Violet clutched her books to her chest. She didn't have to carry her books now; in college they actually let you have your backpack with you in class. But there was something comforting about holding them, about feeling her binder digging into her stomach and her arms tightly wrapped around the books as though she were hugging herself. Hugging herself, because her parents weren't here to hug her. She had never felt so far from home.
She double-checked the name on the side of the building. Hamilton. Yes, that's right. Freshman Composition I, Hamilton Building, room 102, Professor Hinkley. She was tempted to take out her schedule and look one more time, but she resisted the urge. She had looked at least ten times already.
There was a steady stream of students going in, but she still had to let go of her books with one hand to catch the door. The guy ahead of her didn't appear to even think about holding it. Jerk. It was strangely comforting; at least something here was the same as it was at home.
It was the usual dilemma in the classroom, too. The first day would decide her seat for the rest of the semester. Always, that choice.
The front? Pros: good view, easy to hear, close to the teacher, not as many people. Cons: eyes on her, always—as she walked down the aisle, the entire time she was in her seat, all semester long. Eyes boring into her.
The back? Pros: she could slip in without being noticed; she could be invisible. Without actually being invisible. Cons: she would be stuck with all the bad kids, the kids who goofed off and talked and didn't care what grade they got as long as they didn't have to work for it.
A sound grated on her consciousness, forcing her attention away from the important decision to a black-haired boy in the row to her right.
"So then he asks for the wrench, and so I hand it to him, except, apparently there's two wrenches, and the one I handed him was the bigger one and he needs the smaller one, but they're too similar to see immediately that it's the wrong one. So he sticks the wrench in there and it apparently connects two wires or something, 'cause the whole thing blows up in his face!"
The group surrounding the storyteller burst out laughing. Four of them were guys who evidently hadn't matured beyond the point of finding explosions hilarious. The other two were girls who were clearly gaga over him. The black-haired boy's laugh was the loudest, and the most obnoxious.
Violet had no idea who the "he" in the story was, but she felt pretty certain the boy was only making it up to impress his friends. She hated showoffs. The need to call his bluff was suddenly stronger than her shyness, and before she knew it she was saying, "Wouldn't he be dead, then?"
The guy looked up, flipping the dumb little spike of hair above his forehead. His surprise at being challenged by a stranger was so fleeting that if she had blinked, she would have missed it. "Nah. The explosion wasn't that big." She sensed the tiniest note of chagrin as he had to tone down his story a little.
She pressed on. "No. You said two wires connected. He was holding a metal wrench. He would have gotten electrocuted."
"Nah," the guy said again. "Nonconductive gloves. He always wears 'em when he works with machines. There's a story behind that, too…"
"Oh," Violet said as the boy turned back to his friends. She dropped into a seat at the next table up, surprised and embarrassed. The guy thought fast. She still didn't believe the story, but there wasn't really a comeback she could make.
It took her a minute to process the fact that she was sitting. She had picked her seat without meaning to, somewhere in the middle of the room, on the aisle. Not at all what she'd planned. It was another few seconds before she realized that she was also in front of the obnoxious black-haired boy. Oh, no. She started to get up—embarrassing as it would be, she had to move—but just then, Professor Hinkley walked into the room. Too late.
Oh, no.