As Easy As Murder

6-Leave it to me

My footsteps thud in my ears as I run down the hallway I was previously just touring yesterday. The 70's floral carpet is a lot less enjoyable when you're late to Criminology on your first day of college. I cough as I run through someone's cloud of smoke on my way to the elevator, pressing the down button, barely glimpsing at the red light as I enter the one on the right. 

There's 2 other people in here and we all look miserable, all 6 of our eyes glued to the floor like our lives depend on it. 

I stare up at the black screen, watching as the number decreases, sweating adjusting my nervana shirt that I stole from Loretta's closet, the mesh layer I put underneath it digging into my skin. One of my fellow sufferer's looks me up and down, and by the angle of the smirk that arrives on his face, I know he's one to stay clear of. 

The minute the sound waves of the ding reaches my ears, I'm taking off out of the dormitory building and into the humid summer air, dodging cars as I sprint through the parking lot. I'm sure I'll make a habit of being late and a class won't even be anything to run over, but this is the first class of my future. In one week it won't even matter, but right now it's a life or death dilemma. 

The mechanical doors open for me as I enter the familiar lobby, desk lady Cheryl giving me neighborly smile and wave as I take a sharp right to the elevators. This time I have the closet-sized people mover to myself and take a deep breath, relaxing my tense shoulders. I brush a stray hair out my eye as I rock on my heels, the butterflies in my stomach retreating to their cocoons and I repeat my same montra I've had since third grade, breathe in blue sky's, breathe out grey sky's. 

I walk down the last hallway of my journey at a normal pace. My phone goes off, and this time without do-not-disturb, so everyone's ears have bared witness to the obnoxiously loud Ashiniko coming from the speakers of my Samsung. 

I take a glance down at my schedule to make sure I'm at the right door; the last thing I need is to make an unwanted entrance to the wrong lecture. 

I push open the brown door, palm to metal. About 40 faces greet me, most of them looking about how I feel, like crap. But one catches my eye. 

As if I haven't been tossed around by the hands of fate enough in the past year, the indescribably unpleasant middle-finger earning creature is sat in the front row, hands neatly folded over his binder, like he couldn't possibly do anything wrong. 

The classroom is basically what I expected, 5 rows of large curved brown desks, wooden stools on wheels to go with them, navy blue cushions and a cosmic patterned carpet, something you'd see in an arcade. I look around, and there is a butt in every seat besides the one directly behind him. 

I think I'll be needing that advisor. Thanks Cheryl. 

I slide into the seat with dread, the stool creaking as I gather the papers Infront of me, the guy next to me giving me an unearnded side-eye. 

The professor is standing at the front of the room, Infront of a large white back wall, with a white board behind her. A light breeze from a desk fan behind her blows her wavy light brown hair, her pencil skirt hugs her petite frame, and she uses a blue stick to point at different things on the wall. 

"Before we begin," She starts, her voice light and fluttery, with a slight accent I can't quite put my finger on, "This is freshman criminology. If you are in the wrong lecture, please step out now." 

I secretly hope the scoundrel will get up, no one stands up, there's a couple people that double check their schedules, and handful of coughs, but it seems we're all in the right place. Physically, at least. 

"I am Professor Simons, I studied at Harvard back in the day, have 2 boys, and my husband is the poice chief at the local station," She introduces herself. Well all nod, and she clears her throat, writing some things on the board with a red expo marker. 

Before the poor woman can even start reading what she's written aloud, someone in the back raises their hand, a tall red-haired man with thin glasses and eyebrows that almost connect, he's holding a book, and smiling excitedly. 

"Yes? What's your name?" 

"I'm Anthony, I've watched every true crime documentary on Hulu, Netflix, and Peacock!"  Everyone has turned to look at him with contemp for disrupting the lesson, since we all just want to go back to our doorms and die. It's only 8 in the morning, and the guy is exuding more energy than a golden retriever. There's silence, not even a cricket. 

Professor Simons smiles politely, giving a small nod, "That's great, but it's important to remember the difference between what we see on our screens and the facts; reality." 

She picks up her blue stick and points to a large 2 foot poster on the back wall, which has a bacronym of the word 'real'. 

She points to each letter and reads out the words, "Recorded, Evidence, Actual, Law." 

I feel my eyelids getting heavy already. I yawn as I try to stay alert, the sound of the prof's voice unintentionally soothing. 

Professor Simons claps loudly, assumedly noticing we all look like zombies. My phone rings again with my failure to silence it, and the attention is all on me. My knee-jerk response is to say, "It's a sign!" 

I don't know why I embarrass myself like this. A few chuckles arise from the side of the room opposite me but I don't life my head to see who they came from. The menace smirks at me, clearly enjoying my public humiliation. He raises his hand. 

"Let's remember to silence our devices," Professor Simons says, trying to hold back her laughter. 

Eventually the atmosphere has returned to seriousness, and I sigh. That'll get a kick out of Loretta later when I relay it. 

"Why don't we call go around and introduce ourselves starting on my right here." 

She passes the blue stick to blonde girl on edge of the row, "Ava Laughtner." 

"Marvin Mcgee." 
"Levi Hunter."
"Jennifer Mcyntire." 
"Zarah Rafiee." 
"Connie Louis." 
"Cassandra Jenkins." 

The stick reaches the guy and he grabs it, his voice way too professional and full of cockiness, "I'm Kori Laurier. With a K and an I."

Huh. I guess I thought he'd have some prissy Butler name like Mortimer, but his name is actually kind of cool. NO, NO NO, I can't compliment him. I can't give him what he wants. The stick passes through many more people, and I try to memorize as many faces to a name as I can, until the stick reaches my hands. 

"Averen Hart." I say quickly, in a sqeaky voice that makes me cringe. 

The rest of the names pass and then we're back to hearing Proffesor Simon's musical-like voice as she points to a couple more posters, explaining their meaning and importance with diligence. Then, Kori raises his hand, an annoyed expression on his punchable face, seemingly impatient to get to the boring stuff. 

"Yes, Kori?" She points to him the infamous blue stick. 

"Can you touch on what we'll be covering in this class?" His voice is deep and husky with impatience, and it's the equivalence of tittinitis, but what bothers me more is that I'm alone in this hatred. No one else in this lecture hall was told to grow up and dress more respectably by Simon The Chipmunk over here. 

She nods, clearing her throat again, "Yes. We will be doing a lot of partner work, and a lot of projects. I think hands-on learning is extremely beneificial, and like to use all 5 senses in my teaching, well, besides taste. One of the most interesting projects we will be working on in this semester is a fake solve a murder kit. It sounds silly and unprofessional, I know, but I've found it a very helpful exercise. You will be working on it in pairs of my choice. We will start it in a few weeks and it will be due at the end of the semester." 

Excited chatter fills the room, and I can't help but be intrigued. This is a lot less boring then I thought it would be, and actually a challenge. Kori doesn't look pleased, though, and I assume it's about the partner work part. He doesn't seem like the sociable type, and his ego is so insufferable he probably thinks he's too good to work with someone else, that they'll hold him back. I'm holding back my fist from his nose. 

The lecture ends and I scurry back to the dorm to see a skipping class Loretta sprawled out across the couch, pizza box balanced on stomach, hair brushed out and poofy, a new set of gleaming naild on her pizza grease covered fingers. 

"How wah it?" She mumbles through a mouth full of pepperoni goodness. 

"He's there." Is all I mutter, voice coming out like brooting teen anger. She bursts into laughter and I consider moving to Italy to start a new life and marry some hot Italian guy. 

I bang my head against the Blondie poster, groaning. 

One way, or another, I'm gonna find ya, I'm gonna getcha getcha getcha getcha. 

That must be what Kori's thinking because he's definitely stalking me. 

I could've sworn that damn poster just winked.