In Motion

Chapter 4: New Slang by The Shins (2001)

Round 2: Kyle Ramos versus Stairs. I was determined to win this time.

With no Gab Lo to foil me, I took my time walking up to the fifth floor. Int Dev was my only class outside of my home college.

The walk from CBA to AS was calming, if only to take my mind off my majors. Junior year was make or break. If my GWA didn't make the cut, I wouldn't be retained in the program. I began mentally exploring my possibilities. Well, I could write...ish. Maybe Journalism would take pity on a biz school kick-out. I could sing the first two lines of that cooking song from Ratatouille, so perhaps... European Languages major in French?

Before my mind raced to more options, muscle memory brought me to 504. There were a few classmates already there. My eyes darted to my preferred spot at the back of the class.

There he was in his plain shirt and jeans, hunched over a paper, pencil in hand.

I dragged my feet to my seat. Martin darted a quick glance at me through his bangs. There was a gentle flop to his hair. They touched the tops of his ears and extended halfway through his neck. If he shook his head, I was sure his hair would sway.

Kyle, you fucking weirdo.

I sat down, took out my pen, and twirled it in my hand, just to stop myself from fidgeting.

"Hey," Martin said in a shaky baritone, leaning toward the seat between us. I turned my head a few inches toward him with an expectant look.

"Sorry about the..." he trailed off.

I squinted at him, confused.

"Parking lot," he said, embarrassed at the memory.

"Oh!" I exclaimed. "Were you okay?" I found myself asking. Who was I, Gab Lo?

"Yeah yeah yeah," he said, nodding like a bobble head. The hair bouncing? I was right.

Kyle, I swear to god.

I glanced at the paper on his desk. It was a printed copy of the syllabus. There were margin notes and arrows. I was able to read "Why though?" with an arrow pointing to the assigned cases.

But there were also doodles. Not silly stick figures. I could see a sketch of Spongebob's pineapple house, an impression of the Academic Oval with the tunnel of trees lining it, and the beginning outlines of a face.

My mind flashed to the article: "President of the Artists' Circle."

I must have been staring for too long. He tried to cover the paper with his forearm, hair trailing its length.

I twirled my pen some more and stared at the white board in front. At that point, I'd stick the pointy end to my leg just to stop myself from obsessing.

Professor Ferrer strode in, looking like the heat of the university wasn't getting to her. Was the crisp white blouse a choice or was she just rubbing it to our melting, sweaty faces?

She began calling the roll. The people in front were raising their hands first. "Perez" and "Ramos" were the last two in her list. That might as well be the class ranking, at least in my case.

"Before I begin my discussion, are there any questions on the syllabus?" she asked.

Hands shot in the air. Man, these PoliSci majors were unrelenting.

Professor Ferrer spent the next few minutes answering questions about how to access the required readings, where to find the supplementary readings (they had time?), and what were her recommended websites for current affairs sources (wow, they had time?). I was used to uptight Type-As in BA drinking up the case method, but these folks were something else.