," I whispered to her. She snickered.
I turned my attention back to the professor. In my five years of college, I had never seen a professor quite like this one. He was quite possibly one of the oddest human beings I had ever laid eyes on. His eyes were slanted, his hair was a mixture of a bowl-cut and a mullet, his pants came 2 inches above his belly button, his tie was too short, and his glasses were straight from the 1980's. But none of that was as distracting as the noise that came out of his mouth when he spoke. He was soft-spoken, to say the least, and had a very high-pitched, almost squeaky voice, like an old screen door.
Professor Cash handed both of us a syllabus, and continued on with his screeching, discussing the tardy policy. Oh, the irony.
I glanced to my right and noticed that I sat next to a tried-and-true front row student. Her hair was up in a perfect bun, her glasses were thick, and she had no idea that anyone else in the room existed other than the professor. She was avidly taking notes about every word that came out of his mouth. I swear, if he were to sneeze, she would write out the phonetic sound of the sneeze.
I hadn't entered this building since my freshman year. When I first walked in, the musty smell hit me and took me back to the memory of the scrawny Sylvester Stallone wanna-be that walked in here four and a half years ago. I'm not sure why, but it seems like every Italian-American boy grows up either wanting to be Sylvester Stallone - more specifically Rocky Balboa, or Al Pacino. Ironically, I always leaned toward Stallone.
And yes, I'm one of those kids who spent five years fulfilling a four-year business degree. But, not everyone gets to go home to the life that I do after graduation. I'd convinced myself that 5 years was necessary, but there was no doubt that Salvatore knew the truth behind my stalling.
After living in such tight quarters with everyone growing up, it was a breath of fresh air to have my own apartment, car, and completely separate life from the family. But, I had dug my heels in all that I could, it was almost time to go home.
The shrill sound of his voice snapped me out of my thoughts as he said, "I don't accept excuses for not coming to class, nor do I care about your business if you do. If you're lazy enough to skip, then you can figure out what we did while you were gone. I advise that you exchange numbers with the people next to you so that you may avoid missing work."
Within seconds, front-row-girl handed me her contact book. With an astonished look, her face turned red, knowing that I had just made a mental note about the fact that she has a contact book at the ready. I wrote my name and number down, and handed her my notebook so that she could do the same. It can't hurt to have front-row-girl's number, and I'm sure she'll have the best notes.
When she handed me back my notebook, I turned to my left. "My name's Gino. I thought that might be good information to give you before asking for your number," I said, smiling slightly and adding a wink, hoping that made for a smooth delivery.
"It's always awkward, isn't it? I swear, these professors must have lost their sense of what it's like to be a normal human being." She was writing her number down as she was talking, then, she slid the little paper in my direction. "My name is Mila," she whispered.
"If you are unaware, this class will be a hybrid class that only meets on Mondays and Fridays. The labs are to be done on your own time with a lab partner from this class. I do not care who you choose, but once you find your partner, you must stick with them throughout the entire semester. On Mondays, we will learn about the concept. Then you and your lab partner will experiment with the concept during the week, and on Friday we will test over that concept," Professor Cash said. "You must find your partner before I see you again on Friday."
I looked toward front-row girl expecting her to ask me to be her lab partner, but she kept her head tucked down. When I turned back, I noticed the words "lab partner?" scribbled at the top of my syllabus. Mila was smiling as I gave her a thumbs-up. Well, that was easy.
Before I knew it, it was 9:45 and time to get out of here. I planned on saying a few clever remarks about being late to Mila, but she was gone before my bag was packed.

***
Mila

Sometimes, I think the big man upstairs likes to take a look at my life just to get a big laugh. Not only did I show up late on the first day, but I managed to pick the only other person in the room who was late to be my lab partner. Even more so, my new lab partner just happens to be the GQ model I saw running through the parking lot earlier. Once again, only Mila Thompson.
I rushed to the library after biology so that I could check in to my online literature class. Because of a major scheduling error, I'm only taking 7 hours this semester. I was all set for graduating last winter, but somehow my advisor looked over a few details on my graduation checklist. Nonetheless, this schedule fits much better for someone who is preparing to take the LSATs.
I'll be graduating in May with an English degree, but my end game is to be a lawyer. There's a long process before that dream can come true, and the next step is to pass the LSATs. The LSAT is a test that many people say you can't study for. The LSAT doesn't test what you know, rather, it tests how you know it. It deals only with logic and is basically designed for every person to fail. Literally, most of the people will miss 45 out of 100 questions, yet somehow, that still counts as passing. It's a test of logic that makes absolutely no logical sense, but hey, I've always liked a challenge.
Growing up, I've heard countless people scoff when I say that I wanted to be a lawyer. When you're young, it's a cute thing to say because it means you'll wear a suit and carry a briefcase to work every day. When you're in high school, people quote the movie "Liar, Liar" to you and make a joke out of it.
But to me, being a lawyer is something more. It means having the ability to impact others' lives just by doing your job. I want to be able to be a voice for those who can't speak for themselves, just as my grandpa's lawyer was a voice for him when I was 5 years old.
I don't remember much about before, but I remember that two police officers picked me up from preschool one afternoon. They took me to the station with them, and this nice lady with frizzy red hair greeted me with gingerbread cookies and milk. She didn't tell me why I was there, at first, but I didn't have a care in the world while I was eating the cookies.
A few hours later, my grandpa walked through the door. My eyes lit up as they met his, and I dashed into his arms.
"Hey kiddo, I've missed you," Papa said. The tears were pouring out of his eyes, and I remember trying to wipe them off as they fell off of his face.
"Papa, what's wrong?"
"It's just the rain, sweetie. Stay with this nice lady while I talk with the officers, okay," he said, walking me back to my seat.
The moments before my life changed forever are very clear to me. I was sitting in a wooden chair that had one leg shorter than the rest. I was rocking it back and forth, as any child would. I watched my grandpa through the clear window as he talked to the policemen in a little room. I couldn't hear them, but Papa's face was red, and I could see that his veins were popping out of his neck as the officers were talking to him. After what felt like hours to my five-year-old self, he finally came back out to where I was.
"Sweetie, are you ready to go? You're going to be staying the night with Papa," he said, his voice breaking.
"Where are Mommy and Daddy?"
Papa knelt down on one knee, and grabbed both of my hands. His hands were rough and scratchy, but I held on to them anyway. "Mila, something terrible has happened."
In so many words, my Papa had broken the news to me that my parents were involved in a car accident shortly after dropping me off at preschool. A semi driver underestimated the slick road and slammed on his brakes too late, which left him sliding into my parent's car. My little head couldn't figure it out at the time, but Papa tried telling me anyway.
"Mila, your parents didn't make it, honey. It's just you and me, now."