Page 5 of Gray Area

We are building a better life for ourselves.

I am just coming out of the shower when Bailey comes in. She smiles when she sees me, but I notice the exhaustion behind it.

“How was it?” I ask.

“Busy,” Bailey says with a sigh. “Thelma called out, but it went by quickly.”

“I’m sorry,” I sympathize. “Get your shower then straight to bed, young lady.”

Bailey nods and heads to the bathroom on autopilot, getting her routine underway. Meanwhile, I move to the living space, which is just a room where we’d thrown a thrift store rug over the tile, and put a futon on the rug. I grab my bag and start looking over my syllabus from last night’s class. I initially wanted to take two classes this semester, but I’d spent the money I had put aside applying to a few colleges with business programs. I never will understand why you have to pay for people to read your application. It seems a little pirate-like to me, but it didn’t appear to be changing any second so I’d pulled the trigger.

I have finished most of my prerequisite classes at the community college, and I hope that made me look interesting to the schools I’d applied to. I was admittedly not the best student in high school, but also not the worst. It was hard to focus on grades when I was in and out of homes in the foster system andthen at other times with my mom. But because I hadn’t been the best student, I hadn’t been eligible for a lot of grants or scholarships. And I refused to take loans out so early on. Yes, I might have to get loans when I get to upper-level classes, but I have applied for every grant and work-study program I could for each school, in hopes of keeping the loans to a minimum.

I sit down on the futon with the syllabus and my planner and start writing out when assignments are due and planning out my work schedule. I refuse to be a statistic, and am going to get around that by planning and taking charge of my path. If my horrible parents had given me nothing else, seeing their demise has given me the drive to get the hell as far away as possible from what they had been.

And nothing is going to take me off my path.

No excuses.

I get to class early on Thursday, a redo of sorts from Tuesday’s class. I’d gotten a good day of sleep this time and am ready to get down to business, pun totally intended. I am so early I have to wait for the class before ours to finish before I can even go in the room.

I sit in the front row again—it is my go-to seat in every class I take. I know other people think the front row is for goody-goodies or geeks, but I really don’t care. I’m not here for them. I gave up caring about what other people think a long time ago. These classes are about me and what I want to achieve for myself, for my future. This is about me and my success.

I get a notebook and pen ready and set the syllabus out on my desk. I had visited the bookstore the day before and foundthe best used copy of the book I could. It still cost me a small fortune, but I am prepared now. It all takes a little bit of my stress down.

I zone myself out, ignoring everything around me, a coping habit I have acquired over the years. I slouch a little in my seat and sort of curl into myself, becoming small and not drawing attention to myself. The habit has served me well, and I have no desire to change it anytime soon. Keeping the attention off me allows for fewer distractions. I zone all the way out until the teacher comes in and I sit up again.

“Good evening, everyone!” Professor Edwards says jovially as he places his jacket and briefcase down. He scans the room and claps his hands. “Well, it would seem we have lost some classmates,” he says, then shrugs. “It happens. Okay, first things first, let’s rearrange ourselves. I’d like to organize us in a circular fashion to allow for better discussion.”

There is some groaning, but everyone complies, standing and pulling their chairs into a circle. Or at least I thought everyone had. But as we all move, I notice a guy in the back just sitting in his seat. It works; I mean, he doesn’t move and I can’t see where he would have needed to. But I still think it’s a little rude that he didn’t even try. But to each his own.

Once we are all seated, the professor takes his place in the middle. “Ethics and business, what a fabulous oxymoron, am I right?”

I smile at his joke. I love professors who don’t take themselves too seriously, making the classes way more bearable.

“But I will tell you that even the great Palmer Lexington has been quoted as saying, ‘Playing dirty will never make a rich man.’ And he is a billionaire, so maybe he is someone we should pay attention to,” he says with a shrug.

Professor Edwards continues, and as I listen intently to him, I get this insane feeling like someone is watching me. I ignoreit, hoping the feeling will go away. It’s probably just the circle arrangement that’s giving me that feeling. But another few minutes pass, and I just can’t shake the feeling that I am being stared at.

I glance around the circle of my classmates slowly and lock eyes with the hooded figure I’d noticed earlier. It is the guy who hadn’t moved when everyone else had, and his stare is more than just a look. His eyes bore into my own as soon as our gazes meet. He doesn’t even blink.Weirdo, I think as I break the stare and return my attention to the lecture.

But it isn’t as easy to break the connection as I hoped. Despite me having caught the man looking at me, and then me looking away in obvious irritation, he continues to stare at me. I feel his eyes on me, following me with every shift and move I make. It’s creepy. I force myself to not meet his stare again, hoping that eventually he will stop if I ignore him long enough.

But he doesn’t.

The hooded guy continues to stare and not hide it; he just blatantly drills his gaze into me. I continue to pretend I don’t notice by dutifully taking notes and listening to the professor. I offer answers for questions asked, and involve myself in discussions with the other students. I do basically anything I can to try to distract myself from his hard stare. Buthedoesn’t participate. And no matter who is speaking, his gaze stays on me. By the end of class I am officially creeped out.

“Okay, guys, that’s it for tonight. We’ll pick this up next week. Also, next class, we are going to talk more about the group project for the class.”

I internally give an eye roll at this news. I hate group projects; I prefer to do things independently. I mean, who actually likes group projects, I think miserably. Probably the people who don’t do the work in them, I sulk. I push my angry thoughts aside justthen though, because I want to get out of the room, like ASAP, and away from the creepy peeper.

I leave my chair in the circle, and I don’t even put my things away carefully like I usually do. Instead I gather everything in my arms and head out the door before anyone else. I regret not putting my jacket on when I get outside and feel the single-digit temperature and wind cut through me, but once again the bus fairies have blessed me and the bus is already at the bus stop. When I get on it and sit down, I release a shaky breath I hadn’t been aware I was holding.

I watch the door as the bus pulls away and connect eyes with the creeper as he comes out of the building. From the safety of the bus, I’m not nervous like I was in class having him look at me. He stops when our eyes connect, like he wants to give me space, which is a silly thought, I tell myself. But he just stands there and looks back at me. I feel, well, odd. Not scared or nervous. I’m not irritated with it like I was during class. There’s something about the way he is looking at me; he isn’t looking at me like a psychopath. There’s something in his gaze, something I can’t name. I stare at him until he is no longer in my view and then sit back.

And finally the name of what I saw in his gaze comes to me—admiration. He’d been looking at me like someone might look at a beautiful artwork, looking at all the features, memorizing it. And it brought me a strange comfort. It felt familiar, like I knew him. I felt okay with it.

And now I feel likeIam the psychopath.

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