Registration

I stared at the check in my hands, scarcely able to believe it. It was made out in my name, to Emily Benoit, and it would cover one full semester of tuition and fees, with enough money left over for texts and incidentals. After almost twenty years, I was going back to college to finish my degree.

I looked back across the desk at the woman who had just handed me my future. I wanted to thank her, but I was speechless. She smiled in understanding. "You deserve it, Emmie. Your grades were good, back before you dropped out in your senior year. If you hadn't had those misfortunes, you'd have been teaching for years now. And we need more teachers who really care about the students, and aren't just looking for a secure position."

When I'd applied for the assistance, I'd gone through a series of tests and interviews. Mrs. Kaplan was my case worker, and we'd spent a good bit of time discussing my history, and my hopes for the future.

I'd told her about how, during my senior year of college, my mother had suffered a stroke that left her semi-invalid. Daddy couldn't care for her and run the family apartment building, too. Rather than put her in a home, I'd dropped out, one semester shy of a teaching certificate. I'd cared for her until the second stroke, ten years later, the one that carried her away.

I thought of going back then, but Dad had seemed to become old so suddenly. He'd had a heart condition for some time, and he just wasn't capable of doing the maintenance work needed to keep the apartments up. We tried a series of assistants, but it didn't work out. They were all young, full of themselves, and above taking orders from a woman. None lasted more than two weeks I finally realized it was up to me, again.

For the next ten years, Daddy pottered, and supervised, as I ran the building. I became proficient at minor electric and plumbing repair. Finally Daddy passed away also, going peacefully in his sleep. I found him one morning \on the couch, television still playing softly. A photo album was on the seat beside him, open to a page showing my parent's wedding portrait.

With my family gone, I didn't have the heart to keep the place. I sold it to a real estate agent who had been trying to buy it for some time. The price wasn't as high as it might have been if I'd solicited bids, but it included an apartment, rent free, for the rest of my life. After I paid taxes, I did a little investing. I figured that the interest and earnings would provide several thousand dollars a year. Not enough to live on, but I wouldn't starve if I was out of work for a time.

I'd spent half of my life caring for others, a twenty-four hour a day job. Aside from my job and my parents, I'd had virtually no life. It was time to get on with it. I couldn't touch the capital of my investments, so I applied for a student grant. I wouldn't have qualified, being too well off in the eyes of the government, if it hadn't been for the accident the day before my eighteenth birthday.

I was making a turn, and suddenly found myself looking through the car window and into the eyes of a very startled man in a car heading right for me. When I woke up, I had pins and screws in my right ankle, and a permanent limp. I had a look at what was left of my car. I was grateful for the limp. While it slowed me down a bit, it also made me eligible for assistance under the Handicapped Rehabilitation Program. Or, as I came to refer to it, Help a Gimp.

They tested my mental abilities to be sure that I was capable of handling the higher education I sought. They were enthusiastic about my scores, complimenting me for having scored above the twelfth grade level in every subject. I had replied acidly that if I hadn't, I would have demanded my money back from the college I'd attended.

They'd probed my psyche to be sure that I wouldn't slip off into depression or manic euphoria, and waste their investment of time and money. I had to laugh at some of the questions on the form I filled out. If someone was intelligent enough to pass the academic part of the screening, would they be stupid enough to ADMIT they thought people inside the television were trying to control their minds?

They'd paid for physicals to be sure that I was, indeed, handicapped, but not so much so that I'd be a bad investment. Finally, I'd been approved, and today I was to register.

Mrs. Kaplan offered a hand. "You'd better get going now, before the classes fill up."

I stood up, shaking her hand warmly. "Thanks, Mrs. Kaplan. I'm going to make it this time."

"I know you are."

I tucked the precious piece of paper into my purse and opened the office door. The hallway outside was quiet, cool. It wouldn't see much activity till next week, when classes began. All the bustle right now was over at the arena, where registration was being held.

The arena was situated on the other side of a four lane highway. I could see that the parking lot was jammed, and was grateful that I lived only a few blocks away, eliminating the parking problem. But since I'd left my car at home, that meant I had to cross on the pedestrian walkway that spanned the road.

With my limp, it was a minor ordeal going up the long flight of concrete steps, across the span, and down the other side. By the time I got to the arena, my ankle was throbbing, and stiffer than ever. And I still had the madness of registration to deal with, then the long walk back home.

Since the weather was fine (for once) they had set up a station to take ID photos outside. I stood in front of the blank screen hung on the brick wall, smiling as best I could, wishing that the wind hadn't whipped my typically unmanageable dark brown curls into a nest. It was my own fault. I never could remember to bring a comb. At least I didn't look like a drowned rat. I could remember that it had always seemed to rain during registration the first time I attended this college.

Then I was directed into a line for students with last names from A to D. I was glad my last name was Benoit, figuring I'd have first crack at choosing classes. Then they announced that they would be going in reverse alphabetical order. I silently cursed whoever had whimsically decided to try something new, and prayed that I'd be able to get at least SOME of the classes I needed. As long as I kept a C average, carried at least twelve hours of courses, and worked part time, the Gimp Program would keep funding me. But I saw no point in dragging it out any longer than I had to. I hoped I'd be able to get my required courses done quickly, and not have to take too many electives to fill out my time.

As time passed and I waited my turn, my hopes sank. The students who wandered back out to claim their finished ID after registering complained bitterly about the number of classes that had filled up early. This was particularly ominous for me. Though I was classified a senior, with my earned credits, there were a number of entry level courses I needed to take.

The current governor, in an effort to persuade the public that he was doing something about education, had loaded on a pile of new requirements for teaching certificates. No extra money was actually spent on the existing school system, but a majority of the parents apparently thought that this was an improvement. Consequently, I was going to have to take Elemental English when I'd already completed a half dozen advanced courses, Humanities to be sure I had a broad cultural base, and something called Number Theory. That last one frightened me. I have a rich and expansive imagination, but I like to think that there are some things in the universe that are solid, eternal, and unchanging. Mathematics should be one of them.

Around me the other students were smoking and chatting. It was a fairly small college, and most of them had been having classes together for several years. No one seemed inclined to speak to me, though I did get occasional curious glances. They must have been wondering about me, perhaps thinking that I was someone's mother, holding their place in line. I was by far the oldest one there, at forty-two. I knew I didn't look my age, but I damn sure didn't look twenty something, either.

My stiff ankle makes any kind of aerobic exercise impossible, and my youthful tendency toward plumpness wasn't helped by this. I'm now significantly overweight, at least by current standards. Peter Paul Rubens would have loved me. I've been blessed with a clear, fine complexion, so I never got into the habit of wearing makeup. My driver's licence lists me as 5'7", but that's without the pouf of my hair, and my eyes are blue. Actually, they shift between blue and gray, depending on what I'm wearing. I have the sort of smooth, round face that will look much the same till I'm in my sixties or seventies. According to every media image, I'm not beautiful, I'm not pretty, I'm not sexy. The most I can aspire to is cute, on a good day. I can live with that.

A man in a light colored suit pushed his way through the crowd toward the entrance. He was carrying a briefcase, so he was probably a counselor or instructor checking on how many students he could expect. His briefcase banged into my purse, knocking it from my shoulder. I grabbed, catching the strap before it could hit the ground. He paused, giving me a quick scan.

He was in his early thirties, I judged. He was about my height, perhaps even a tiny bit shorter. It was hard to tell in the suit, but he looked slender. His caramel colored hair was a touch longer than the popular short styles favored by most career academics, but neat. He had the most extraordinary eyes, almost turquoise.

After a second he grunted something that might have been a form of apology, and pushed on. Well, I thought. Someone's mama didn't teach them good manners. I watched him disappear into the arena lobby. Some pretty people think they don't have to be nice to the less physically fortunate, I thought. And he was one of the pretty people.

It was worse than I'd dreaded when I got inside. This was the very last group to register, and the available classes were pitifully few. Twice I waited almost an hour in line, only to hear 'Closed' just before I reached the front. I managed to get Number Theory, though I had to take it as an evening class. Humanities was hopeless, I'd have to try for it next semester. I made it to the front of the line for Elemental English when there were three spots left open.

The man who'd bumped into me was standing behind the clerk who was finalizing the class registration. His arms were crossed, and the tip of one glossy shoe tapped impatiently. "Two more after her, Professor." the clerk informed him. "Then you'll have your full roster."

"Well, hurry up, can't you? I still have to get my list for the workshop, and I'm already late for an appointment." He watched me with a sour expression as I filled in the form and had my schedule stamped, as if it was my fault he was running late. Irritated, I gave him a flat stare back.

There was a flicker in those bright blue eyes, or did I imagine it? His frown didn't change, and I turned away to look for my next class. Inwardly I scolded myself. It looked like he was going to be my professor, and I hadn't made a very favorable start.

I was excused from phys. ed, thank God, but that still left two courses to make my twelve hours. I took a Children's Literature course that was required, but then I had to find something else to fill up that last four hours.

I got a copy of the course schedule, and studied it. I usually took an English course when I needed extra hours. If I got many more credits, I'd be able to graduate with a double major. I noticed one course that sounded interesting : an advanced poetry workshop, offered two nights a week. It would fit conveniently with Number Theory, and I hoped it wasn't too late to get in.

I located the table where they were signing up for the workshop, and was surprised to see the man in the light suit there. He was speaking angrily to another man, who looked like a minor administrator. "Look, Mr. Campbell, I was assured that I'd have this workshop. It's important to me. I'm going to be using the instruction as partial credit toward my masters."

"I'm sorry, Langely, but you know how it is. I can't justify this workshop unless you have at least half a dozen students signed, and you're still short. Perhaps next year..."

The older man was trying to deliver unpleasant news gently, but Langely was having none of it. "It's unfair! Give me another day. Hell, another hour. I'm sure I'll get one more by then."

"Yes? Well, I'm not that sure. I'm going to be blunt, Tom. You're a brilliant man, one of the most impressive scholars of your age I've ever run across, but you're not an academic. You shouldn't really be teaching. You have no patience."

He flared. "I have no patience with the mediocre or inferior. I demand excellence from my students. A good grade from me carries weight, it's been earned."

"Do you realize that you have one of the highest drop rates on campus?"

"If they can't do the work, they should get out. I'm an educator, not a nursemaid." I'd been standing at the front of the table, listening. Langely noticed me, and snapped, "What?"

"I want to sign up for the poetry workshop."

He blinked, obviously not having expected that. For a second his expression was tinged with hope, then the frown returned. "You need at least sixteen hours of second level or higher English and literature courses to qualify." he said dismissively, turning back to Mr. Campbell. "Another half hour, then. I might be able to get Lee to talk one or two of his students into taking poetry instead of creative writing..."

"I have the credits." I interrupted.

His frown deepened. "But I just saw you signing up for Elemental English. That's basic grammar and paragraph writing. It's a freshman course." He gave me a quick look up and down that he may not have realized was insulting. "Are you a freshman?"

He certainly didn't believe in wasting niceties on humble students. "I'm a freshman, and a senior. It's my first semester back since the seventies, but I have credits out my nose. Last count on English and literature was... somewhere in the mid thirties."

He examined me more closely. Now I seemed like a possible candidate for his workshop, and his interest was piqued. He took in my froth of curls, my baggy shirt with the dancing cats logo, and my Walmart sales bin special tennis shoes. His eyebrows quirked sardonically. "Are we planning on a career writing for Hallmark?"

I was really getting irritated with this arrogant bastard, but I wanted to take the class. "We? Perhaps that's your burning ambition. I want something more challenging, like writing commercial jingles."

He had a pale complexion, and he flushed now, dull red glowing in his cheeks. He pushed a paper toward me and tossed a pen on it ungraciously. "Sign."

I took my time. When I was done, he endorsed my papers and stamped them almost viciously, then shoved his finished roster at Mr. Campbell. "There, six students who meet the requirements." He glowered at me. "On paper, at least." Without another word he snatched up his briefcase and strode away.

I watched him go, wondering how he'd managed to keep his position. Brilliant or not, a certain amount of tact and social skills was usually necessary to advance in college circles.

At the exit, across the now sparsely filled gym, he paused for a moment. He looked back at me. There was no doubt of that. He wasn't checking to see if he'd left something, he wasn't scanning the crowd. He was looking at me.

We made eye contact across the room. Even at that distance I could make out the beautiful color of his eyes, but I couldn't read their expression. Irritation, probably. Or perhaps scorn. I began to wonder if I'd let myself in for an ordeal. He turned and left, and I went to the cashier window to pay for my first semester.