lips, as if Mead has already left. But when he tries to get up, he realizes that his legs have fallen asleep and he has to shake them out before he can walk, further delaying his departure. Mead then goes to retrieve his CD from the player, which happens to be on the shelf over Herman’s bed, but when he reaches for it, he has to pull his arm back fast so Herman won’t run into it as he lies back on the bed with Cynthia on top of him. “That’s all right,” Mead says. “You can give it back to me later.” And realizes that he is in no particular rush to get it back since he himself has nothing on which to play it.
O N MONDAY, MEAD SKIPS his between-classes hideout in the men’s room, goes directly to his Function Theory class, and takes his usual seat in the front row. Herman comes in a few minutes later, sees him sitting there, and waves. Mead smiles and waves back, expecting Herman to sit down next to him. But he doesn’t. He sits three rows back and all the way over on the other side of the room, and for some reason this bothers Mead. Because he thought things were different now. He thought they were friends. Embarrassed, Mead tucks his chin to his chest, opens his textbook, and stares at the printed pages, feigning an interest in the equations written there. Pretending he doesn’t care that nothing has changed while at the same time he’s feeling angry at himself that he does care. At the very least, he expected Herman to give him back his CD. Unless he thinks it was a gift, which it most certainly was not. Mead paid for it and Mead should be able to keep it even if he doesn’t have any way to play it on his own.
By the end of class, however, Mead has decided to give Herman another chance. Instead of bolting out of his chair and down the hall —as he normally would —Mead sits tight and pretends to review his class notes. But again Herman walks past him without saying a word. Goes up to the professor and asks him a question in a voice too soft for Mead to hear. Dr. Kustrup answers him then turns away to erase his class notes from the blackboard. Herman leaves while the professor is still erasing and still he does not say anything to Mead. When Dr. Kustrup turns back around and sees that Mead is still sitting there, he says, “May I help you with something, Mr. Fegley?”
“No, thank you,” Mead says, angrily scoops up his books, and heads out of the classroom and then out of the building. In his haste, however, he does not look where he is going and bumps into some student crossing campus from another direction, a student drinking a cup of coffee. The hot liquid swooshes up out of the cup and splashes all over Mead’s notebook and left sleeve. Instead of apologizing, the guy says, “Hey, watch where you’re going, buddy,” and stomps off with a scowl on his face. Hoping to salvage his notes, Mead turns around, runs back into the building, and down the hall to the men’s room. It reeks of Dr. Kustrup’s cologne. Mead runs cold water over the sleeve of his shirt and then reaches for a paper towel to dry off his notes. Only the dispenser is empty. “Shit,” he says and ducks into one of the stalls to get some toilet paper. And that’s when he sees them: two pairs of shoes facing each other in the next stall. And as he is looking, one of the pairs of shoes lifts up into the air and disappears.
Mead mops up the pages of his notebook, throws the soiled tissue into the toilet bowl, flushes, and then gets the hell out of there as fast as he can. By the end of the day, he has convinced himself that he did not see what he thought he saw. By the next day, however, he finds himself checking out everyone’s shoes as he walks from class to class. Dozens upon dozens of people are wearing brown shoes just like the ones in that bathroom stall —people like Dr. Kustrup —but no one else smells of the same cologne.
Well past midnight, there is a knock on Mead’s door. Forsbeck is asleep so he doesn’t
O N MONDAY, MEAD SKIPS his between-classes hideout in the men’s room, goes directly to his Function Theory class, and takes his usual seat in the front row. Herman comes in a few minutes later, sees him sitting there, and waves. Mead smiles and waves back, expecting Herman to sit down next to him. But he doesn’t. He sits three rows back and all the way over on the other side of the room, and for some reason this bothers Mead. Because he thought things were different now. He thought they were friends. Embarrassed, Mead tucks his chin to his chest, opens his textbook, and stares at the printed pages, feigning an interest in the equations written there. Pretending he doesn’t care that nothing has changed while at the same time he’s feeling angry at himself that he does care. At the very least, he expected Herman to give him back his CD. Unless he thinks it was a gift, which it most certainly was not. Mead paid for it and Mead should be able to keep it even if he doesn’t have any way to play it on his own.
By the end of class, however, Mead has decided to give Herman another chance. Instead of bolting out of his chair and down the hall —as he normally would —Mead sits tight and pretends to review his class notes. But again Herman walks past him without saying a word. Goes up to the professor and asks him a question in a voice too soft for Mead to hear. Dr. Kustrup answers him then turns away to erase his class notes from the blackboard. Herman leaves while the professor is still erasing and still he does not say anything to Mead. When Dr. Kustrup turns back around and sees that Mead is still sitting there, he says, “May I help you with something, Mr. Fegley?”
“No, thank you,” Mead says, angrily scoops up his books, and heads out of the classroom and then out of the building. In his haste, however, he does not look where he is going and bumps into some student crossing campus from another direction, a student drinking a cup of coffee. The hot liquid swooshes up out of the cup and splashes all over Mead’s notebook and left sleeve. Instead of apologizing, the guy says, “Hey, watch where you’re going, buddy,” and stomps off with a scowl on his face. Hoping to salvage his notes, Mead turns around, runs back into the building, and down the hall to the men’s room. It reeks of Dr. Kustrup’s cologne. Mead runs cold water over the sleeve of his shirt and then reaches for a paper towel to dry off his notes. Only the dispenser is empty. “Shit,” he says and ducks into one of the stalls to get some toilet paper. And that’s when he sees them: two pairs of shoes facing each other in the next stall. And as he is looking, one of the pairs of shoes lifts up into the air and disappears.
Mead mops up the pages of his notebook, throws the soiled tissue into the toilet bowl, flushes, and then gets the hell out of there as fast as he can. By the end of the day, he has convinced himself that he did not see what he thought he saw. By the next day, however, he finds himself checking out everyone’s shoes as he walks from class to class. Dozens upon dozens of people are wearing brown shoes just like the ones in that bathroom stall —people like Dr. Kustrup —but no one else smells of the same cologne.
Well past midnight, there is a knock on Mead’s door. Forsbeck is asleep so he doesn’t
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