The inside is warm with shining wet tiled floors, door after door of offices and classrooms line the halls. Taking the stairs to the second floor, huffing and puffing when I reach the top.
Sweat runs down my back into my pants, removing my coat and gloves the cool air chills my over-heated skin. This is the reason I always take the elevator. Exercise is bad for my complexion.
Three girls huddle outside my classroom, giggling, whispering and playing bashful, peeking inside the door. A common occurrence when Chase is in the room. Moving closer I see what they are wearing. My breath catches and dread crawls along my spine. They’re wearing the same shirt I am. Only theirs is fastened behind their backs with a hair tie because it’s too big for their little size two bodies. Each one is little, blonde thinks they’re perfect and a cheerleader. Oh, this isn’t going to go well, I think.
Slow and on my tip toes, I try to secretly inch my way, silently, past them praying they don’t notice me. One of my shoes makes a squelch on the floor drawing all three set of eyes in my direction.
“O-M-G, Bethany, she’s wearing the same shirt we are,” one of the Barbie triplets says.
Fuck, I’m at the damn door. I almost made it.
“Where did you get that shirt?” Bethany spews stepping in front of me.
With my fake smile in place, “I picked it up at the student union, showing my Berries support,” I state giving a thumb’s up. Kicking myself for being such a dork.
“She’s lying, Bethany. Check out the back of it,” the other Barbie clone sneers.
The back, what is on the back of my shirt? Grabbing the material at the shoulder, I can see big black letters across it but I can’t make out what it says.
“You’re wearing Kohl Black’s shirt. Where did you get it? Don’t tell me the union; you can’t get these at the Union. These shirts are reserved for girlfriends, family members, and cheerleaders. No one else is supposed to have one,” Bethany barks, her lip snarled in disgust.
Barbie number one chimes in, “Did you break into Kohl’s room and steal that shirt?”
“Holy shit, you can’t fit any more of her inside of it, Christ, it’s rolling up on the ends. It can’t stretch to cover her fat,” comes from Barbie number two.
Once the insults start, it’s time to get out of the situation. The class is about to start anyway and there is no way I want to piss off Dr. Morgan. “Kohl spilled some coffee on me and I needed a shirt. He had this one handy so he told me I could borrow it so I wouldn’t be late to class. He was being a nice guy. Now I’m going in. You have a good day,” I say with a smile that doesn’t reach my eyes, choking on my words, wanting to kill Kohl for giving me this shirt.
It’s none of their damn business why I have this shirt and the fact that I lied to justify it pisses me off. Why can’t I stand up to these types of people? I need to develop a backbone and tell people like them to fuck off but fear of retaliation keeps me trapped inside my shell.
Why would he give me a shirt with his name on it? One that only a select few are supposed to have? He put a target on me, a target that I’m sure Chase is going to hit in just a few moments. Was his goal to humiliate me?
“I knew he wouldn’t let her keep it, he must have really pitied her to give her that shirt. He’s such a nice guy,” I hear one of them sneer while I walk away.
Feeling their hate weigh on my back like an anvil, I sulk to my lab table that I share with Wren, I set my backpack on the ground and hang my coat on my chair. He’s already working to set up our lab papers and get everything we need ready for class. We don’t need much; this is what we call a digital class.
A Clinical Approach to the Human Brain is a physical study of the psychological mechanics of the brain. It covers the regional anatomy of the brain focusing on neurons, synapses, and neurotransmitters. Right now, we are working with a projection of the brain that pops up from little cameras located in each of our black lab tables. Our little blue brains pop up as Professor Dr. Morgan steps to the front of the room.
Wren hasn’t said anything to me which is unlike him, he’s usually a Chatty Cathy and disrupts my focus. His happy, go lucky demeanor is marred by squinty eyes and a frown.
Whispering so Dr. Morgan doesn’t hear me, “Hey, how are you, Wren?”
He turns his squinty eyes to me, “Nice shirt,” he spits, giving me his back he focuses on his brain.
The Prof drones on about the different pathways and how they affect different parts, ending with giving us a worksheet on what little pieces of squirrelly brain tissues does what job.
While he’s lecturing, my eyes stray to Wren several times hoping for his smile, his witty humor, something that signals he’s still Wren and not a pod person. When Dr. Morgan stops and instructs us to work independently I know this is my chance to find out what the problem is.
Bending, I fish around in my bag for a pen. I smell him before I see him. My nose is assaulted with the scents of cardamom and cocoa, Serge Lutens Borneo 1834 for men or the smell of Chase. Slowly rising I meet his cruel leer prepared for his verbal battering.
“I’m heartbroken, Ten. Have you traded me in for Black
