- 17 -
March 2096
The History of Psychology 2335
Mr. Holiday greets us from behind an unfamiliar, rickety card table as we walk into class. “Please grab a pen and paper and place your phone in the basket. Leave your backpack at the front of the room.”
My teeth grind together at the alteration to my routine.
“Did I miss an email?” I whisper to the overexcited TA.
“Go sit, Rayne. You’ll be okay.”
I’d like to punch the giddy smile off his face. Instead, I timidly obey and shuffle to my seat. The uneasy stares of my classmates are oddly comforting. Even the freshman is sitting wide-eyed and twiddling her thumbs.
There should be a quiz today over the last four chapters we’ve read. Can’t say I felt super confident about it, so maybe this schedule switch-up is a gift. Typically, I’ve got a strong pulse for when something will be on a quiz, as if the noteworthy section is bolded in our textbook. In this instance, I didn’t feel the pressure once.
Picking at my cuticles makes them bleed on the blank paper we were instructed to grab. A quiz full of questions I don’t know the answers to would’ve been better. I’d kick myself for not being more prepared, but at least I’d still have a sense of security over the circumstances.
Eleven, twelve, thirteen.
Row thirteen, seat three. Something I can control.
The final students roll in, late as usual, and I rush to sit before Mr. Holiday begins. Out of all of my professors, he is by far the most respected. His energy demands it, and, in my opinion, he actually deserves it. Maybe that’s why it’s so easy to give it to him.
The attention of the room shifts as he claps three times. “Thank you all for cooperating with our change of plans. I know you were expecting a quiz today. However, I didn’t promise it would be a traditional one.”
The shoulders of the freshman tense as he slips his hands into his pockets. A near-silent laugh snickers out of me before I realize, mine did too.
“You grabbed a blank piece of paper and a pen on your way in, and as you all now see, you have a phone on your desk. These are given to us by the psychology department to conduct our immersive experiences. Welcome to round one.”
The echo of his clicking shoes bounces off the walls as some students immediately pick up the phone. Others, like myself, wait for further instruction or courage—whichever comes first.
“Okay, students, let’s begin. Please write your name on the paper.”
Hands shoot up all around the room.
“I won’t be answering any questions until later. Do your best. Trust your gut.”
Write your name . . . on the top?
Across the entire page?
“Make your decisions promptly. We’re moving on in ten seconds. I trust you all remember your names,” he jokes.
Ten . . . nine . . . eight . . .
There has to be some sort of rubric, or how would he grade this?
Five . . . four . . . three . . .
I scribble Rayne in the top right corner, the same place I normally would.
“That’s time. Put your pens down and hold your paper in the air, please.”
Papers fly up throughout the room. It’s a pretty even mix of people who decided to take up the whole paper and who repeated tradition.
“Excellent, next question. Who is the first contact on your phone?”
Again, the vague question crawls over me like a spider. Does he mean my personal phone, or the one sitting in front of me? My phone is organized alphabetically by last name, so it’s—
It is organized by last name, isn’t it?
Other students are scrolling through the phone on their desk. They’re probably right, if the phone isn’t here for this reason, then why do we have it?
Searching the contact book, there are only two listed—Amy and Jenn.
“Ten seconds and we will move on.”
Ten . . . nine . . .
My heart palpitates. I don’t know. I need more time. More instruction.
Six . . . five . . .
I’m excellent at following directions, but the lack of structure is going to make me fail this quiz.
Three . . . two . . .
I’m a lot of things, but a failure isn’t—
One.
“That’s time.”
My hand scribbles, Amy. Surely that’s what he was looking for.
“Finally, you have one minute to write down as much important information about yourself as you can.”
My grade just went down the shitter, flushed by the open-ended directions.
“Go.”
Isn’t importance fairly relative?
A few students set their pens down. Either they don’t think anything about themselves is important, or they are just as stumped as me.
A deep breath forces my thoughts through my pen.
Birthday, address, phone number.
Family, best friends, hobbies.
“Time. Put your pens down.”
Analyzing myself on paper in the aftermath of the rush, I don’t seem so interesting after all. I seem painfully ordinary.
There are plenty of interesting things about myself. I can lick my elbow, juggle almost anything, and eat eight hot dogs in under two minutes. Why didn’t I include any of that? Why didn’t I include what makes me unique?
“Excellent. Please bring your paper to the front of the room.”
Gently rubbing my face, I try to physically wipe away the mental stress I feel about my decisions.
“This information will be used in a lecture in the future. For now, let’s move onto discussion about the homework from last week.”
Just like that, class continues as if Mr. Holiday hadn’t rattled any of us who require guidelines and rules to hold us together.