Isaac Byrne - Tolerance

DJ Swanson sighed with frustration as he packed up six boxes of pizza to cart it down the dormitory’s hall to the garbage. Another attempt at a floor program, another no-show by his residents. He’d really thought he’d get some this time—he’d even managed to nag a few out of their rooms and into the hallway, but had somehow lost them in the hundred-odd feet between the floor lounge and there. Making his way back to his room, he could hear them rushing out to steal the bounty of free food before his door even shut.

He settled into his desk, and after a few minutes of frittering away time on social media, he got to work on his research project. He’d already had to abandon his topic twice to satisfy Dr. Restrepo—no, “Melissa”—no, “Missy.” It was her first semester out of her own PhD program, and she wanted to relate to her students, though DJ could never think of a professor by their first name no matter how many times she insisted she was “one of them.” The only trouble was that Missy was a mean-spirited narcissist whose standard for satisfaction was that everyone write exactly the way she’d have written their paper, and arrive at the same conclusion. She’d lambasted his rough draft of this topic—“this simply will not do” she’d scrawled across the top, then not bothered explaining why. He respected her, truly; she’d accomplished much in her field in a short time, and although her youth and good looks might make some of his peers see her as less than she was, DJ hoped she’d grow into her role as professor.

But for now, she was a chore, and he did his best. He’d put hours of work into this, so he’d cast the dice and let come what may.

Some time into his revisions, DJ was surprised by a sudden voice behind him. “So are we going to do this or what?”

He turned to see the his fellow RA, Emily, silhouetted in the doorway. He’d forgotten to show up for rounds, and she’d had to come get him—doubly irksome since she plainly disliked being his rounds partner to begin with, but a common schedule made working together this semester a common occurrence. He liked her well enough—she was a good student, a good RA to her residents, and heaven knows she was more than easy on the eyes—but the feeling was not mutual. She was a triple major with a double minor, beautiful and brilliant and no-nonsense in everything she did, and it was clear that fraternizing with the likes of DJ was nonsense to her.

After a murmured apology, rounds went by in silence. From Emily, anyway; he tried to strike up conversation, but he was nervous talking to girls, especially pretty girls, especially pretty girls who seemed not to like him. Which was most of them, really. She gave monosyllabic replies as necessary, and did nothing to further conversation. Like most nights, all was well, and save for a student locked out of her room, the evening passed without incident. He finished his essay as best he could, and flicked off the lights.

As he drifted off to sleep that night, it was with an effort that he held back tears. It had been his birthday, and outside of a handful of old high school friends saying something on facebook, nobody had said a word. His family hadn’t even called, though really, that wasn’t unusual. His birth mother had died before he was old enough to remember, and his father followed her in a traffic accident when DJ was eight. His step-mother and step-sister had raised him grudgingly, but both had been happy to see him shuffle off to college and were never thrilled when he returned for breaks.

It was pitiful, really, and he could scarcely even blame anyone for not taking more notice of him. DJ wasn’t especially handsome, nor was he a great student. His grades were the result of elbow grease and a lack of distractions by way of a social life. He had hobbies, but none that would impress or interest anyone. He was introverted, even shy at times, and had only a few friends here at college. He had an annoying laugh and skin that only a small fortune in skin care products kept from breaking out. DJ was a loser, and everybody knew it. Usually within minutes of meeting him. His only real desire was that instead of being treated like one, he could just get people to be merely civil. Not friendly, necessarily—just not cruel. To treat him with a modicum of dignity.

Now there are many stories of wishes coming true. Tales with genies, wizardry, or even a merciful god who answers heartfelt prayers. Sometimes they were granted by the blowing out of birthday candles, though DJ had done no such thing today. Still, whatever power motivated it, that night, his words were heard by someone, and someone with the means to grant wishes was listening when, just before falling asleep, he whispered, pleadingly—to no one at all—“I just wish people would tolerate me.”

The next day between classes, DJ popped in during Dr. Restrepo’s—no, Missy’s—office hours, and there she was. Long legs lead up to a slender body; a pair of breasts just prominent enough to be unable to avoid notice were present beneath cascades of curly brown hair halfway down her back. Insisting as ever on trying to fit in, she was dressed casually as usual, a skirt that ended midway down those divine thighs and a tank top that revealed the lack of bra beneath it for anyone more than glancing at it.

He’d heard more than one male classmate make crude comments or wolf whistles; the one time she’d overheard it, she’d whirled on the offender and brought the full wrath of the university to bear on him. The boy had dropped the class before the next meeting, and it was said the hell she’d raised had almost been enough to get him expelled. DJ guarded the level of his gaze carefully, keeping it off the hint of cleavage and on the bored expression on Missy’s face.

“What can I do for you, Schmidt?”

A dozen answers flooded his mind, all of which would have gotten him slapped, and he composed himself. “I revised my rough draft.”

She held out a hand, and he thrust the papers into it. After a moment’s perusal, she rolled her eyes. “Didn’t I tell you to switch topics? Social media’s impacts on political protest movements is just so passé—is there anyone who hasn’t already weighed in on it?” She shook her head deprecatingly. “I’m just trying to help you out here, Swanson. Scrap this wreck and come back with something fresh.” With that, she unceremoniously dropped the entire essay into the trash can in front of her.

He tensed with anger. “Hey! I worked really hard on that! And that’s the third one I wrote, since you didn’t like the first two. I’m just taking this course for credit—I’m not trying to revolutionize the field. No, I am not going to re-write it again.” He set his jaw firmly, fighting not to look down at the floor.

Missy seemed to consider a moment. “Oh. Well all right then.” She bent down to pick up the essay out of the trash can before she could see the stupefied expression on his face. He couldn’t believe she capitulated so easily. And he couldn’t believe what a great look he had down her top while she was bending over like this.

And he couldn’t believe she caught him staring as she fished out the essay from among the other papers.

The well-built professor rolled her eyes at him, though she looked more impatient than offended. “Get enough of an eyeful?” Still, she remained bent over, fishing for the essay. It was almost impossible not to at least glance at the two perky breasts beneath, little bee-sting nipples pointing the way to the floor.

“Oh! No, I, uh,” DJ stammered.

Finding the last page, she set the essay on her desk—still annoyed, and still bent over! “Well, let me know when you do.” She drummed her fingers on her desk impatiently.