Devon Hartford - Reckless

“WHEN I SAY I’LL CUT A BITCH, I MEAN IN HALF.”

When I leaned back in my seat, finished, with a satisfied smile stretched across my face, Madison glanced over. I allowed her a good look at my handiwork.

Madison erupted like a laughing klaxon, snorting bellows of belly-laughter, drowning out the professor.

Everyone in the entire lecture hall stopped and slowly turned to stare at us.

Unsure whether I should be proud of my comic accomplishment or horrified, I sank down in my seat, trying to slide to the floor. But the seat-back in front of me was too close. I was stuck in plain view.

Madison clapped her hand to her mouth in mid-bellow.

The room was pin-drop silent.

The sensation of nuclear embarrassment continued unabated for what seemed like an hour. Or four. I don’t think I breathed the entire time.

“Should I call for an ambulance, miss?” Professor Dorquemann quacked at last. He had a good-natured smile on his face, as if nothing was wrong. “Or is Managerial Accounting inherently funny?” He paused in thought for several moments as a smile of his own appeared, then he honked, “I always thought so, anyway.”

I couldn’t help myself, I had to say it, even if everyone was still staring. In the smallest squeaky whisper I could manage, I said to Madison, “How does he not realize it’s his voice?”

“Shut up!” she whispered from the corner of her mouth through clenched teeth, then kicked my ankle.

Although my ankle smarted, I couldn’t hold it against Madison. I’d triggered her laughter by showing her the Tiffany cartoon, and she was the one in the hot seat.

Dr. Dorquemann raised his eyebrows at Madison expectantly.

“Uhhhh,” Madison croaked. She glowed tomato red, her eyes darting around for the nearest hole to hide in. “Sam! I’m going to pee my pants!” she hissed.

“Please don’t, Mads,” I whispered pathetically. “Otherwise they’ll never stop staring.”

Four hundred pairs of eyes were pinned on me and Madison.

I wasn’t any better with crowds than she was. With no place to go in my cramped desk, I held my sketchbook up to my face, trying to hide behind it. Too bad it was so small. It barely covered my face. I tried to think like a toddler. If I can’t see them, they’re not there, right? I peaked over the top of my sketchbook a moment later, in case it had worked.

Nope. Everyone was still there, all of them still staring. I sunk back behind my sketchbook.

“Ladies,” the professor honked in an amused tone, “as much as I’d like to issue you both detention slips and send you to the office, this is a university where we are beyond such things, wouldn’t you two agree? If my lecture isn’t properly stimulating, perhaps you both can sign up for a drama class instead.”

I happened to peak over at Tiffany who sneered with ample superiority at both me and Madison, resting her chin casually on her hand, her middle-finger extended against her cheek in a stealth flip-off.

Bitch.

There were several random chuckles from some of the students, but the professor resumed lecturing as if nothing was amiss. To say that he was unruffled by our antics would be an understatement.

I was impressed.

Did Dr. Dorquemann’s bizarre demeanor belie the most laid-back professor of all time? He had my vote for the Cool Cat of the Year award.

No wonder everyone liked his class.

Amazingly, I actually managed to take notes for the remainder of class.

SAMANTHA

Madison and I made our way to the Student Center. It was crowded as always. We got in line for coffee at the Toasted Roast.

“What the hell happened back in Accounting just now?” I asked.

“Oh, Sam, I almost died in there. Dorquemann? Really? I think we were in the Twilight Zone or a Saturday Night Live skit.”

“I know, right?”

“I think Managerial Accounting is going to be way better than Fundamentals was last quarter,” Madison said. “That class was a snooze-fest by comparison.”

I smiled. “Yeah, but how can you not laugh at Dr. Dorquemann’s voice for ten whole weeks?”

“If you keep drawing cartoons of murdered Tiffany, I don’t stand a chance,” she chuckled.

We made it to the front of the line and ordered our coffee, then sat down outside. The sun peeked between cloud banks intermittently, and the weather was slightly chilly, but not cold. My unzipped hoodie and jeans were more than enough to keep me warm.

Madison wore an SDU sweatshirt and shorts. She was always trying to catch as many rays from the sun as she could, even in winter.

I inhaled the aroma of my brew before taking a sip. “So, Mads, I was thinking about changing my major.”

“To what?”

“Art?” I said with a tinge more reluctance in my voice than I wanted.

“You should totally do it,” Madison said confidently. “Christos was telling me on Tiffany’s yacht the other night how far your drawings had come in a few short months. And based on your murdered Tiffany cartoon, I can see what he’s talking about.”

“You really think so?”

“Totally,” she reassured.

“Thanks, Mads.” Sharing that moment of comedy gold in Accounting with her was exactly why I was reluctant to change majors. “Would you be bummed if it meant no more accounting classes with you?”

Madison smiled. “Why would I be bummed? You’ve got to do what’s right for you.”

“But it’s our only class together.”

“It’s not like we won’t see each other all the time. Don’t worry about it, Sam. I’m not going anywhere.”

“You’re sure?”

She squeezed my wrist. “Totally, girlfriend. Besides, my stay in Dorquemann’s Domain will be more productive if you aren’t there busting my guts with your newfound cartoon genius.”

“But aren’t shared experiences like that an important part of the college experience? What if we never see each other?”

“Don’t worry, Sam. We’ll hang plenty outside of class.”

“Promise, Mads?”

“Totally,” she smiled.

I was suddenly on the verge of tearing up because I was so grateful to call Madison my friend. She was so understanding. After my outcast status for the last two years in D.C., being welcomed, valued, and accepted at every turn by my new friends was still a noteworthy experience for me. I still wanted to pinch myself every five minutes to make sure my friends and boyfriend weren’t all just a dream.

“And speaking of classes,” Madison said, “I’ve got Spanish in ten minutes.” She stood up and slung her book bag over her shoulder.

“Oh crap! My history class is on the other end of campus! How do I manage to have classes so fricking far apart?” I grabbed my book bag and we walked out of the Student Center’s outdoor seating area.

“Try taking the campus shuttle,” she suggested as we walked up the steps beside the zig-zag fountain.

“I hate waiting for them. I’d rather walk.”

“So take the underground riot tunnels,” she winked.

We paused at the top of the stairs, on the Central Walkway.

“What are those?” I asked.

“There’s some rumor about tunnels that run under the entire SDU campus like catacombs. Supposedly, they were used in the sixties by the cops when everyone was protesting all the time. But I think Morlocks live down in them now.”

“What are Morlocks?” I asked.

“Didn’t you have to read The Time Machine by H.G. Wells in high school?”

“No, we read A Brave New World.”

“Oh. Well, Morlocks are these horrid troglodyte things. Anyway, have you ever noticed all that steam pumping out through the tall vents near the music building? The ones that look like obelisks?”