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The College Years (Chapter 8)
By Vader
THE COLLEGE YEARS
Entry I: The Beginning
Continued from Chapter 7 . . .
CHAPTER 8
“As part of CPR, you put your index finger right on the side of the victim’s adam’s apple, and feel his or her pulse,” my Health Ed. Professor, Dr. Hopkins, said while demonstrating. Along with the entire assemblage of classmates, I raised my finger to follow her instructions, my mind distracted for just a minute from the ridiculous incident that had occurred just a little while ago in Algebra class.
“I don’t have a pulse. I guess I’m dead,” I cracked a joke, as a result of feeling more at ease in this course than in any other. She laughed casually, the rest of the bunch doing the same. I was just grateful she wasn’t as uptight as so many other professors struck me as, and appeared to have fine teaching skills to match. For once, something was going in the right direction at Mesa.
“Looks like Jack will need to be taken to the morgue after class!” she smiled with a wink, to indicate she was joking, nearly cut off at the tail end of her sentence by a small buzz. Glancing up at the clock on the wall, she continued, “Which unfortunately is right now! I’m sorry I didn’t have time to review the rest of the chapter, but if you do your bonus worksheets, you should be fine. Remember to prepare for your first exam – its coming up the next class! Have a nice day!”
Once she concluded, the entire throng got up from their seats, carrying their backpacks, and departed. I couldn’t help feeling like I was riding Cloud 9 while I strolled towards the gym for my earliest class there. After all of my unfortunate events at this campus, I had expected my Health Class to go wrong, and for Hopkins to turn out as a rude control-freak, devoid of any redeeming qualities. It looked like I was proven totally wrong, and once again put a little spark of optimism into my attitude.
Without warning, something whisked across my chest, grabbed my arm and swung my body against the side of a wall, making the back of my head feeling like a vice had squished it. The piercing and cold eyes of Scott seemed to tear at my face with relentless and unmerciful hatred. “What the hell are you doing here, punk?” he shouted through clinched teeth, his grip on my shoulder becoming ever tighter.
“My Health class is over here,” I replied, struggling not to wince. He heaved a single laugh, shaking his head.
“Well, what a coincidence . . .” he grumbled, pulling me forward and slamming back against the cold, hard, cement once more. I had no idea what he meant by ‘coincidence’, but I sure as hell was not going to question him about it. “You cost me a visit to the dean’s office, you little son of a b*tch. Now you’re going to pay for it!” I was frozen – nothing like this had ever happened to me before. Not in grade school, not even in high school had I been in such a situation. He snapped his arm backward, preparing to deliver a forceful blow, bearing his jagged, tiger-like teeth.
“Hey, what’s up, hommie!” came the loud, blunt, menacing yell from someone to the far left of us. We both craned our necks around to five, muscular, young men heading in our direction, slamming their fists together - three Black, one Mexican, and one White. Scott began to gasp, but caught himself in what must have been an effort not to appear cowardly. Still, it was obvious how shaken he was as he rotated back around to stare me in the eye.
“You sent them?” Still, shocked by what was taking place, I tried to shake my head ‘no’, but his mind was already made up as to what part I had in it. “You . . . little . . .” He was so visibly angered, there was a loss for words. Originally intending to verbally insult me, he instead delivered his sign of extreme distaste by knocking a strong punch to my stomach. Feeling nauseous and stumbling forward, I watched as he spun to face the oncoming group of fighters.
“Emanuel sent them . . .” I whispered, finally coming to the realization of just what was going on. Scott probably knew he was impossibly outnumbered, and he probably knew he should run, but instead, he blindly ran towards the middle of the group, only to be encircled by the rest of them in a matter of seconds. At that point, my view of what happened was obscured by the bulky frames, yet I clearly heard the sounds of hitting against muscle and bone, grunts and groans, and at last, a loud, deafening yell.
The rapid movement of their feet had kicked up dirt from the ground, which hid the result of the beating once Emanuel’s five men walked away. I only saw the silhouette of a person lying on the ground, motionless. In a few seconds, as the breeze blew the dust particles away, the figure moved, rolling over on its back, and pushing itself onto its feet with effort. Scott, who was covered with bruises, a large gash on his arm and shoulder, materialized out of the thin cloud of brown.
I put my fists up, expecting an oncoming attack. But instead, he just waved his hands in a motion that indicated the opposite. “Forget it – you’re not going to get a free fight when I’m like this,” she spat, panting vigorously, his voice shaking. “But you just know this . . . you will definitely pay now. You’ll pay harder than before . . . I’ll make sure of it.” He wiped his dirty mouth with his forearm, flipping me off as a denouement.
Giving me a look that sent chills down my spine, the troubled teenager turned and hobbled away towards the bathroom. But I stayed there like a statue, realizing that nobody else had been watching. I had been the only one that witnessed the gruesome act, but that in no way helped my situation. “My God . . .” I whispered to myself, my voice breaking. “What have I gotten myself into?”
(More to come)
1/1/2003 11:26:57 PM
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