“Josie Breen” is written on the whiteboard in red, followed by a couple of page numbers. We’re talking about women today, when the protagonist (male) runs into an old fling (female). I swear I’ve heard this name before, but the only thing I seem to add to dialogue is déjà vu and whatever SparkNotes I can pull up on my screen. I listen to the latest classmate’s speech. She stands taller than I did during my oral report, seems to understand the material, doesn’t just watch the words pass by in a meaningless haze while attempting the homework. She answers the questions without an “um” or “er.” Her notes are typed, not handwritten. I am sure the email with the grade will be poured with praises, though we can never be sure.
A tree outside has been painted a shade of dark red. The professor paces about while we discuss, sees my fingers moving across my keys. I quickly shift the tabs back to the eBook, right in time. What name are we discussing? Josie. Control Z, search for a Josie. More SparkNotes. I have a lot to say, but nothing about the subject at hand. Ask me about sports statistics, please; ask me about Monica Abbot or Simone Biles. But no, we have to talk about Josie Breen. I can hear my participation grade plummeting as I think. The page numbers don’t match my wrong edition. Oh well, the tree and I will stare at Josie Breen, a much brighter shade of red than the poor shriveling leaves, until the close strikes 4:20. Next time, Josie Breen, next time.