Chapter 11

Sara'snot sure how it's possible, but somehow her art history professor makes the class as boring and tedious as her literature class. Thank god her math teacher was at least entertaining. Which, considering the subject, is both surprising and almost ironic (not that she's complaining).

She tries to focus on what Mr. Kent is saying, but she finds her attention faltering. There's just something about his voice—the listless, steady way in which he speaks—that makes every lesson sound as dry and tasteless as stale bread.

Really, really stale bread.

But at least most of the art was pretty.

Painting has never been her thing (she doesn't have the patience for it), but she can appreciate it. The core values of what makes an image great is the same despite the medium—color, composition, lighting, movement. There's a reason this class is a requirement for her Bachelor of Photography degree. Unlike her English and math requirements, Sara totally understands how the material is relevant to her career path. She'd even go so far as to say it's interesting. Or would be, if the person teaching it was literally anyone else.

In her bag, her phone vibrates—the sound muffled, but still loud enough for the surrounding students to glance over. Sara wonders if it's just because they're as bored as she is. It's probably a really bad sign that she almost (almost) wishes Seth would crash the class like he did the first few weeks, but apparently he finds her professor as dull as she does.

The vibrating stops long enough for Sara to doodle a flower on the corner of her notebook before starting up again. She frowns, feeling her classmates' eyes as she reaches into her bag and silences it. A glance at the screen shows an unfamiliar number, but it's the same as the one that called a few seconds before. It's probably just another scam call—she's been getting a lot more of those lately—but it's weird that they called right back when she didn't answer.

Her professor's voice makes her jump. "I'm sorry. Am I boring you, Miss Bennett?"

Yes, she thinks, but the heat crawling up her neck and the weight of her classmates' stares makes her tongue stick to the roof of her mouth. Awkwardly, her fingers fumble for the power button. "Sorry," she mutters, "I was just turning it off."

Mr. Kent looks down his long nose, this thin face pulling into a sneer. "Phones should be turned off before class. Not during." How he manages to still sound toneless even while his expression screams irritation is a mystery.

"Sorry," she echoes, shrinking in her seat. Mentally, she adds ‘professor is a total dick' to her list of reasons why this class might be just as bad as British Literature.

There'sa voicemail waiting for her when she gets out of class.

It's still probably just a telemarketer call (they seem to be the only ones that bother with voicemails anymore) but she decides to listen anyway. Part of her is just curious to see what the latest scam is—it's been a while since she got the one about the car payment she didn't have being overdue. Longer still since anyone's called about her "home warranty".

She brings the phone to her ear, dodging the other students as she fights her way through the narrow halls. The voice that plays isn't a recording, but it's unfamiliar—an older sounding gentleman.

"Miss Bennett? This is Dr. Hastings from Valley Creek Medical Hospital. I need you to give me a call back as soon as you can. It's in regards to your grandmother."

The chill she gets is instant, heavy on her chest and shattering the breath in her lungs like glass. She's frozen. Students move around her, shoulders checking hers as they dodge her.

Sara doesn't feel any of it.

She doesn't feel anything.