A New Reflection

20. Roommates

"Well, certainly you're not wrong, but to take it beyond a surface level analysis..."

The pedantic boy in the brown leather flip flops drones on, once again, as I drown in a sickening mixture of irritation and inadequacy.

"You mean to say, individual justice," Professor Sharp interjects with a correction when Sandal Boy misuses one of Plato's key terms.

"Exactly, exactly—excuse me—individual justice," he swiftly confirms, then continues his lecture.

Professor Sharp never exactly offers praise or confirmation that the student's analysis has hit the mark, but the way the two bounce ideas off one another as equals makes me feel like I'm at the kids' table eavesdropping on a profound philosophical debate amongst adults.

Several of my other more vocal classmates dive into the conversation, challenging the ideas laid forth by Mr. Intellectual. They toss up fancy vocabulary and confidently swing at one another's opinions. The ping-pong balls containing concepts from last night's reading whip past my head at breakneck speed; they are all familiar and intelligible to me, but I lack the verbal coordination and conviction to jump into the game.

"We'll leave it there," Sharp cuts in, decisively concluding the debate as the clock ticks towards 3:00pm. "Your discussion questions for today are posted to the Canvas module online. Be sure to follow the instructions for crafting an extended response, as well as replying to your classmates. The essay topic for the Plato text will be posted by tomorrow evening and is due when you arrive to class Monday."

There is a collective exchange of eye contact throughout the room as every student reacts to being assigned their first college essay. I witness excitement dancing in people's eyes, mock-apprehension and cool half-smiles.

Thus far, I haven't found college coursework to be any more challenging than that of my most rigorous high school classes, with the exception of this course—"Inventing America"—which is decisively intimidating. I'm an even, fifty-fifty split at this moment between confidence in my abilities to handle the essay topic and terror over being ripped to humiliating shreds by my professor.

Sharp is the quintessential college professor—quirky, serious and intensely intellectual. While mild-mannered, I have yet to hear him express approval of anything a student has said. He merely squints, smirks or challenges their ideas with additional questions, blowing holes in any potentially articulate string of logic before it can gain momentum. I have yet to speak one word in class.

"By the way," Sharp addresses us, and the students who were packing away their books freeze to direct their full attention his way. "When writing your essay, please be mindful of the synonym game. The online thesaurus is not your friend; more often than not, it will weaken your writing."

I happen to make accidental eye contact as he speaks these parting words of advice to the class, and the green twinkle gleaming back at me almost humanizes him. Despite myself, I smile knowingly as our eyes lock for that single second.

The scent of warm pine that I suck into my lungs upon exiting the classroom fills me with an unexpected sensation of optimism. I bet I can write a better essay than Brown Sandal Boy.

* * *

That evening, there is a game night down in the basement of Forest. I tag along with my roommate Krista. She has already made a large group of friends, and I usually eat dinner with them, though I feel no real affinity with anyone in the clique. I have yet to run into any of the people who visited our dorm that first night; it's as if they all vanished off the face of planet earth after our impromptu rendezvous.

Walking through the halls on the way to game night, we pass a boy with science goggles perched on the top of his head, babbling to a friend about linguistics through a poetic, unintelligible wordspray. He's tall with smooth, caramel skin and a cute smile.