*Slow updates*
After agreeing to be the focus of a college article,
senior Charlie Murtaugh gets more than he bargains for when he's assigned a clueless sophomore who knows nothing about the sport.
...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Getting late for a lecture is the last thing I want in my life.
But I am drowning in schoolwork, and it's getting a little hard to keep my head above the waters.
Just go in, Lorraine. What's the worse thing that can happen?
I blow a raspberry and wipe my sweaty palms against the surface of my washed-up mum jeans as I stand in front of my elementary stat class. An average person would have walked right into class knowing that they were late. But I'm Lorraine Elizabeth Perabo; I'm not normal at all. Instead, I let my anxiousness get the best of me, and now I'm stuck at the door trying to talk myself into walking inside the class. It is precisely the reason why I made it my sole purpose never to be late to class.
Come on, Lor, you're wasting more time. Just go in.
God, I hate myself sometimes.
Screw it! I think to myself as my hands glide over the door handle and push it open. I should have known it was the worst idea because three hundred and something pair of eyes turn to look at the late human being who has interrupted the class, and my mouth runs dry. I hold on to my brown tote bag for support as my eyes scan the room for an empty seat, hopefully, close to the door so I don't have to walk past people. Just as my eyes find one, the Professor clears his throat firmly and calls out my last name.
I don't know what's more shocking, the fact that any professor knows my name or that I have to speak to him-with everybody in the lecture room as an audience.
Crap.
My eyes turn to look at the old yet somehow younger looking Professor Byrne slowly, hoping he can see through the anxiousness in my eyes and not embarrass me in front of my peers. But he doesn't seem to care much as he throws me the question anyways, his hand rearranging the papers on the small desk next to the board.
"What time do you call this?" His voice is booming as he glances at the watch on his wrist, meaning the whole lecture room can hear the conversation "you're 19 minutes late."
I thought I was only 16 minutes late, but what difference does it make if I point that out?
What was I thinking anyway, arriving late to elementary statistics? A class I should have passed last year and left behind. But I didn't, so here I am, making a fool of myself in front of everybody and a Professor who probably thinks I'm a failure.
Other professors would have let it slide because most of them genuinely do not get a shit-it's your education, and either way, they get a paycheck, but Byrne is different. He doesn't appreciate tardiness-not even from the athletes who always think they can get away with everything.
I swallow nervously as my brown eyes stare at his dark blue ones. The churning in my belly makes me feel so sick that I find it hard to open my mouth and shoot him a response.
