Long time, no see.

[maraofmars]

Hi Guys, It's been awhile.
So to try to avoid them, well, void I have been dealing with being inbetween jobs and not being in school for the last 6 months, I've been babysitting, crocheting, baking and writing this with Aaron. It's not deep or thoughtful or profound or anything. I hope it's a little funny though.


This is not good. Missing the first day of school is always a bad idea. I managed to wake up on time, thank a deity of your choosing, and haven’t puked yet this morning (thank them again); though it’s likely to happen sometime today. But then my usual luck decided to show up. It started with my suit case. Yes, you need a suit case in order to attend culinary school. It holds everything required to be a chef; at least, that's what it said on the pamphlet. Of course, I can’t find it. It’s not under my bed, in the closet of this cheap motel, and it’s not in my crappy car. So should I go to school without it? I’d be like that dumb kid in Junior High Phys. Ed that didn’t bring PE clothes and has to work out in jeans and look like an idiot. That’s worse than being picked last at kick ball, well, sometimes.

My lower bowels start to constrict. I see on the oven clock that it’s almost seven thirty, and make a decision. I will head to class unprepared. It’s probably better than not showing up at all, and after moving all the way to friggin’ Houston, and all the headaches it took to get in and tuition paid, it’s just not worth the risk of losing my spot in class.

I get increasingly nervous as I leave my room. I arrived here two days ago and between orientation for school and finding a place to buy food, I haven’t had time to even think about starting to look for an apartment yet. I put on my favorite shoes, black Mary Jane’s with two inch heels and tiny skulls on the ankle straps. I know they don't match my knee length white eyelet skirt and red plaid shirt, but I don't care enough today.

I gather up my papers from orientation. Luckily, I had not put them in my suitcase last night. I grab my craisins, a small breakfast. As a rule I never eat before noon. I don’t need to give my stomach ammunition it will use against me later on. Heading to my car, I have another mini panic attack about actually finding the school, which is located deeper in the city. I generally don’t mind driving, but I’ve never had to drive in the city much, and it makes me nervous.

My drive to the school is mostly uneventful, but the parking garage is another story entirely. I didn’t realize that I need a passcode to open the gate without paying for it. I really didn’t want to pay $15 to park at my school, where I’m already paying a small fortune in tuition, books, supplies, and all that shit. I acquiesce to the gate man's demand of my lunch and dinner money. I carefully ascend the ridiculously steep driveway, and circle up until I’m somewhere on the third level before I find a spot. After checking for my suitcase again, I look for a stair case to get to the second level where class is. I waste some time looking and eventually end up taking the driveway around and down. I am almost run over. Twice. I’ll never understand why pricks insist on going 40 in a friggin’ parking garage.

Anyway, I walk into the lobby and try to look like I’m supposed to be there. I am supposed to be there of course, but I’m still totally lost. I hate operating without a schedule; I’ll probably have several mini panic attacks a day until I get this city figured out.

And by mini panic attacks, of which I’ve had three so far, I mean my special brand of anxiety that decides to periodically cripple me for a few moments at a time. It’s usually not too bad, ranging from a sinking feeling in my stomach, to vomiting rather unexpectedly when thoroughly embarrassed. The puking started about two years ago, in my senior year of high school. It didn't happen frequently, leading me to think I had eaten something bad or caught a silly stomach bug. Then I started tech school. It may sound lame, but those suckers don’t fuck around. The tests were four hour migraine inducing monstrosities, and I soon realized that the puking started happening on test days. More specifically, in the middle of the tests. The instructor decided to lift his strict ‘no leaving the room during tests’ rule so no one would have to listen to me puking in class. Of course, they did the first few times it happened, just cementing the fact that no one talked to me, so not only was I the weird chick, I was the weird chick that puked a lot and no one spoke to, for fear of catching bulimia. At least that’s what I told myself, since I’m not actually skinny enough for anyone to believe I have bulimia.

Anyway, I walked through the lobby, which looks like a contemporary college lounge, with a square of couches, abstract art and a flat screen on the wall. I always expect TVs like that one to be tuned to the news, or at least a cooking channel, considering where this one is, but for whatever reason someone always has it programmed to BET.

I checked my phone for the time because I can’t wear watches. Something in my skin, or blood or something kills the battery after an hour or so. It’s exactly 8:00, and class is to start at 8:30. The only people in the room are two rather prissy looking chicks that are sitting next to each other in the third row from the front, on the right side. Since that is exactly the place I’d hoped to sit, I try to stop myself from automatically hating the females, and move to the next best spot, the second row from the front on the left side. I doubt the prissy chicks picked the spot on purpose, I don’t even know why I wanted to sit there, but for whatever reason, when I was trying to fall asleep last night, that’s where I envisioned myself sitting, and made plans to arrive early enough to sit there. Damned fates.

It’s not like I need more reasons to have a hard time making friends anyway. I only know one person in this whole city, I’m really weird and people have a natural tendency to not talk to me. I do have friends, it’s not that I’ve always been the loner chick who sits in the corner and never says a word. I had the benefit and curse of going to the same school system for 10 years, so at least by the time we hit high school, people knew who I was. Of course the downside to that was them knowing who I was. My name was “that-quiet-chick” to the general population of the high school.

The only way to escape the horrors of small town familiarity was to move away and go to the culinary school of my dreams. Well, the culinary school of my dreams located in the next big town over, which happened to be Houston. It was a somewhat rash decision; it meant leaving my family and what few friends I had. I would be living on my own for the first time, in a big city I've only been to once in my life, and obviously I do not know anyone here. I was hoping that making a fresh start in a big city like Houston would help to soothe my anxiety problems. I don’t recall what logic brought me to that conclusion anymore, however.

[Anyway, I sat down at the second best seat, on the middle chair in the second row back from the left, and looked around the room]. It reminded me of a Subway, with pictures of vegetables and miscellaneous food stuffs on the walls. [There were four rows of tables lining the walls to either side of the room, leaving a walkway down the middle.] The chairs, comfortable swivels, were padded and stained so badly in places that you couldn't tell what the color of the chair was under the stain.[ It was what an architect may consider modern, with pretty blue tiles on the floor, and walls with bold colors, like yellow and green, but almost unfinished as far as the ceiling was concerned, with the lamps hanging from wires and visible AC pipes.]

I wondered again what exactly there was to lecture us about regarding food preparation. You have to submit a dish for review to be admitted to this place, so everyone should know the basics already. I expected sanitation technique or maybe some conversion calculations. Perhaps a bit of chemistry to add flavor (haha, cooking puns). Unfortunately, lecture is all we're doing this week, so I'm expecting some 'this-is-how-you're-going-to-graded' bullshit, and other dreadfully boring, first day of school stuff.

My mind shifts back to the magical vanishing suitcase. God, I'm an idiot. I figure I'll have to talk to the instructor about it. Shit, that's not going to be good. I'm can feel my cheeks beginning to go red. I can't believe that I have to tell the person who's going to be grading my performance over the next year and a half that I'm an idiot so soon. I suppose it was inevitable. They were going to figure it out soon enough anyway.

People start shuffling in more frequently now. Most of them look around the room for a few seconds, sizing it up and judging all it contains before they look for their home base for the next year and a half. After three people joined our class, the professor strode in. I'm assuming it's the professor by her Texas Institute of Culinary Arts (TICA) polo, and the fact that she sat behind the desk and started shuffling papers around. She looks so official and intimidating. I had to take a few minutes to steel my resolve to speak with her. My stomach feels like a smelter. Heavy orbs of white heat burn in my stomach, and keep me anchored to my seat, leaving me feeling like a convict.

I realized that my stomach could decide to empty its contents just as I am halfway to her desk, which gave me the motivation I needed to drag my heavy feet toward her desk. It still took me a minute after making the resolution to actually stand up. I don’t remember exactly what I said, or probably mumbled at that point, but she looked at me with a dichotomy of expressions on her round face. As I began to speak, she looked at me as though I suffered from a mental illness. As I finished, she knitted her brow and gaped her mouth a little as though I were the lowest form of intelligence ever made. I’m personally hoping for the latter expression to be her final judgment of me.

All she said was, “Well, I hope not hon, because we haven’t issued them to you yet.”

“Oh,” I replied, “That explains that then…” I attempted a smile that ended up being a straight face and walked away. I could feel my warm blush bleed all the way down to my waist. My whole body must have been scarlet in color. My fair skin tells the truth far too often. I sat down and successfully resisted looking at everyone else. Of course I realized that I was going to lose my non-breakfast anyway. I found the bathroom, without running for once. Most likely because my stomach had nothing to give up. I suppose it's the little things that make your day. After some dry heaving, I splashed my face with cool water that smelled of chlorine and chemicals. I see no point in wearing makeup anymore. I start back toward the classroom. I didn’t look up again until I realized that several more people had arrived, including someone sitting in my chair.

Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit! This means talking to this person! Oh, please don’t be a douche bag, or worse, oh shit, if he’s really nice I’m going to vomit again, probably all over his shoes.

“Excuse me, uuhhh, I was sitting there, and my bag is stuck under your chair.” I said to his back, much too fast to be completely fluent English. I was too busy hoping he wasn’t too gorgeous.

“Oh, pardon me.” He said. At least I think that's what he said, he had what I think was a thick French accent. He didn’t completely turn around to look at me before moving to the table across the aisle. I couldn’t decide if he gave two shits about moving or not, engrossed as he was in his smart phone. He also rolled his chair over my messenger bag, so two points in the French Douche bag category for him. I picked my crumpled bag up and brushed the floor dust off of it, and checked inside to make sure nothing was damaged in its assault.

Satisfied, I flopped into my seat. It made a loud, quick whoosh as air was forced from a hole in the faux-leather cushion. I froze, and then looked about the room. Nobody seemed to care. People were coming in more frequently now, and the room was about half full. [There is room for about 20 people, with five rows of four chairs, give or take a few, and most of them have been filled already.] Maybe it’s bad of me, but I already knew who I didn’t want to be put into a group project with. Well, I didn't want to be put into a group project with anybody, to be perfectly honest, but there were some whom I really did not want to be paired with. There were the prissy chicks in what was supposed to be my seat and its neighbor [AND A FEW OTHER PEOPLE WITH REALLY DISTINCTIVE FEATURES, like pumpkin head, crow’s nose, and some other people Lyn and Lily can gossip about later].

It was then that I realized that most of the chairs were full already, except the two chairs on either side of me. Awesome. I hoped I didn’t smell of vomit, and that I didn’t look as repulsive as I felt at that moment. The next person to walk in almost made me more nervous than talking to the teacher about my non-missing suitcase, and actually succeeded in making me feel more repulsive.

I’m not a lesbian, or bi-sexual for that matter, but this chick was hot. I mean, she was model hot. She easily could have been in the top fifty of Maxim’s hot one-hundred. And, of course, she strode in confidently; as I’m sure she always does, to the seat right next to me. Oh shit. I can’t change seats now, but geezus I want to. Well, my hope of finding a date in this class is over. Oh, God, why am I even thinking of that? But why did my demise have to happen so soon? I haven’t had the chance to cook anything yet. Luckily I had already vomited as much as my stomach could handle already, or I definitely would have been rushing to the bathroom again.

I heard the slap of papers on the professor's desk followed by the creaking of the chair as her weight was lifted from it. She took a second to size up her new class, she cleared her throat, looking like a regal countess (I think countess instead of queen because countess just sounds more evil) and began to speak.

“I am Ms Whatthefuckshername, Chef Whatthefuckshername , to you, at all times from now on. Today, we will be covering gradin’ policies, the basics of classroom conduct, and school rules. You were all selected for this program because of the promise that your applications and submitted recipes have shown, but under no circumstance should you believe that that means that you already know how to cook. If anything, this program will…” She stopped midsentence to glare imposingly at someone who had entered the room.

He was a really skinny guy, and looked maybe a few years older than me. He stared mostly at the floor as he walked in, and looked as nervous as I was. He took a few steps forward to face Chef W. “Well, are you going to say something, or are you going to take your seat? You’ve interrupted my class enough already.” She said. Two more students rushed in behind him, nearly knocking him over. They, of course, took up the last two remaining seats that were not next to me. Skinny guy wasn’t finished yet, however.

“I, uh, I, I don’t have my case. I’ll just leave now,” he went to turn around, but Chef Whatthefuckshername stopped him with an exasperated sigh.

“I’ve already told at least ten of you,” which I know is a lie, I was the only other person stupid enough to ask that, “We haven’t given them to you yet, and we won’t until you can pass your basics final, and prove to us that you can actually handle a knife without hurtin’ yall’s selves. Now take your seat!” I was extremely grateful that I at least didn’t have to ask after my non-existent suitcase in front of the whole class. I probably would have tried to leave too.

I watched him glance around, looking for a chair in the back, probably, and saw that he felt the same horror I did at having to sit at the same table as Ms. Maxim. The poor guy actually tripped as he crossed behind her, landing almost on top of me. He didn’t say a word as he picked himself up using my shoulder as leverage, and finally managed to sit in the chair next to me. He followed up this act by whacking his head against the wall, hard. I don’t think he even realized that he was still being watched by the entire room and the teacher as he did so either. I, for one, felt bad about staring and looked back to the teacher, who was wearing a similar expression as when I first talked to her. At least I wasn’t the only special kid in class anymore.

When the teacher finally stopped staring, I glanced back at skinny guy. He had black hair, and bad skin (not that I have room to judge anyone on that fact), and actually, he smelled pretty good. He was wearing a gray shirt and jeans, and wasn’t looking at anything in particular. He caught me looking at him, and I held eye contact for a moment, sizing him up, but he glanced away before I figured anything else about him. I moved my attention toward Ms Maxim, who was reading through the syllabus which Chef Whatthefuckshername was reading aloud. She looked confused, and raised her hand with a question, but Chef Whatthefuckshername ignored her.

The lecturing about things that we had probably all read already went on uninterrupted for quite a long time. I would have looked around more, but Chef W. really commanded all the attention. Most everything about her confused me. She sounded intelligent, and I knew from reading her biography in the back of our syllabus, which she was very intent on everyone understanding, that she had a bachelor’s degree in food preparation and service, and apparently was very proud of it. But at the same time, she sounded as if she was also fluent in ebonics. Weird, right?

She remembered to take role after talking about herself for roughly forty-two minutes, as if she had forgotten that anybody else was here. I was kind of hoping that this particular event wouldn’t take place. My name is, well, I’ll get to that. It turns out that the prissy chicks in the corner were Ashley Aspen and Brittney Collier, the first two names on the list. One or two more names were called, and I knew exactly when she came to mine. The face she made trying to mentally pronounce it was the same one they always make, reminiscent of people thinking about eating lemons. “Green?” she asked, I raised my hand. “How the hell do you pronounce that?” She pretty much demanded.

“Lilyeaux. Lily as in lily pad, you as in yourself.” I really actually like my name, it’s pretty and I’ll probably never meet another person with my name, un-like the three Johns I had in my last class. Apparently Chef W. didn’t approve, she just looked like she had stepped in dog poop, and continued down the list.

“Lyndon Gregory O’Brist,” she said, almost as a question. A question that implied, ‘Ok, pretentious douche, who are you?’ I looked expectantly at the French guy.

“Here” skinny guy said. “I go by Lyn.” he added quietly. Well that was unexpected. And apparently I wasn’t the only one who thought that, judging by Chef W’s smirk. Lyn just continued looking awkwardly straight ahead. It turns out that Ms. Maxim’s name is actually Maxine, and French guy’s name is Pierre. So I was right about the accent, at least.
               After role, it was about noon, so we took a break for lunch. Apparently, we were to be served from the class that is about to graduate the program, who was in the middle of their [meat, or fine dining? Course.] As we walked down to the on-campus restaurant, I noticed that people in the class had started mingling. The prissy chicks were attracted to the other attractive females in the class, making the obligatory comments, such as ‘I love your shoes!’ ’Oh, my gosh, I’m from California too!’, and my favorite, ‘Where did you get that?’ I rarely get along well with other women personally. I’m not too much of a girly-girl, and tend to be too straight forward for the more superficial females to handle.

In the restaurant, four people can sit to a table, and the ones closest to the kitchen have already been set. I sat at a table that was near the front of the room, and already had at least one person sitting at it. The guy was mostly non-descript, excepting his huge nose. He said,’ Hi,’ politely and gave me a small smile, that dissipated before his eyes even returned to the silver plate in front of him. I inwardly cringed at his manners and returned his greeting. Skinny guy sat across from me, and the spot next to me was left un-filled. I noticed a menu in the middle of the table, set behind a vase with a pink rose, and picked it up to inspect.

One of the reasons that I had some concerns about attending such a formal culinary school, and not one veered towards a specialty, is that I am a vegetarian, and have hopes of opening a vegetarian/vegan restaurant near my hometown. I expected to run in to some problems, I had inquired at my meeting with the recruiter from the school about it, and he had informed me that several vegetarians had attended the school in the past, but it is a requirement to pass meat preparations to graduate the program. My final decision, obviously, was to learn to cook meat, gag my way through it, and never touch it again.

The menu in front of me I had some concerns about. Our choices for lunch today were whole lobster or veal, both of which made me want to swallow my tongue, so I wouldn’t project vomit all over skinny guy, whom I reminded myself, liked to be called Lyn. I quickly put the menu back and made myself swallow. I really, really hoped that neither Lyn nor Crow’s nose would order the veal.

When the student/waiter came over for our order, I asked for a glass of water, and inquired about the menu’s accuracy. The student/waiter’s casual answer was that yes, his class was finally learning how to cook real food, and that the point of our eating at the school today was so they could learn how to cook delicacies in real time. We weren’t allowed to make any special requests however, and at least one of everything on the menu had to be ordered from each table. Of course.

“Oh, well I’m really not hungry at the moment. You guys go ahead.” I said. Crow’s nose ordered the veal, Lyn looked put out, but ordered the lobster.

“And for you?” the student/waiter asked me. I replied the same.

“Well, would you mind ordering something? If you don’t order it, someone in my class can’t cook.” I don’t know how this guy managed to figure out the only thing that would have possibly made me actually feel bad about being a vegetarian, but he did.

“Ummm, well, I’m a vegetarian. I wouldn’t eat either of these.” The poor guy looked uncomfortable, and glanced back towards the kitchen. The other head chef looked at him and shrugged his shoulders, obviously asking what was taking so long.

“She’s a vegetarian!” He yelled across the room, and pointed. Everyone, of course, looked at me like I had grown a second head. Except for Chef W, who looked at me like I had grown a third head, which was now trying to make-out with my second head. My only real head started to burn, and I felt like I was probably red enough to guide Santa’s sleigh though a blizzard. Curiously enough, I didn’t feel like puking. At least until crow’s nose ordered for me.

“She’ll have the veal.” He told student/waiter, matter-of-factly. I looked at him questioningly. “If you won’t eat it, I will.” He said.

“Oh, that works.” I finally managed to remove the picture of cute little baby cows dangling by hooks pierced through their shoulders hanging in rows and slowly dying from blood loss and hypothermia, and proceeded to glance around the room. Everyone eventually stopped looking at my second head. After the conversation in the room picked back up, I returned my attention to the guys sitting at my table. “So, Lyn, right?” I asked. I got a nod and silence in return. “And you?” I asked Crow’s nose.

“I’m Steve. You do know you’ll have to cook meat in this class, right?” I nodded. Steve and I continued to make small talk, which he was particularly uninterested in, about what did we make for our application to the school, did we have any experience, did I have a boyfriend, and such things. I didn’t know how to answer the last question. I didn’t know if I could call Brian my boyfriend or not, which was really weird for me. I’d only dated one or two other guys before, and only just met Brian at the hotel three weeks ago. I hadn’t seen him since returning to Houston yet, but we had a date on Wednesday, and he said he’d help me look for apartments soon.

I tried to ask Lyn some questions too, but he wasn’t much for talking, apparently. I got the sense that he was even shyer than I am which takes some honest effort. Especially considering his entrance this morning, he has had a really high level of awkward-ness too. Whenever I’d glance at him, he’d usually already be looking at me, but not at my face. I’m usually really aware of the amount of cleavage I have showing at any given time, and it wasn’t much right now. Or any, really. I tried the subtle moving my shirt technique, but he didn’t stop staring at my chest. Eventually I gave up the subtlety and just started back until he met my eyes.

He just looked at me for a few moments, until he realized he’d been caught, burned deep red, and refused to look at me again. But judging from the vacant stare and the lack of immediate guilt most men usually appear to have when caught oogling a woman, feigned or real, I have a feeling I wasn’t being visually vandalized. It seemed odd, but mostly like he was just staring off into space, which happened to be right in front of my boobs. Huh.

When the food came out, I was immediately grateful that the veal wasn’t still shaped like the aforementioned baby cow, but the lobster still had eyes and everything. At least Lyn was sitting across from me. He kind of picked at the lobster, and used the nutcracker looking things in a very awkward manner. I couldn’t tell if it was awkward because Lyn himself is just awkward, which I’m becoming to believe, or because he didn’t have any idea of what he was doing.

“You can have that, if you want.” I offered, nodding towards the untouched veal sitting in front of the empty seat. “Maybe you guys could split it.”

“Sure” Crow’s nose, or Steve, answered. “Go for it.” He told Lyn. I’m pretty sure he hadn’t counted on sharing, but he looked fairly unsatisfied with his plate. “Since you have no idea what you’re doing with that lobster, I could take that for ya.”

“Yeah, sure.” Lyn said, and the plates did a merry-go-round about the table. I asked Crow’s nose to turn the lobster away from me. I didn’t like the way it was looking at me. He looked at me like my heads were about to make a second appearance, but obliged.

The rest of the afternoon passed by without leaving me with anything noteworthy. Chef W continued on with the syllabus, and we were given a decent outline of how our grades were to be determined, the school’s job placement program, some other small but important details of what day-to-day life was going to be like for the next 18 months. We have school 4 days a week, sometimes 5, for special events held on Saturdays once or twice a month. With one more hour left before the scheduled end of class, Chef W explained to us that she would under no circumstances allow us to leave early. I felt the rest of the class cringe in dread at the same time I did.

“So, for the last hour, we will get to know each other. Everyone will stand in front of the class, introduce yall’s selves, and tell us why you want to cook, and something interesting about yalls’ self.” Chef W explained.

Shit. Geezus, I hate talking in front of people. I know it’s a silly thing to fear, and it’s so common that more people list their biggest fear as public speaking than as death, but it’s very lucky that I haven’t eaten anything all day. It’s just way too early in the year for me to be puking publicly yet.

Chef W, I soon learn, is the kind of person who scares me the most. She hones in on people’s fears and weaknesses and isn’t shy about making them known. “I seen you there in the back, don’t go thinking that ya’ll get away with not talking, why don’t you start us off? And I will keep us here until everyone has spoken.” Shit, this year is going to suck.

The prissy chicks apparently want to get into the cupcake business. Crow’s nose wants to be a BBQ master. I hope in vain for another vegetarian. French guy has already taken quite a bit of culinary classes, and is only hear to earn a proper work visa. Go figure. I spend the time between listening to my peers comments about their own dishes trying to muster up enough courage to stand without passing out, which takes the better half of the hour. Being close to the front of the room, I’m among the last in the class to speak. Ms. Maxium has actually one of the more generic speeches in the class. She just wants to cook, mostly because it’s sexy. The men in the room drool like wolves watching a sheep. That sounds like a weird thought, but it reminds me of an old cartoon.

When Maxim’s sitting next to me again, I stand at the impatient look from Chef W. I walk slowly, trying extra hard not to trip. When I turn, I’m a bit relieved to find that most of the class may be looking at me, but isn’t actually listening. It’s been a long, dull day and they’ve probably all zoned out long ago. Only the first row seems even slightly normal, because they’re all counting people who have to speak until it’s their turn.

The speech I’ve been preparing in my head starts pouring itself out of my mouth of it’s own volition. “I’m Lilyeaux, I’m from Giddings, Texas. Like most everyone probably heard at lunch, I’m a vegetarian, and I’d like to start a vegetarian-slash-vegan restaurant in central Texas. I want to cook for the enjoyment of making people appreciate vegetarian food, in a small attempt to help the environment, and the entertainment of eating. And that’s about it.” I become aware of wringing my hands together nervously, and force myself to stop. Feeling awkward with nothing to do with my hands, I allow myself to clasp them together again.

I look towards Chef W, who looks as bored as the rest of the class. She doesn’t say anything, so I walk back to my chair. I’m not as careful as I was in my ascent to the front of the room however, and slip ever so slightly, my heel sliding under me on the slick tiles. I hear a collective smirk from the un-entertained chefs-to-be, but nothing else. I sit down with the loud whoosh sound of the air being forced through the seams in the old crunchy leather of my chair, and feel fat for the first time today, surprisingly enough. My relief over being able to sit down again and not need to worry over speaking to anyone else is enough to assuage me however.

I watch Lyn stand up and take the same path that I just did. He walks on his toes, I notice, making him bounce slightly and look much younger than I imagine he is. I find that I can’t blame him for trying to appear taller, as slight a figure as he has. He also has very long fingers and doesn’t know what to do with his hands either. He ends up just holding them at his sides, highlighting just how very skinny he is. He doesn’t look up while he speaks. “I’m Lyn,” he starts. He speaks quietly, but I doubt that the back of the room cares. Chef W obviously doesn’t, but he doesn’t take the same comfort in that as I did. I swear I can see him shaking. “I like to grill steak; I haven’t actually decided what to do after this program. I’m from Round Rock, Texas.” As he starts to walk back, I notice he’s actually pressing his nails into his palms hard enough to turn his knuckles white. Wow, finally, someone to compete with my level of anxiety.

“Something interesting about yourself, before you sit down?” Chef W, asks, appearing to have woken up from a micro sleep specifically to criticize Lyn. He stops midway back to the chair, and turns around. I see him straighten his spine enough to stand up straight, and he grows about six inches.

“There’s really nothing interesting about me.” I find this statement a profound insight to what must be the very center of this guy. He continues to his chair, and lightly drops his head to the table. For a moment I find it difficult to look away from his bony profile.

The rest of the class continues with their introductions, but after Lyn’s I find it hard to concentrate. I look over at him again, and this time find him looking towards Chef W, which makes it easy for him to see me watching him. After a moment, he turns to look at me, so I smile at him. He barely returns my smile, but it lingers longer than it would on most people that are just trying to be plite enough to not offend me.

Finally, the last person in the room states that they are from Cincinnati, want to master Asian cuisine and started cooking with their Italian grandmother. Chef W looks at her watch, and decides to fill the last eight minutes before four o’clock by talking about herself again. When she’s finished reiterating about how she’s the first in her family to receive a college degree and has worked for people who have met such chefs as Wolfgang Puck and Gordon Ramsay, she dismisses us, with the reminder that tomorrow the real work begins. Joy.

I slowly arrange my things as the rest of the class leaves. Ms Maxium gives me a big smile and a ‘see you tomorrow’ on her way out. There is light chatter and small talk among everyone on their way to the parking garage. I remember my issue with that place this morning, and try to decide who to ask about it, according to who would mortify me the least, and who would be the most likely to actually be able to tell me. I wander around the bottom floor lobby, trying to find a receptionist or someone that could help, but the building is mostly vacated. I loiter awkwardly for a few minutes, hoping someone would come by that I could ask, but abandon this thought when my stomach growls loudly enough to echo throughout the room.

Just as I reach the door, I hear the TV come on behind me. Chef W sits in the couches adjacent to the TV, and flips the channel to BET without using the guide. I shouldn’t be surprised, I guess. With at least one mystery solved today, I wander out towards the garage without encountering anyone else.

Finally back at my car, I’m comforted by the familiar sight. There are only a few other cars left on the third floor, probably from one of the other businesses TICA shares the garage with. I walk around to the driver’s side to head home, and find that there is another car parked next to me. It’s a red ford, and is as old as my car, but quite a bit cleaner. The windows are open, and I hear someone mumbling inside. Always one prone to being killed like a cat by curiosity, I bend down to glance inside, and see Lyn. My hearing takes over just in time for me to catch,’ I don’t actually need to sleep anyway.’

I don’t want to be creeper, so I respond, “Yeah, first days are always pretty mortifying.” He jumps only a little, and stares at me. I feel the need to say something else, so I ask about the passcode at the gate.

“That’s why I was late today. I had to drive home and get some cash to get in.” He says. His voice is deep and not unpleasant, and his tone is the most conversational I’ve heard from him yet. I wonder how forced it is.

“Esh, that sucks man. I’ll let you know if I figure that out. Well, I’m Lilyeaux. Nice to meet you.”

“Lyn, you too.” I’m not sure which one of us starts it, but for some reason I reach through the window to awkwardly shake his hand. His skin is cool, and he only grips my hand lightly. Without putting the key in the ignition, he places his hands at ten and two on the wheel and looks forward. I stand awkwardly, still holding my books and bags. Just as I’m about to say something along the lines of, ‘I’d better say good bye before I eat my handbag’, he speaks up. “Can I ask you something?”

“Probably,” I answer slowly, but with a bit of humor. This is interesting.

“Do you ever keep yourself up at night, beating yourself over the head with all the mistakes you made that day?” Lyn takes a breath, as if he wasn’t actually breathing before.

“Yeah, actually. I do that a lot, usually with things that have happened recently, like in the last week or so, when the implications of exactly how much I’ve embarrassed….” I’m cut off as my cell phone rings. Confused as to who would be calling me at this time of day, or week, or at all, I tell Lyn, “I should probably get that, but I’ll see you tomorrow?” I try to maintain eye contact, to help me lose some of the guilt I know I’ll feel for blowing him off so quickly later on.

“Yeah, probably.” He says.

“Cool, I’ll see you then, then.” I don’t really hear exactly what he says as I become distracted by figuring out which pocket of which purse my cell phone is in. I give up and put my things in my backseat, and sit to continue fishing for it while Lyn pulls away. I’ve missed the call by now, but I’m a little worried as to who would be calling my normally very quiet phone. Eventually I find it, and see that my mystery caller was Brian. It’s nice of him to remember when I’m supposed to get out of class, I think. But on my way home, I worry that maybe he’s only calling to cancel our date on Wednesday, and thought better of dating me at all. I resolve to call him back when I’m not so shake-y from hunger.

I stop at a grocery store and pick up some things to make mac-n-cheese and Gatorade on my way back to my motel. Once again regretting missing the deadline to get a dorm near campus, I spend the evening eating everything I have and watching the cable-less TV.  I call Brian, but don’t get an answer. I spend too long debating with myself to leave a message or not that I run out of time and the machine cuts me off. I send him a text message instead of calling him back, that says ‘Sorry I missed your call. School was good, looking forward to Wed.’

He messaged back fairly quickly with,’ Great, in a meeting til late, call you tmrw, night.’

With no homework and no drive to go out and buy more groceries, I’m in bed by nine, which is obscenely early by my usual night owl standards. As I berate myself for being so awkward and weird when I saw Brian yesterday, and actually forgetting that I never had my suitcase for school in the first place, I’m reminded of what Lyn asked me in the parking garage. I like knowing that I’m not the only person that hates themself at the end of the day, I guess. I feel optimistic about that guy. It would be nice to have a real friend out here.

When the thought occurs to me that Lyn may actually be the first person on the face of the planet that doesn’t think that puking when nervous is weird, and fall asleep before my doubts can contradict the thought.