9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

Lou

University may be a social improvement from high school, but the workload per class certainly isn’t.

The issue lies with the cruel nature of week one: the ultimate tease. Exception being Professor Anderson’s class, the first couple weeks of university were a breeze. A delight, even. I would go as far as to say some assignments were even enjoyable.

Introduce week three: the ultimate scramble. As we head into the end of September, professors have realized how far behind we’ve fallen on the course outline (why it took them three weeks to figure this out remains undetermined) and have kicked into high gear. All at the same time.

The laidback course vibes are a long-forgotten memory. I can’t remember what it feels like not to have eight assignments, four exams, oh and five assigned readings due every week. My courses and I went from having a healthy relationship to a downright toxic one.

It will come as a surprise to absolutely no one that my powers of procrastination are quite the detriment in this never-ending game of time management. The lecture my mother gave me all those years ago is finally starting to sink in.

My cause isn’t helped by the amount of extracurricular activities Stella drags me to each week. True to her word, my roommate has put in her best efforts to make my Taber experience as enjoyable as possible. For her, that means dragging me to every art show and local theatre production Taber has to offer. She even managed to drag me to one swing dance practice, but after a spectacular near-concussion experience, we decided that was my first – and last – time swing dancing.

The upside is Stella’s plan seems to be working social-wise, familiar faces now smile at me in the halls, but the downside is my time spent studying has seriously diminished. And by seriously diminished, I mean non-existent.

To be fair, we do have study sessions. However, the serious intent of said study sessions only last for about five minutes before Stella starts playing music, dancing in her seat, and eventually convinces me that our time could be more productive doing an activity that does not involve textbooks.

Case in point: what does doing handstands in an empty football stadium have to do with chemistry? We spent two hours doing the former and still I cannot tell you.

After I bombed an online quiz last weekend (re: forgot to take it), I had to sit my spirited roommate down to negotiate a contract: She can plan two outings each week, one during the weekdays and one during the weekend, and in return, an hour and a half quiet time is allocated to five afternoons a week.

For me, this means studying and getting assignments done; for Stella this means dance partying with earplugs in behind her closed door. When I first noticed Stella’s studying habits, or lack thereof, I was concerned. There is a mandatory number of classes a residence student must take to stay eligible for residence, so I started to worry that my bubbly roommate might be on the verge of failing her classes.

I’m not one to broach uncomfortable topics, but after a few days of internal debate, I finally worked up the courage to bring up the topic during tonight’s movie night.

“Stella, I’ve got a bit of a personal question for you.” Grabbing the remote to click pause, my roommate turns her full attention on to me.

Deep breaths, Lou. Be brave.

“I don’t know how to say this…are you doing okay in your classes? Grade wise, I mean. I don’t mean to pry; it’s just I’ve never seen you study.” My throat thickens traitorously and suddenly I’m blinking hard to hold in my tears. “And if you have to drop classes you might have to move out of residence and I… I don’t want to be here if you’re not going to be here.” A single tear leaks out and I quickly wipe it away with my sleeve.

To my utmost horror, Stella bursts out laughing.

“Oh Lou, I’m not going anywhere! First off, I would never leave you to fend for yourself in these dorms. What if your new roommate sleepwalked? Or left their toenail clippings in the sink?” Pausing to shudder, Stella continues, “Second, I currently have a 4.0 GPA in all my classes, so there’s slim chance I’ll have to drop out.” My mouth drops open.

“But how? I don’t think you’ve opened a textbook in my presence.” Stella pats my hand reassuringly.

“I’m sorry, I should have explained sooner. Every morning I wake up at 4:30 and hit the gym for a couple of hours. We always head to breakfast around 8:45, so I come back to the dorm, hop in the shower, and get all my homework for the next day done.” Shrugging, she flicks a platinum strand over her shoulder. “I’ve always been a morning person and I find it easier to focus after working out. I’m borderline ADHD and find it hard to sit still. I’m so sorry for distracting you during our library sessions, though.”

My brows pull together, brain struggling to process the new information.

“So, you hit the gym and get all your homework done… before I wake up?” At her nod, I feel my level of laziness reach new heights. Of course, I’d noticed Stella is always picture perfect when we head down to breakfast, but I always assumed she was one of those girls who woke up looking gorgeous.

Studying the girl across from me, I notice for the first time the hint of dark circles hiding beneath her concealer. Doing some quick math in my head, I calculate Stella can’t be getting more than four to six hours of sleep each night. Even for a fitness guru/time management genius, that seems a little extreme. The only reason someone remains conscious for twenty hours a day is if there’s something in their unconscious keeping them awake.

An uncomfortable question suddenly hits me: How well do I really know my roommate?

Shaking away the unsettling thought, I lean over to give Stella a hug. Before I can let go, she pulls me close and whispers in my ear.

“You’re my sister, Lou. And family doesn’t abandon family.”

Wes

Operation Build Trip Tolerance got put on hold when first semester decided to ambush me behind an alley and beat me to a pulp. I would say I’m speaking in metaphors, but my brain tissue is still in recovery.

Whenever someone congratulated me on the varsity status, I assumed they were impressed with my ability to make it on the team. Turns out, they were congratulating me on willingly signing up for a juggling act that only gets worse with each passing week.

Scheduling master, I am not.

My problem is I love to be prepared. Like the psychology paper I crushed out in four hours, anytime there’s a big assignment I just sit down and get it done. No point in wasting time and energy stressing over something that’s easily checked off.

Are hefty assignments a pain in the ass to get done? Of course. Hence the adjective choice. But sitting down and grinding for a few hours makes the rest of your week and weekend so much easier. Sure, I fall into the eager student category but let me put it to you this way: would you rather be nursing a hangover Sunday morning by writing a ten-page essay, or would you rather be watching Netflix and catching up on some ZZ’s? My point exactly.

The obstacle I’m currently stuck on is the balance between training and school. My homework strategy works perfectly until I’ve got a 4pm lacrosse practice that cuts my homework time in half. And then by the time I shower, pack up my equipment, walk back to my dorm, and make some dinner; about three hours has gone by and the thought of sitting back down and finishing the assignment is the last thing on my mind.

My jock and nerd tendencies are clashing against each other, and it feels as though there’s not a thing I can do about it.

Musing this dilemma in my usual seat for psychology, I see Trip enter the auditorium. Her standard ponytail swings softly behind her as the four books shift precariously in her arms.

Without thinking, I push my chair back and holler, “TRIP! OVER HERE!” Not my most subtle approach, but hey, it gets her attention.

Startled, she looks in my direction and I make an impatient get over here hand gesture. I see her eye roll from across the auditorium and I have to bite back a grin as she starts making her way towards my row.

I sit back down in my seat and it’s only then that I realize both chairs on either side of me are full. Looking up and down my row, not a single chair stands empty. The only spots open are the ones I just waved Trip away from. Shit.

I quickly turn to my neighbour, the pretty brunette I befriended during the first psych class, and flash her my most charming smile.

“Serena, my beautiful queen, my unstoppable empress.” I pause, making sure each word has a chance to sink in. “Would you so kindly do me a favour?”

Serena studies my dimples, tilting her head. Target has been hooked.

“I’ll move. For twenty bucks.”

I blink, my brain short-circuiting on how my target became the hustler within seconds. “What happened to good will? Or helping out a friend in need?”

Serena shrugs without a trace of remorse. “I’m fulfilling my duties as an empress. Now, hand me a twenty so I can leave before your girl gets here.” And to think we live in a democracy.

“Tyrant,” I mutter, pulling out my wallet.

Snatching the bill from my hand, Serena throws me a triumphant smile and sashays her way down to the front. I hope today’s lecture is on ethics.

I put my wallet away and stand as Trip finally makes it to the newly emptied seat. Her head barely reaches my shoulders, and she looks up at me with a hesitant smile.

One of the things I like most about Trip is that there’s nothing typical about her. From her misty eyes to her emo style, every aspect of Trip is perfectly unique. We all fall into some stereotype one way or another, but with Trip, she’s an original.

She’s also one of the few people who continues to surprise me. And for someone like me, surprise is… well, surprisingly refreshing.

“Am I allowed to sit down or are we going to stand through today’s class?” Taking a quick glance at today’s t-shirt choice, I note Nirvana was the lucky winner. Classic.

“Mais oui, mademoiselle,” using the worst French accent humanly possible, I pull Trip’s chair out for her with a flourish.

“Why thank you kind French man.” She drops all her books onto the table with a bang and I drop back into my chair. Dropping my voice into a whisper, I make a shushing noise.

“Don’t say that too loudly. The real Francophones will have my head if they hear you praising that accent.”

“They couldn’t handle your head if it was half the size,” she playfully whispers back, and I have to physically restrain myself from taking a sniff of her hair. It’s just shampoo for God’s sake.

“You know, I have been told my size is abnormally large.” My murmur causes a blush to stain her cheeks, but before Trip can formulate a response, Professor Anderson enters the room.

Conversation combat report: mission accomplished.

Silence falls between us as Anderson begins the day’s lecture. The monologue is easy to tune out as I turn to look at the girl beside me.

One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi…

“Quit staring,” Trip whispers through the side of her mouth, refusing to shift her gaze one millimeter from Anderson’s presentation.

“Not until you stop staring at the professor’s goatee.” I watch her teeth grit from my side view.

“I’m not staring at his goatee, I’m paying attention.”

“How can you pay attention and talk to me at the same time? Last class we learned there was no such thing as multi-tasking.” She breaks her stare down with Anderson’s facial hair and turns to give me the full force of her glare.

“Did you invite me to sit here just to annoy me?” A grin splits across my face.

“Maybe.” Rolling her eyes, Trip shifts her chair to the left and starts taking notes. I follow her lead, opening my notebook and turning my attention to the lecture. Ten minutes go by, then twenty. At the half hour mark, I feel her looking over at me, no doubt curious about my lack of annoyance.

I let another fifteen minutes pass before tossing a piece of paper her way. She jumps as it hits her, and I stifle a laugh. Keeping my eyes trained on Anderson, I pretend not to notice the dirty look she shoots my way.

I continue taking notes, completely oblivious to the sound of paper crinkling as Trip unfolds the note. A couple seconds go by until the same piece of paper finds its way onto my lap.

“Excuse me miss, does this belong to you?” I hold the piece of paper towards Trip, pasting a puzzled expression onto my face. She rolls her eyes, choosing to ignore me.

Chuckling to myself, I unfold the note.

On a scale of one to goatee, how likely is it that Anderson assigns another essay due Monday?

My familiar handwritten scrawls along the top as I read Trip’s response.

Goatee hands down. Good news is I showed up on time today, so it’ll probably only be 8 pages instead of 10.

She’s not wrong. Anderson has assigned us essays every single week, and so far, the longest one was the conditioning punishment. Coincidentally, every class since then, not a single student has showed up late. The deal is you’re either seated, ready to go 5 minutes before class starts or you don’t show up. After Trip’s misfortune, we all learned the unwritten rules pretty quickly.

Have you learned to finish papers before Sunday night yet?

I toss the note over, aiming for her head. It misses and bounces off her nose onto the desk. Touchdown.

I do my best work last minute. You should try it sometime.

I scoff at her response.

Strategy over procrastination, honey. I dare you to try it.

I crumple the paper into a ball, line up my shot, and flick it over.

In that case, it’s only fair you try my way. I’ll finish this week’s essay tonight; you have to wait until Sunday evening to get started.

I try not to flinch as I read her response. Talk about backfire. There’s no way I can wait until Sunday evening to start my essay, my stress organs will collapse from the pressure. Although, I suppose there is still a way to turn this around….

You’ve got yourself a deal. But to make sure you complete the assignment by tonight, I’m going to have to supervise.

Surprise spreads across her face as she reads my note and I find myself holding my breath for her response.

After what feels like an eternity, a crumpled heap hits the side of my face. Resisting the urge to unfold it, I reach up and touch the spot it hit, shooting a wince at Trip as my fingers touch the spot.

Ow,I mouth to her, cradling my cheek in my hands.

My charades pay off because the lip twitch Trip tries to contain turns into a full-on snort that resonates across the room. It’s easily the best sound I’ve heard in years.

Our moment comes to a grinding halt when Anderson pauses mid-speech and looks directly at us. “Is there something you’d like to share with the class, Miss Mackenzie?” We freeze like a couple of deer in headlights.

Serena, my money-smuggling empress now sitting in the front row, calmly raises her hand. “Sir, I was wondering about your office hours. Is there any chance you hold some online?”

The question does the trick, as Anderson’s attention is turned away from us and onto a long spiel of how online productivity compares to that of in person. Sending a silent prayer of thanks to the hustler in the front row, I slowly unravel Trip’s message.

You’re on.

Best twenty bucks I’ve ever spent.