Beloved

Chapter 7: Into the Classroom

As I followed the gangly looking kids into the criminology class, I marched upstairs and took a seat in the center of the room. Across from me, college kids filled every seat. I caught some writing graffiti in permanent black marker.

I took out my school supplies out of my backpack then set it in the desk. Like everyone, I waited impatiently for the professor to come to the classroom and give us a lesson. I was getting tired of looking at the untouched chalkboard and the wooden floors.

The yellowish orange lights hurt my eyes. Just then, the same woman in the cafeteria came bursting into the room as if she was recovering from a long marathon. "Sorry I'm late," she gasped. She's new, I thought. "Alright, let's get started. My name is Ms. Winston and I am the new substitute teacher for the criminology class."

A boy around my age raised his hand. "What happened to Mr. Monday?" he asked. Ms. Winston gave him a shy smile. "Mr. Monday has been gone for the past few weeks," she explained. I let out a annoyed sigh. Mr. Monday was a former criminology  teacher and a favorite to Princeton staff, students, and pretty much everyone.

And I know what you are thinking, why is Mr. Monday fired? A few months ago, he, along with some other students, organized a counterfeit money business in the tool shed. As soon as they were caught, the police arrested them and sentenced them to twelve years in prison.

I know this because Ben, Jason, and I had discovered the ring and destroyed it. The kid who asked the pretty obvious question must have never heard of the same news over and over again.

"Everyone take out your books," Ms. Winston began. "Let's turn to page ten and read chapter one." I immediately got out my textbook then turned to the page. I let my fingers claw through the ends of my hair.

The more the teacher droned on, the more I wonder about my mysterious best friend, Ben. Ben's fine, I reassured to myself. He's probably in the classroom, avoiding people, using his 'Sherlock' techniques to pass the class.

"Excuse me," the teacher began. "Miss?" She was looking at me very curiously. "Yes?" I asked. "I was just explaining the class about how a killer finds its targets?" Ms. Winston explains, holding up a piece of chalk.

"Will you come down and explain it to us?" I smiled then walked downstairs. Kids were snickering behind me. I rolled my eyes as I took the chalk and scribbled on the board.

"Every killer has a particular motive," I began, writing huge letters on the surface. It spelt motive. "Let's say for example, someone borrowed some guy's money then forgets to pay him back."

I wrote EMOTIONS on the board then looked at the entire class. "Feelings, like jealousy, hate, and lust they build up tension not only in the heart, but in the mind as well."

"Every killer looks for an opportunity to strike, kind of like a chess game. He or she follows the daily routine of the victim, what they like, what they don't like-"

"So, what does this have to do with the killer finding his targets?" someone interrupted. "Well," I began. "Someone who knows the victim's routine, their jobs, and especially their security systems."

"Most likely, killers know this because..." Ms. Winston trailed off. "Because they are either neighbors of the victim or stalkers." I explained.

She nodded as I went back to my seat. I then resumed staring at page 10 until the bell rings. We all gathered our textbooks then went to second period, which is English. Ms. Winston let everyone out of the classroom, except for me.

"Hello," I said sheepishly. "What's your name?" Ms. Winston asked. "My name is Cole Porter," I introduced. She gave me a puzzled look. "Cole?" "My real name is Nicole," I explained. "I think I have heard of you somewhere," she said. "Are you one of those detectives that I have been hearing about?"

"Yes," I answered. "The Expedition." She gave me a mere nod. "My children loved you two," she sighed happily. "Where's Luke?"  "He's studying in Havard," I said. "I have to get going to my next class."

"Hold on," she insisted. Ms. Winston took out a piece of yellow paper then wrote something on it. "Here is the late slip," Ms. Winston said, handing the paper to me. "Thank you," I said. "I'm sorry," she apologized nervously. "May I have your autograph?"

I took out a Sharpie from my pocket then nodded. She handed me an old newspaper about The Expedition while I scribbled my name on the large black headline then dropped the marker back into my jeans pocket.

Classes went fast like a train. I jotted down a list of homework I need to do: type a three-hundred page essay on the structure of the DNA, do five questions in Economic History, and complete my Math homework.

As I skipped lunch, I headed straight for my dorm room and toss my bag on the bed. Madison was nowhere to be found. I carried my books to the desk and plopped them on the table.

One by one, I took out a piece of paper and completed each subject until my brain felt like mush. I turned my laptop on then began my essay on the history of DNA. My agile fingers pressed on the black computer keys.

As I typed, I felt my brain about to explode. Knowledge filled the page with small black words. Just then, I heard someone let out a high-pitched scream.

I pulled back the curtains and saw a huge crowd circling around something or maybe, someone. I leaped out my chair and ran outside.

As I headed to the campus, the college kids are standing still like dominos. As I maneuvered through the apprehensive crowd, I stared at the slain body of a Frat boy.

His sideways cap was lingering on the right side of his head. His skin was bruised, probably decomposed from head to toe. His sandals didn't protect him from the cold. He wore a orange plaid shirt, grey t-shirt, and jeans.

His brown hair was leaking out of his cap. I instantly remembered that guy's face: it was Michael, the boy who I threw my beverage at.