Getting late for a lecture is the last thing I want in my life.
But I am drowning in schoolwork, and it's getting a little hard to keep my head above the waters.
Just go in, Lorraine. What's the worse thing that can happen?
I blow a raspberry and wipe my sweaty palms against the surface of my washed-up mum jeans as I stand in front of my elementary stat class. An average person would have walked right into class knowing that they were late. But I'm Lorraine Elizabeth Perabo; I'm not normal at all. Instead, I let my anxiousness get the best of me, and now I'm stuck at the door trying to talk myself into walking inside the class. It is precisely the reason why I made it my sole purpose never to be late to class.
Come on, Lor, you're wasting more time. Just go in.
God, I hate myself sometimes.
Screw it! I think to myself as my hands glide over the door handle and push it open. I should have known it was the worst idea because three hundred and something pair of eyes turn to look at the late human being who has interrupted the class, and my mouth runs dry. I hold on to my brown tote bag for support as my eyes scan the room for an empty seat, hopefully, close to the door so I don't have to walk past people. Just as my eyes find one, the Professor clears his throat firmly and calls out my last name.
I don't know what's more shocking, the fact that any professor knows my name or that I have to speak to him-with everybody in the lecture room as an audience.
Crap.
My eyes turn to look at the old yet somehow younger looking Professor Byrne slowly, hoping he can see through the anxiousness in my eyes and not embarrass me in front of my peers. But he doesn't seem to care much as he throws me the question anyways, his hand rearranging the papers on the small desk next to the board.
"What time do you call this?" His voice is booming as he glances at the watch on his wrist, meaning the whole lecture room can hear the conversation "you're 19 minutes late."
I thought I was only 16 minutes late, but what difference does it make if I point that out?
What was I thinking anyway, arriving late to elementary statistics? A class I should have passed last year and left behind. But I didn't, so here I am, making a fool of myself in front of everybody and a Professor who probably thinks I'm a failure.
Other professors would have let it slide because most of them genuinely do not get a shit-it's your education, and either way, they get a paycheck, but Byrne is different. He doesn't appreciate tardiness-not even from the athletes who always think they can get away with everything.
I swallow nervously as my brown eyes stare at his dark blue ones. The churning in my belly makes me feel so sick that I find it hard to open my mouth and shoot him a response.
Come on, say it! Apologise for being late.
But I can't. It's like my brain is frozen, and all I can think about is that everyone is staring at me, and it makes me want to crawl in a hole and hide away forever.
"I'm sorry, am I talking to myself here?"
"No, Prof." A voice answers next to me, putting me out of my misery. "Apologies for being late, but we were trapped in elevator purgatory. Not only did the elevator take its sweet time coming to this floor, but one of the idiot first-year students pressed every goddamn button, I swear. It wasn't us."
The lecture room erupts in laughter as my neck turns to look at the face of the person who just lied for me and saved me from a lifetime of embarrassment. But all I can see is his firm jaw and dark brown hair peeking out of his black baseball hat, which casts a shadow over his face.
"Is this true?" Professor Byrne throws the question at me, and I tear my gaze away from the stranger next to me.
"Yeah," I mumble quietly, feeling my cheeks heat up by the lie. I look away from the professor's intimidating gaze, afraid that he'll catch on to the lie.
"Take a seat, and this better not repeat itself."
Glad that the whole ordeal is over, I sink into the closest seat I can find, and relief floods my body. Although everything happened in minutes, it felt like I was standing there under the scrutiny of everyone for hours, and I wouldn't say I liked every second of it. I can only be thankful that guy walked in.
I take note in silence for the rest of the class, hating the fact that I'm sitting in the front row. I always get that feeling that everyone can see what I'm doing, and it makes me so anxious that my palms sweat and I can't concentrate. Getting a good seat in the back row is one of the reasons I arrive early. But most significantly, I'm finding it challenging to sit still because my whole existence is itching to turn around and find the guy with the baseball hat and maybe throw him a thankful smile. But always like, my fear and overthinking get the best of me, and I don't.
I'll wait till after class to say thank you.
But by the time class is over and I'm packing up my stuff, I look around the almost empty lecture hall in hopes of finding the baseball hat guy, but he's gone.
And I can't help the sinking feeling I get in my belly as I wonder to myself who it could have been.
***
"Can I please get a large caramel latte?" I smile politely at the cute barista behind the till at Starbucks. He punches in my order while asking if I want anything else, but I decline before swiping my credit card. He flashes me a cute grin, and I know I should try to make small talks with him like any girl would but pair having a crush with anxiety issues, and you get a recipe for speech poverty.
No, literally, for almost a year, I haven't worked up the courage to say more than 'can I, please, get a large caramel latte'. I spend half of the time walking to Starbucks pretending I'd say something to him, but I get here, and everything goes poof. It's pretty pathetic.
A few minutes later, he arrived with my order. "Here you go," He says, giving me that suggestive cute smile once again. "Caramel latte, enjoy."
Come on, Lorraine. Say something. Say-
"Thanks. Bye."
I roll my eyes at my patheticness and walk towards a table by the window where I usually sit so I can wallow in my failure and secretly gawk at him and imagine what cute babies we can make together-all whilst doing some school work, of course, because if I'm going to stare at a pretty boy I'm never going to talk to, then I might as well be productive so that it's not a total waste of my Tuesday afternoon.
After taking a satisfying sip of my drink which I think is made with utmost love and affection, I set up my laptop and open up my emails to see if I have anything new, but I'm not surprised when there's nothing. I know it's only two weeks into sophomore year, but I need to start an internship soon. And it just so happens that to get good internships, it's either you know someone who knows someone who knows someone, or you're downright one of the best. As I'm none of that, they don't think I'm good enough or worth their time. I can't even blame them because, let's face it; I'm not the most outgoing person.
I refresh the email and go on my junk because some emails automatically go there. Please don't ask me why it beats me. Most of the emails are subscriptions to random stuff I've signed up to online apart from one message that stands out. I click on the weird name Angie Furburger and instantly scan the message when I say UCLA Daily Bruins image as a header.
I submitted a rushed application a few weeks ago after getting a brutal rejection for an internship position at LA Weekly and Los Angeles Downtown news. I didn't think I'd get accepted. UCLA daily bruins are among the most prestigious student papers in the country, making it extremely difficult to get into. But like my mum would say, you'll never know when you might get a chance, so always take a shot.
Dear Miss Lorraine Perabo.
I am pleased to inform you that after extensive consideration following up your interview, your application has been accepted, and we would like to offer you a position as an intern at The Daily Bruins-
Guess I should listen to her more often.
"I got in," I whisper to myself as I stare at the screen in front of me. I close my eyes and pinch myself to ensure I do not have some sick dream. But when I open my eyes, the words are still on the screen, and I have a noticeably red spot on my arm. But that doesn't matter because "I got in."
Sincerely, when Chief Editor Melissa Huntley promised to give me a call back after how shit I was at my interview, I didn't think she meant it. My face breaks into a large smile as I grab my phone off the table. I click on my messages, my fingers gliding against the screen with pure joy.
Me
Guess who's got an internship at The Daily Bruins?
Boo-thang
Shut up!
Me
I just got the email.
Still pretty shocked
Headache
so proud of you, baby knew you had it in you
Namita
Yass queen!!!!!!!
Headache
celebratory drinks on moi tonight.
8 pm, the square.
Mamita
whoop whoop ð
Hells to the hell yeah
Me
No guys, I have got a lot of work today. I'm so sorry but I can't.
Boo-thang
how about we all have girl's night instead?
Mamita
boo
that doesn't sound like fun, but w the day I'm currently having, I'll take anything.
Me
Awesome
sorry Shadé
Headache
Yeah, that's fine
I'm about to get to class
see ya'll tonight.
I lock my phone and place it on the table with a satisfied smile. After sending in my reply of how I appreciate and accept the offer and would love to attend the welcome meeting next week, the excitement buzzing motivates me to start one of my essays. It doesn't take long before I'm deep into the world of research, referencing and taking notes.
It starts to get dark outside when I'm halfway done, and there are only a few students in here hunched over their laptops as they work diligently. Knowing that I need to move on if I want to catch the next shuttle that goes to my complex, I begin to pack my stuff but stop when the baseball hat guy catches my attention where he's standing next to the serving counter, waiting for his order.
He's tapping furiously on his phone, making me feel sorry for whoever is at the receiving end of that message. But the baseball hat is still hiding his face, adding to his whole mysteriousness. I can't help but notice how fit he looks in the matching black Nike tracksuit he's wearing.
He catches me staring at him as he turns to leave with his drink in his hand and his phone in the other. I know I shouldn't blatantly stare at him like that, but I can't help it. He looks so familiar, and I feel like I've seen him somewhere before. I can't figure out where. Not to mention, he's perfect looking-like in a sexy, panty-dropper kind of way.
Damn. I don't know what I expected, but I certainly didn't expect him to be this nice to look at.
I smile at him-my way of saying thank you for helping me in the elementary state, but his forehead creased in confusion, and I can swear he muttered a 'the f***k' to himself before walking out of the coffee shop.