Post by Bobby Drake on Sept 7, 2007 21:03:48 GMT
There’s something deeply perverse, Bobby decides, about the level of anxiety he’s feeling as he sits at his desk.
It makes no sense at all, really. It’s one thing for ordinary students to worry about this sort of thing, but given that both his summer term and last semester involved nearly dying several times, and last fall involved his school being practically reduced to rubble by an invading army, simply showing up for class really oughtn’t be such a big deal.
Especially not this class.
He could understand it a little better if he were freaking out about taking computer science with Professor Bertrand – though having a cyberpath for a professor is really poetic justice, given his own history – or double-teaming physics and calc with Dr. Ambrose. And it’s true that they’re both unknown quantities, and Bobby really has no idea what to expect from either of them, but he’s not too worried. And a semester of Josh trying to fry his brain telepathically is weird, no doubt about it, but he and Josh have been through enough together that he’s mostly enthusiastic about it.
Whereas Jake’s class, which ought to be a walk in the park by comparison – hell, he’d signed up for it on a lark, mostly – is the one he’s actually losing sleep over.
“Hey, roomie.” Bobby looks up as Sam ambles in and folds himself awkwardly into a desk not quite large enough for him. "Hey Sam… you’re late." His new roommate shrugs casually in response. “Looks like Professor Sheppard is, too.”
That earns a chuckle: "Yeah, he usually is." Or is he? That’s the thing about this class, there’s no way of knowing for sure what the rules are. “Applied psych” sounds academic, but Bobby’s impression from talking to Josh is that the class could be better labeled “How to be a con-man”… which means anything goes. For all Bobby knows, the class is actually being held somewhere else and he’s being graded on how long it takes him to figure that out.
In fact, he’s about to suggest that very thing when the man himself finally comes through the doorway… which somehow doesn’t provide any sense of relief.
It makes no sense at all, really. It’s one thing for ordinary students to worry about this sort of thing, but given that both his summer term and last semester involved nearly dying several times, and last fall involved his school being practically reduced to rubble by an invading army, simply showing up for class really oughtn’t be such a big deal.
Especially not this class.
He could understand it a little better if he were freaking out about taking computer science with Professor Bertrand – though having a cyberpath for a professor is really poetic justice, given his own history – or double-teaming physics and calc with Dr. Ambrose. And it’s true that they’re both unknown quantities, and Bobby really has no idea what to expect from either of them, but he’s not too worried. And a semester of Josh trying to fry his brain telepathically is weird, no doubt about it, but he and Josh have been through enough together that he’s mostly enthusiastic about it.
Whereas Jake’s class, which ought to be a walk in the park by comparison – hell, he’d signed up for it on a lark, mostly – is the one he’s actually losing sleep over.
“Hey, roomie.” Bobby looks up as Sam ambles in and folds himself awkwardly into a desk not quite large enough for him. "Hey Sam… you’re late." His new roommate shrugs casually in response. “Looks like Professor Sheppard is, too.”
That earns a chuckle: "Yeah, he usually is." Or is he? That’s the thing about this class, there’s no way of knowing for sure what the rules are. “Applied psych” sounds academic, but Bobby’s impression from talking to Josh is that the class could be better labeled “How to be a con-man”… which means anything goes. For all Bobby knows, the class is actually being held somewhere else and he’s being graded on how long it takes him to figure that out.
In fact, he’s about to suggest that very thing when the man himself finally comes through the doorway… which somehow doesn’t provide any sense of relief.
