short story

Stoneage Philosophy
Once upon a time, a girl leaned against the gray stones of a college hall and smoked. It was early morning and everything was gray, but beautiful – the wall, the light through the clouds, the ash of her cigarette. She was quiet, and so was the day. It was too early for many students, and so she busied herself in enjoying the feeble colors, the hopeful day.
The door next to her swung open. A dark-haired stranger, a boy, stepped out, looked around. He thrust his hands in his pockets (it was a little cold, after all) and seemed to notice her for the first time.
“Hey, can I bum a smoke?” he wanted to know.
She was feeling generous, and pulled out her battered new pack. “Got a lighter?” as she handed him a fag.
“Oh, sure. I'm not that far gone.” He chuckled, lit his cigarette like a professional, and leaned against the wall comfortably far away from her. She was just about to appreciate the silence when he interrupted it.
“Some day, huh?”
She looked at him out of the corners of her eyes. Some day, indeed. Some nice, quiet, private day, she had hoped.
“Yeah. Guess so.”
“Well, thanks for the smoke. I mean, Camels aren't really my type, but whatever. I'm Adam.” He stuck out his hand. His grimy, dirty, chewed-fingernails hand.
She was smoking with her left hand, so she couldn't even pretend she had an excuse. She shook. “Avina.”
“Nice name. What is it, like Middle Eastern or something?”
“Uh, dunno. My parents chose it, not me.” The words were barely out of her mouth and already she regretted them. Not only would they inevitably encourage conversation but they were so damned imprecise. “I mean, I didn't choose – you know, my name. Of course, my parents chose me, I just...” She cursed her profuse idiocy.
“Oh, yeah. Of course.” He nodded. Despite it all the day was still beautiful – the smoke curling out from his mouth, the forgotten sun behind its thick shield of clouds, everything. She breathed a sigh of relief. Everything was not spoiled yet.
“So, some class in there, huh?” He asked, or maybe it was a statement. She wasn't sure.
“What?”
“Oh, come on. I saw you in there. We're in the same class. You left after like the first five minutes. What, too crazy in there for you or something?”
“You left early, too.”
He shrugged. “She let us go after she handed out the syllabus. Same deal as pretty much every other class. You didn't even grab one.”
“So?” She took a long drag, held it in.
“Well, here, I grabbed you one. Just in case you need it, in case you weren't planning on dropping it or anything.” She nodded. There was no thank you. He waited, like he was expecting one. She'd given him a cigarette, was did he expect? When she didn't say anything, still, he sighed. Exasperated. “Look, what's your deal?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you leave class early, you're sitting out here by yourself like some emo kid, smoking your lonely cigarette, you won't even thank some random stranger for being nice enough to grab you a syllabus.”
She looked at him, rolled her eyes. Walked away.
They had class together again on Wednesday. She was ten minutes late. By the time she swirled in, black top, black skirt, black everything, he'd given up on her. Then in she walked, and he smelled her cigarettes. She sat next to him. Or rather, behind him and over to his left. But he was as aware of her as if she had sat next to him, and he kind of hoped she had, so he counted it like she was next to him.
The professor glared at her through his lecturing. She ignored him, ruffled through some papers for an interminable few minutes. Then -
“Professor?”
“Excuse me?” She'd totally thrown off his train of thought. It was obvious, the way he stared at her, fishmouthed.
“Yes. Avina Tomlinson. Anyway, what's this you're saying about Pope? I mean, his Essay on Man really isn't terrible, but there are much better examples of his work out there. Like, could we at least start with the Rape of the Lock? At the very least it's entertaining.”
“Excuse me, Miss Tomlinson. But I'm the teacher here, and since you can't even bestir yourself to come to class on time, I'd prefer you discuss complaints with me outside of class. Now, the Essay.” The professor was preparing himself for another long-winded gust of knowledge...and Avina's hand was up, before he could start.
“But don't you agree, sir, that it's better to interest a class than to bore it to death? After all, we are all here – some a bit late, admittedly, but nonetheless we are all here. Hoping to procure some pearls, some gems of knowledge that may last us beyond the final of this class. And if you're a respectable scholar, which I would presume you are, then -”
He interrupted her, savagely. “Miss Tomlinson. This is unacceptable. If you plan on continuing such behavior within this classroom I strongly suggest you rearrange your schedule. I will not tolerate such disturbances.”
“But look, Professor. Look at your class. They're really thinking, aren't they? I mean, they're really paying attention to you for the first time this morning. Wouldn't you agree? Look at these faces.” It was true; he had a rapt audience. And for a minute he felt flattered. But then, then he was angered.
“We're talking about Pope. And the Essay on Man, followed by the Essay on Criticism. Then, and only then, will we proceed to the Rape of the Lock. There will be order in this classroom and I will not have a student interrupting as constantly and vociferously as you. We have now wasted nearly fifteen minutes of class, and to prevent any more such distractions I ask that you leave, Miss Tomlinson. You're welcome to come back on Friday, but if you do I would appreciate a more subdued attitude. And if that is impossible for you, there are many other sections of early British Literature for you to attend. That is a matter for your own decision. Good day, Miss Tomlinson.”
Adam turned to look at her, expecting a pale, shocked face. To his surprise she was grinning carelessly and as she passed he was sure he heard her whisper, “Well, there's today's participation grade.”
He spent the next twenty minutes glancing out the window to see if she was outside smoking – she was – jiggling his leg, completely ignoring the poor professor. Once she had left, the whole class had gone into sleep again. Their class was like a hazy spring day, and they were all the lazy bumblebees, droning softly, only able to loop slowly and meanderingly towards responses, when before it had been an electric storm, thunderbolts and lightning making them pay fast attention. Eventually in exasperation the teacher let them go early, and Adam was the first to burst breathless out the double doors.
“Well?”
He turned around, his exhale a ghost, and there she was again. Smoking, of course. Total contentment etched across her face. She was the one who had asked the question.
“What the hell was that?”
“Come on. You don't like a little public disturbance?”
“I'll agree that the professor was boring, but that's no reason to barge in and try to take control. This isn't a ship and you can't arrange a mutiny. There's a reason he runs the class the way he does.”
Avina looked at him consideringly, almost disappointed. “Really? Do you really think that?”
“Yes. It just doesn't make sense otherwise – he has to have a reason for what he's doing. He's sat down, planned out this whole course before the semester even started. And even if he hasn't planned out the whole thing, he has some idea in his mind of where he's going with it. You can't just barge in, interrupt, and demand attention.”
“Do you think that maybe he's just doing what was taught to him? And it was taught to him that way one day, on a spring morning, when every single person in the class wanted to get out as soon as possible too? And the person who taught that class, they probably learned it the exact same way. And so on, so forth, whatever. At the top of that chart there's a teacher who knew why he was teaching the class, why he was teaching x poem before y and it all made logical sense. But in the time that's passed, no one bothered to learn. No one bothered to think for themselves. So instead we're stuck in this boring, interminable rut, and if he wants to interest his students, then maybe he should figure out what he's doing instead of following a lesson plan that's a hundred years old. Did you ever think about that, Adam?” She threw her cigarette angrily onto the ground. “Did you ever think about class at all before today, or where you just there? You can't just be there, Adam. You have to participate.”
He looked at her, puzzled and aghast. “What are you talking about? Avina? Of course I thought about class, I mean, I had homework and stuff...” He trailed off. She might be right. He hated to admit it, and wouldn't, at least not right now, but she might be right.
She rolled her eyes and walked away again. She was lighting another cigarette and he watched her, feeling just a little sick inside.
On Friday she was on time, her fingernails were painted pink, and she was wearing platform shoes and flares that looked about as old as the style. This time, Adam was late, but just barely, so he managed to slip past the professor's nose with only a mildly disapproving glance.
He ignored the teacher all class, who had – of course – clung to his syllabus like a life preserver. Avina payed attention, or pretended to, and Adam payed attention to her. Mostly her face, but any other detail he could find. She jiggled her right leg spastically. He assumed it was because she was bored. And she took minute, subversive notes in loopy handwriting that he could read without straining from his own desk (absolutely, unequivocally next to hers). But she asked no questions, told no lies, and it was one of the most completely boring classes he had ever experienced. The teacher finally released them and he stood, waiting for her to gather her things.
She looked up and him and cocked an eyebrow skeptically. He shrugged. Then she hauled her backpack up and he followed her outside, silently took a cigarette – Marlboro this time – and she lit both of theirs.
“So. You've had three days of class now. What did you think?” She finally asked.
He pursed his mouth. Finally: “I think I'm going to have to drop this one.”
“Why?” she wanted to know, immediately, of course.
“Well, for all the reasons you said. I mean, there's no real point to it, is there? The professor doesn't really know what he's doing, he's just providing us with watered down pieces of learning that no longer mean much. It's like, all we're getting is fragments. There's so much more. So why should I waste my time here?”
“That's the wrong answer again,” she said, smiling. “You can't just give up. So, maybe, like you said, this class is all fragments. But those fragments are something, right? After all, the tiniest crumb of knowledge is still better than total starvation. And you know what you can do with those fragments, those crumbs? You can put them together for yourself. You can tie them together. And if you can't, maybe you can discard them. But you can't give up on something just because it doesn't make sense. What you should do instead is try to make sense out of it. That's this guy's problem. He doesn't care. He's just doing whatever he wants, no reason, no purpose, it's just the way it's always been done, it's the way his superiors tell him to do it. But you can't trust your superiors. You have to do things for yourself. You have to challenge yourself because Adam, there's no one else out there who wants to bother challenging you. We're all just these mindless drones doing what we think, what we've been told, we're supposed to do.”
He wanted to kiss her so badly.
She smiled at him, totally disarming, and then dropped her cigarette, slung her arm around his shoulders and snagged her lips on his cheek. “I know,” she whispered in his ear. “I'll see you in class next week.”
And then – and then, she walked away.