Chapter 32
LENNON
I edge through the doorway, glancing around the massive lecture hall in awe. This is the opposite extreme from the cramped, ammonia-scented rooms I’ve attended college in until now.
Excited chatter fills the soaring space.
Sunlight spills in through windows that line the far wall and overlook Clarkson’s football stadium.
I walk up the central aisle and take a seat about halfway up the stadium-style seating.
My phone vibrates as soon as I sit down. I pull it out of my bag to see a new text from Caleb.
Caleb: Happy first day!!!!
I roll my eyes—mostly at the four exclamation points—but can’t help the smile that forms.
Lennon: You’re a dork .
Caleb: Takes one to know one, Matthews .
I respond with an eye-rolling emoji, then shove my phone back into my backpack.
“This seat taken?”
A guy with light brown hair and tortoiseshell glasses is standing to my left. He nods to the chair next to me when our eyes connect.
“Nope, it’s free,” I reply, watching out of the corner of my eye as he settles in the spot beside me. There are still plenty of other open seats.
He looks up and catches me looking. “I’m Eric,” he tells me, holding out a hand and flashing a set of straight, white teeth.
“Lennon,” I reply, shaking his hand.
“Nice to meet you, Lennon.” Eric bends down and pulls a notebook out of his backpack. “Have you had Glannon before?”
“Glannon?”
Eric smiles. “The professor.” He nods to the front of the room, where a man with a graying shock of curly hair is opening up a briefcase and removing stacks of paper from it.
“Oh. Uh, no,” I reply, although I’m guessing my first response already answered his question.
“Did you swap majors?”
“No, but this is my first year here. I just transferred.”
“Oh, cool. From where?”
“Richardson Community College.” I wait for the flash of judgment, but it doesn’t appear.
“Well, welcome,” is all Eric says. “What do you think of Clarkson so far?”
“It’s…nice. A little overwhelming, but I’m sure I’ll get used to it.”
“Yeah, it’s a great school. I transferred here sophomore year, and I’ve been really happy so far.”
“Where did you transfer from?” I ask.
“Lincoln.”
I laugh. “Well, if you can fit in here after transferring from Lincoln, then that gives me some hope.”
Eric smiles. “Yeah, I’m sure you’ll be fine. Although I’m pretty sure the only people here who care about the rivalry with Lincoln are the jocks and their groupies, and I steer clear of that crowd. Are you a sports fan?”
“Um, no. Not really,” I respond. It’s the truth, but also feels disloyal Caleb.
“You’ll be fine, then,” Eric tells me.
“Great,” I reply, smiling.
“Welcome to Journalism 356: History of American Journalism,” the booming voice of our professor says.
He’s either speaking into a microphone, or the acoustics in this room are award worthy.
The few students still trickling in rush to open seats.
All conversation ceases.
“I’m Professor Glannon. Most of you have had me before. Please don’t take the fact I won’t remember your name personally. I’m old, and there’s quite a lot of you.”
Quiet laughter ripples around the room.
“I don’t have many ground rules. The main one is no eating.
It’s distracting and frankly rude. Especially if you didn’t bring enough to share with all two hundred of your classmates.
Second, no beverages besides coffee and water in this room.
Some professors frown upon encouraging caffeine consumption. Just get enough sleep blah blah blah.”
More laughter.
“You all want to make it in the field of journalism, however. Let me tell you now, it’s a demanding career that pays terribly. You won’t ever make enough to afford a drug habit besides coffee.”
Eric chuckles beside me.
“But other than those two ground rules, anything goes. Scroll on your phones, spend half the class wandering the halls, pass notes to each other. As long as you do it subtly enough I don’t notice.
I’m getting paid to teach you regardless of whether you learn anything or not. Everyone good? Any questions?”
Silence.
“All right. Jane, get those syllabi out, and we’ll get started.”
A petite, dark-haired woman stands with a thick stack of papers in hand, and my first class at Clarkson University begins.
* * *
Eric turns to me when class ends an hour later. We’re both packing up our bags, along with the rest of the class. I’m going to need to buy more notebooks. I took twelve pages worth of notes on the first lecture alone.
“What did you think?” Eric asks.
“I loved it,” I reply honestly. “A lot different from any other journalism class I’ve ever taken.”
“Yeah, Clarkson’s program is fantastic. It’s the main reason I transferred here.”
We both stand and start walking down the stairs.
“You know, I’m going to see a new documentary about social justice journalism with some friends on Saturday afternoon. Would you want to come? They’re all journalism majors too, so I can introduce you around a bit. Plus, the film’s supposed to be really good.”
“That sounds great,” I reply honestly. “But I can’t do Saturday afternoon, unfortunately.”
“No worries. I can switch it to Sunday, if that’s better for you?”
“Oh, no, it’s fine. I don’t want to mess everyone’s plans up.”
Eric waves his hand in a carefree motion. “It’s no problem at all. I’ll talk to them and give you all the details in class on Friday. Really nice to meet you, Lennon.”
He smiles, then turns to the right and disappears into the crowd of students.
I take twenty minutes to find my next class.
Despite being another journalism elective, it’s located clear across campus in an almost identical yet slightly smaller version of the brick building my first class was in.
Even acknowledging the confusion of navigating the winding walkways that connect the academic buildings, there’s a smile on my face the whole time.
The atmosphere on campus is electric.
I pass other students discussing deep-sea trenches and stage lighting. Professors discussing exam formats and comparing lecture halls. Athletes dribbling basketballs or clutching racquets.
I’ve always loved school. Loved the thrill of discovering new things about the world. The satisfaction of understanding a concept. The positive reinforcement of seeing a red A at the top of a page.
This is the first time I’ve been somewhere that compulsion feels tangible. I wasn’t the only student at Landry High who worked hard. But everyone else was using it as a means to an end.
To this end.
There were other students at Richardson Community College who took their studies seriously, but not many.
Most of them were taking classes to end up in a slightly better career, not for the love of learning.
That mentality is a simple reality for many people.
Was for me, until now. And I don’t regret my time at RCC.
It’s made me more appreciative of Clarkson now.
My Multimedia Journalism class is less entertaining than History of American Journalism was, but just as engaging. Once again, I scribble notes as fast as I can to keep up with the professor’s words.
I luck out with another friendly seatmate, this time a girl named Anna who explains to me all the journalism classes with a media component are held in this building, while written journalism shares a building with the English department.
“See you next class, Lennon!” Anna says before she rushes off.
She already extensively explained the badminton class she has in ten minutes. The sports center is eight minutes away. I wish her luck before she sprints off.
When I emerge outside, campus is even busier than it was before my last class. It’s just before noon, which must be when lots of classes let out. I allow myself to be swept up in the movement, heading in the direction of the campus center but unsure where I’m actually going.
This is only my third day on campus. Not only am I still trying to find my way around, I’m adjusting to setting my own schedule. It’s always been set for me. By the Landry educational system. By the horses. By Alex at the Landry Gazette .
For the first time, my only obligations are the classes I selected myself. It’s freeing. It’s also set me adrift. I have two hours until my final class of the day, and absolutely no idea what to do for them.
I pull my phone out to text Caleb, only to discover he’s already sent me one.
Caleb: Lunch?
Lennon: Yes!
Lennon: Where?
He responds a few seconds later.
Caleb: Peterson .
I roll my eyes.
Lennon: One of the brick buildings??
My phone vibrates in my hand.
“This is only my third day on campus.”
Caleb laughs. “Peterson is the massive circular building in the middle of campus. I didn’t think you could miss it, Matthews.”
I can see students heading straight toward a building with a rounded glass atrium in front.
“My floormates brought me to a different dining hall last night,” I grumble.
“Are you sure it was a different one? You are directionally challenged.”
“Shut up.”
“You had better comebacks when you got us lost in Landry High.”
“I’m hanging up now,” I warn.
“See you in the atrium. Call me if you can’t find it.”
He hangs up too fast to catch my response.
I follow the crowd into air conditioning. It’s not quite as hot as the remnants of many Kentucky summers I’ve experienced, but warm enough, I wouldn’t voluntarily choose to prolong my time outdoors.
Caleb is easy to spot. He’s sitting on the arm of one of the couches sprinkled through the lobby-like space, typing something on his phone.
I’m not the only one looking at him. But I am the one he smiles when he sees, shoving his phone in his pocket and standing up straight.
“Hey.”
“Hey,” I repeat, stopping a respectable distance away.
Caleb isn’t having it. He reaches out and tugs me closer, so I’m inches from his face.
He grins down at me. “This is cool, huh? Being lunch buddies.”
“Super cool,” I drawl, tempted to call him a dork again.