Mommy Tracked

by Whitney Gaskell

  “No. Just the one smell,” I said.

  “Right, sorry. So what classes do you have today?”

  I consulted the slip of paper the school had sent me over the summer. “This morning I have Criminal Law with Hoffman. And then Torts with Professor Gupta,” I said.

  “Excellent. We must be in the same section,” Nick said. When I looked at him questioningly, he explained. “They break the One-Ls into four sections. Each section has all of their classes together.”

  “Just like at Hogwarts in the Harry Potter books,” I said.

  Nick laughed. “Minus the magic and all of the other cool stuff. Come on, we’d better get in there.”

  We walked up the steps, and then Nick held a glass door open for me, and I stepped inside. The ground-floor corridor of the law school was bustling with students standing around in groups or winding their way through the crowd en route to class. Up ahead, to the left, there was a student lounge furnished with green upholstered chairs and couches and lined with glowing vending machines that spat out soda cans with a loud clatter.

  “We have mailboxes in there,” Nick told me, pointing to the lounge. “Only they’re not really boxes, they’re hanging folders; but, whatever, they call them mailboxes. The Powers That Be have ordered us to check them once a day.”

  “You see, you did learn something at orientation. Did I miss anything else?” I asked.

  “No, not really. They gave us a tour of the building, told us what to expect at lectures, stuff like that. Mostly it was just a chance for people to meet and settle into cliques at the earliest possible point,” Nick said.

  “Oh good. That makes me feel better,” I said, rolling my eyes.

  We turned left and walked to the end of a locker-lined hall, where even more students were milling around, some of them shoving heavy legal books into the lockers before slamming them shut. The hollow metallic clang reminded me of high school. The law school smelled like a high school too, that unmistakable bouquet of tuna fish sandwiches, new sneakers, and freshly shampooed hair.

  “Do we have lockers assigned to us?” I asked.

  “Yeah, but to get one you have to fill out paperwork at the reception desk we just passed back there,” Nick said. “Give the Powers That Be your student ID, take a blood oath that you won’t deal drugs out of it, promise them your firstborn, and they’ll give you your combination.”

  When I laughed, the tangle of nerves in my stomach loosened.

  Directly ahead of us was a set of heavy wooden doors. Just through it was a large, sunken lecture hall, so that when we stood at the doors, we were at the highest point in the room, looking down. At the front of the hall, a wooden lectern sat on a slightly raised platform. Long tables were bolted into the floor across the center of the room, set up in a stadium style, so that each was on a lower level than the one behind it. There were two sets of staircase corridors—the one where I was standing, and another to the right of the long tables. The room was already half filled with our new classmates sitting in green upholstered task chairs lined up behind the tables. Their voices, buzzing with excitement and anxiety, echoed around us. The chic dark-haired girl I’d seen earlier was there, I noticed, along with her skinny companion with the nose ring.

  “Do you want to sit here?” Nick asked, gesturing to one of the shorter tables just to our left, which was still empty.

  “Sure,” I said. We sat down, and I got out a yellow lined legal pad and a pen. Nick unzipped his black messenger bag and pulled out a thick brown textbook with gold lettering on its face: CRIMINAL LAW, 8TH EDITION, ALAN M. HOFSTEADER.

  “You already got your textbook?” I asked him.

  Nick’s eyebrows arched. “You didn’t?”

  “No, I just got into town on Saturday, and since then I’ve been unpacking and getting groceries and things. I figured I’d just go to the bookstore today after class,” I said, trying to keep the shrill edge of panic out of my voice.

  Nick nodded. “That must have been your U-Haul parked in front of the house on Saturday. I saw it when I came back from the library.”

  “The library…you mean you’ve already started studying?”

  “Yeah, we had a reading assignment for class today.”

  “What?”

  “That’s right—you weren’t at orientation. They posted the first class assignments over by the student lounge. This class was the worst. We had two chapters to read, and the cases were unbelievably boring. I thought Crim Law would have been the most interesting assignment, but apparently not,” Nick said.

  “Oh, no,” I said, slumping forward. “I’m already behind. Stupid U-Haul…”

  “Don’t worry, I’m sure you won’t get called on. What are the odds? There must be over a hundred students in here,” Nick said.

  “Called on? He’s going to start calling on people today?” I asked, and when Nick nodded, my stomach did that dropping thing where it feels like you’re falling off a tall building. I never thought the professors would be calling on us on the first day of classes.

  “Hoffman is supposed to be the worst of the worst when it comes to humiliating students in class. The upperclassmen call him Professor Satan. Actually, I think that’s him there,” Nick said, nodding at the back of a man cutting through the students.

  I turned and saw a middle-aged man making his way down the stairs. He led with his crotch as he walked, and the fluorescent lights shone on his pate. He reached the front of the room, stepped up on the platform, and turned to face us. From where I sat, he didn’t look outwardly satanic. Just your average academic type. He wore the hair he had left a bit too long, and his blue oxford shirt was rumpled. His pants were low on his hips to accommodate his stomach paunch. The professor crossed his arms and leaned forward against his lectern, looking blandly disinterested as he waited for the noise level to drop to a nervous buzz before finally tapering off. When silence stretched across the room, he continued to stare back at us for a few uncomfortable moments.

  “This is Introductory Criminal Law. I am Professor Hoffman. If you are in the wrong place, please leave. for those of you who are in the right place, I’m going to go over the ground rules. First, do not be late to my class. We will begin promptly at nine a.m. on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.

  “I will be passing around a seating chart. The seat you are now sitting in will be your seat for the remainder of the semester. Locate your seat on the chart and fill in your name in large block letters.

  “My system for calling on students is as follows: Everyone will be called on at least once over the course of the semester. If you volunteer to answer a question during class, you will inoculate yourself from being called on for the rest of that week.

  “Office hours are Wednesdays from two to four p.m. Do not bother me at any other time, including before and after lectures. And do not waste my time during office hours by asking questions that were addressed during the lecture. If you attempt to do so, I will not be pleased. And I assure you, ladies and gentlemen, you do not want to displease me. Any questions? Good. Open your casebooks to chapter one,” Hoffman said. His biting voice had just the faintest trace of a Northeastern accent. Connecticut? I wondered. Rhode Island, maybe.

  Nick opened his book and moved it between us on the table so that I could share it with him. I shot him a grateful look and began speed-reading through the introductory paragraphs of the chapter, praying that I wouldn’t be called on.

  “Ms. Bennett, I don’t like to be kept waiting,” Hoffman snapped. “Stand up now.”

  Finally my legs obeyed me, and as I stood shakily, my chair rolled backward, turning as it went, so that the hard, curved plastic of the armrest was pressing into my right thigh. My hands shook slightly as I clasped and then unclasped them, and I tried to resist the urge to wipe my slick palms on the front of my skirt. Nick gave me a tight-lipped smile of encouragement and pushed his book even closer to me.

  “Define mens rea,” Professor Hoffman said. He continued to stare at me bland
ly, with eyes that were light and flat, like a shark’s.

  “I don’t know,” I admitted. “My moving van broke down, and so I missed orientation and I didn’t know there was a reading assignment due today. I’m sorry. I’ll be prepared next time.”

  I started to sit down.

  “I didn’t tell you to sit. I asked you to define the term mens rea for the class,” Hoffman said.

  My mouth went dry and my throat was so scratchy, it felt like I’d swallowed a handful of sand. He wasn’t going to let me off the hook, I realized. He was going to make an example out of me in front of everyone. I slowly stood back up, my legs shaky.

  “Um…I don’t know. I’ll have to pass,” I said lamely. I crossed my arms in front of me, pressing my elbows down so that no one would be able to see my sweaty armpits.

  “I don’t allow passing in my class,” Hoffman said.

  Mens rea, mens rea, I thought wildly. I’d watched every episode of Law & Order at least three times. Hadn’t Assistant District Attorney Jack McCoy used that term during that episode with the teenager who’d killed his friend? It had something to do with…

  “Is that…does that mean…the mental state of a…um, criminal…person?” I asked, stumbling over the words.

  “Are you asking me or telling me?” Hoffman asked.

  Asshole, I thought, biting down so hard, the muscles in my jaw twinged. Mens rea refers to the, um, mental state of a criminal,” I said loudly.

  “And why is that important?”

  “Because a person’s intent when they commit a crime is important for…um…determining…um…what kind of a crime…it is,” I said, hoping that that made sense. I had a feeling that Jack McCoy had been more eloquent when he was explaining it to the police detectives.

  “And what are the four levels of criminal intent under the Model Penal Code?” Hoffman asked.

  Four levels? I didn’t have the slightest fucking clue. Law & Order wasn’t going to save me now.

  “Ms. Bennett?” Hoffman said.

  I shook my head. “I don’t know,” I mumbled.

  Hoffman strode to the whiteboard behind his lectern, picked up a black Magic Marker, and began writing: PURPOSELY, KNOWINGLY, RECKLESSLY, NEGLIGENTLY. Then he drew a line under the four words, and below the line wrote: STRICT LIABILITY.

  “This is a basic concept of criminal law,” Hoffman said, pointing to the board with the uncapped marker. “Your inability to answer does not bode well for how you’ll do in my class. I gather it would be a waste of everyone’s time to ask you for a summary of Staples v. U.S.?”

  Somehow his bland, sneering tone was worse than if he’d yelled at me.

  “Yes,” I said in a small voice.

  “You can sit down now. And don’t come to my class unprepared ever again,” Hoffman said.

  I reached behind me for my chair, sat down shakily, and edged it back toward the table. Resting my hands on my forehead, I stared at Nick’s casebook, but the words on the pages didn’t make any sense. They just floated around, an impenetrable sea of tiny type.

  “That wasn’t so bad. Could have been a lot worse. At least you were able to answer a few of his questions,” Nick whispered. His breath was warm on my ear and smelled like mint toothpaste.

  I just shook my head at him and tried to focus on the casebook. If that was how Hoffman treated a student who was unprepared, I could only imagine how he’d deal with our whispering in the middle of a lecture. I certainly wasn’t about to find out.

  Whitney Gaskell briefly—and reluctantly—practiced law, before publishing her first novel, Pushing 30. She lives in Stuart, Florida, with her husband and son, and is at work on her next novel. You can visit her website and read her blog at www.whitneygaskell.com.

  Also by Whitney Gaskell

  PUSHING 30

  TRUE LOVE (AND OTHER LIES)

  SHE, MYSELF & I

  TESTING KATE

  MOMMY TRACKED

  A Bantam Book / September 2007

  Published by Bantam Dell

  A Division of Random House, Inc.

  New York, New York

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved

  Copyright © 2007 by Whitney Gaskell

  Bantam Books and the rooster colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Gaskell, Whitney.

  Mommy tracked / Whitney Gaskell.

  p. cm.

  1. Married women-—Fiction. 2. Single women—Fiction. 3. Female friendship—Fiction. 4. Domestic fiction. I. Title.

  PS3607.A7854M66 2007

  813'.6-—dc22

  2007020378

  www.bantamdell.com

  eISBN: 978-0-553-90427-7

  v3.0