The Culture of Hooking Up

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FOUR

My professor is back at the podium but pauses at the end of his sentence and tilts his head. That's why I know he doesn't just say what he thinks, but rather thinks about what he says. His fingers push into his cheeks and he pulls down at the rough, tan skin there before he side-steps away from the podium and yanks out the chair behind his desk. It's the same uncomfortable plastic chair that we are all slouched in, with the back curved in too much like a banana and awkward holes throughout like Swiss cheese.

The scrapes of the chair fill the silence as my professor flips it around and plops down in one fluid motion. He leans his arms of the back and goes about fixing the way his striped button up shirt is cuffed around his black sweater.

"You know, we all worry about all the crap on the news, but honestly . . ." He looks back up. "People are naturally good."

Some people scoff, but my jaw clenches at the thought of the vultures under the nightclub stairs. There is nothing natural or good about them.

"Seriously." My professor doesn't even flinch. "Right now, we're all sitting here, and we assume everyone in this room is sane because they are following classroom expectations. Like I said the other day, social order is more often obeyed than not."

"Sociology major, huh?" Jack's voice rings in my head from the other night.

I fought the urge to roll my eyes by picking at the bright pink lip gloss I found crusted to the shoulder of my cardigan courtesy of the petite blonde girl, but my eyes darted back over to the right on their own accord. The amused look in Jack's eyes didn't falter, not even when the bus hit a pothole and jolted all the sleeping passengers like bobble heads. I raised my brow waiting for the usual "what are you going to do with that?" remark.

But instead he just smiled. "I dabbled in psychology for a while."

Then, I gave in and rolled my eyes. "Let me guess, you're all about nature."

"Ah"—he held up a finger— "Not necessarily. I've moved on to history."

That made both my eyebrows rise and wrinkle my forehead.

Jack breathed out a chuckle, but still kept his finger up in the air. "Because while there have been many key players who deserve hardcore"—he leaned down, and his lips found my ear— "psycho analysis." His smile returned when he leaned back up. "I think history is rooted in human collectivity. We're all responsible whether we like it or not."

"We assume typicality—not normality—remember that," my professor continues, holding up a finger of his own. "Because there is no such thing as normal, there is just typical and atypical."

Like the typical "b*tch" most guys tend to both figuratively and literally spit at you the second they hear a "no, thank you." Or the word "nice" that is often paired with a typical, but unwelcome and drunken ass grab.

A typical eye-roll or a shrug usually follows a nice hard look at my chest. Sometimes they'll pass a glance back at my face—only sometimes—before still sauntering off like all the rest.

Atypicality exists in the way my lips curved back up in response to Jack's statement. It also exists when none of the potholes where able to jostle his thigh away from mine. I blame the too close for comfort bus seats. Even then, there was something comforting about the heat. Each time the seams of our jeans rubbed together. No other parts of our bodies were touching, and nothing about it felt unwelcome, calculated, or typical except the headache I had coming on.

The silence that fell between us felt natural. Even when he would reach up to scratch his jaw or mess with his hair and his eyes would dart to the left and catch me looking.

It felt good.