Campus 101: Our Favourite Distractions

MAYA - He Spilled Soda On My Future

"I have never failed a test or exam and never gotten anything below a C+. The last time I got a B was in 8th grade.

Yes, I'm that girl. The one daughter every parent wishes to have.

I drop my forms flat on the empty space beside me as I sit waiting for my number to be called for the passport photo.

From nowhere, to my left, a tall guy appears, holding lightly to a plastic bottle of carbonated drink, with a headphone hanging around his neck.

The last thing I remember is seeing him sit next to me, with my forms setting us apart. The next thing I hear is "s**t" before turning to see my forms swimming in brown liquid.

My breath catches.

I clench my fists tightly, waiting for him to say something. Instead, he's dusting soda off his baggy jeans, like it matters more than my scholarship form.

My body instantly fills with rage.

"Hey!" I yell.

He frowns. "I didn't mean to," he says, looking at me like I'm overreacting.

"Well, you did," my voice trembling.

"Sorry," he mutters without looking at me, leaning down to pick up the bottle and its lid.

I look down at him and his pathetic "sorry" with a kind of disgust I've never felt before and,

"Sorry doesn't fix it."

A staff walks up to me. "Miss, please calm down."

"Don't tell me to calm down," I snap at him.

He stumbles back, hands up.

I turn my gaze back to the i***t in baggy jeans.

His face has changed from nonchalant to slightly angry.

"It's just a piece of paper," he bites back, the headphone about to fall from his neck.

A piece of paper? He didn't just say that.

My chest instantly tightens with annoyance, hot and heavy, stealing the breath from my words.

I don't study because my parents make me. I do it because I'm good at it.

My parents have struggled enough. This piece of paper is the reason I'm standing here. My housing, my tuition.

And he doesn't get to spill soda on it and call it just a piece of paper.

But he won't understand because he's never had his mom call him several times asking, "have they signed it?"

I move close to him, look at him from head to toe. "Who the f**k do you think you are?"

The words crack out as I look him dead in the eye.

"Look, I already said I'm sorry. What else do you want me to do?" he says nonchalantly, throwing his shoulders up.

A sorry that doesn’t mean sorry.

I don't measure up to his height, but I stand rigid, waiting for him to say one more word. Just one more.

He doesn't.

Good.

I step back slowly.

The brown stain is spreading fast across my scholarship form. The Academic advisor’s signature I stood 30 minutes in line to get on my course form is bleeding.

The sight of it is almost about to make me cry. I place it gently on one palm, patting it clean with the hem of my shirt.

"How much to print a new copy" he asks.

I ignore him.

The staff answers, walks up to me and checks the papers. "We can reprint from the file if you have the PDF on your phone"

"I do," I whisper, without looking up, lips squeezed.

"Okay." he says simply.

Not like I need his money, but he deserves to clean up the mess he just made.

I roll my eyes anyway.

He goes to the printer and taps his card.

while I give them my phone to reprint.

The machine starts humming.

We stand there in awkward silence as the pages come out. The fan is still rotating. Nobody says anything.

I can feel everyone's eyes on me. The staff, the customers, even the boy at the copy machine. Now I'm that girl who made a scene at a print center. On a Monday morning. I want to sink into the floor.

My head is aching so bad from all the yelling.

First day of the week and I'm already completely burned out.

As if the day couldn't get any worse, the entrance door swings open and a brown-skinned lady with braids walks in. The same one I was staring at earlier today in the Academic advisor's office.

I didn't mean to stare, she was the only interesting thing to look at, clutching her files tightly like her life depends on it. Which I definitely relate with.

Shit.

I turn away and cover the side of my face facing her with one hand.

"Are you okay?" the staff asks.

"Yes, I'm fine," I answer, speaking quietly. Not like she recognizes my voice.

"It'll be out in a moment," he says, pressing a button on the machine.

When the new copies are ready, still warm from the printer, he picks them up and places them neatly on the bench where my ruined ones lay.

"Here," he says.

That is all. No long speech.

Then he picks up his headphone and his empty bottle, throws the bottle in the bin, and walks out of the center normally.

I stare at the fresh prints. The blank signature spot makes my shoulders drop.

That's another fifteen to thirty minutes on the line, sweating, aching everywhere.

After which I'll still need to make another copy and submit it to my academic advisor. That's if I'm lucky enough to find her in the office by the time I'm done running around.

God! I hate waiting. It's second on my list of things I hate, right after noise, crowd and lateness.

I inhale deeply, catching the attention of the two customers closest to me.

I haven't told him my name. He hasn't told me his. I don't care to know. And he definitely didn't deserve a thank you. Good thing he didn't wait for one.

I just grab the new forms, my red folder and leave to have it re-signed, hoping I will never see baggy jeans and a headphone again."