Grown Woman

by Jen Luerssen

  He rolls his eyes. “Duh, of course, those are the good parts. Let’s get started.” We high-five and fist bump and although it seems childish, it does spark a little energy in me and I’m ready to get myself out of my rut and then get myself on a magical dick.

  Rising from the Mashes

  I take a deep breath as I head to my first class, Human Biology. I know. What is happening right now? Sorry, a whole bunch of boring shit happened in the past few months, but your takeaway should be that I, Lia Kiley, have plucked myself up from the depths and have righted my rails or sails or whatever. Paul and I worked for hours that day, in between binge-watching Buffy and eating more pancakes, so really just a few minutes, BUT we were able to pinpoint a few things.

  I have no degree and only had about 20 transferrable credits. I am 29 years old and am a college dropout. Also, I’m poor but not poor enough to get a lot of financial aid, so I have to go to a state college if I want to get a degree. This was something we agreed was the end goal. I am sure I want a college degree and I want to possibly teach, or be a librarian in a school. It was all narrowed down while we watched Buffy and Spike get it on, because that’s the best part of that series, in our humble (totally correct) opinions.

  The news that my best friend in the entire universe was moving to Ireland was also a motivator. Jane and Niall and their super adorable baby girl, Tyrone. Yep, my nutso friend named her baby Tyrone, we all call her Roni and some of us call her Tender-Roni (me and Paul). They left a little over a week ago and it’s been hard. Thank Dave Grohl for video chatting. If she and Niall could make a long distance relationship work, Jane and I can too. Paul and I are planning a trip for next summer and they will be home at the holidays, since Jane’s mom, Dottie would be devastated if she couldn’t spoil her new grand baby. I’m counting the days, but in the meantime, I’m getting my life in order.

  So, here I am, a not-so-fresh-faced young lady on her first day of college and a new life. This is the part of the movie montage where I throw my knit hat up in a happy rage. Instead, I enter the science building at San Francisco State and take in the sights, sounds, and smells of a busy school building. There are several students loitering, chatting and walking swiftly in the main hall. The building smells new and faintly of disinfectant. I check my classroom number (for the 345th time) and walk down a hallway to find where my Human Biology class is located. There are several students sitting on the floor near the door which is closed and apparently locked. I scan the students seated on the floor and find a space to lean. There’s no way I’m sitting on the floor in this outfit.

  I’m completely overdressed but I don’t care. I needed my hot ass suit of armor to get me through this day. Also, I was trained as a kid to wear your fanciest clothes on the first day of anything, but especially school. Paul made fun of me a bit, especially the amount of time I took with my hair.

  “You know that everyone else will be in sweats and Uggs with a messy bun, right?” He laughed as I put on my seamed stockings and connected them to my garter.

  “I’m presenting myself to a new pool of people, Paulina Porizkova. This is my first impression,” I said as I smoothed down my black and teal striped pencil skirt. “I want my first impression to be, ‘Wow.’”

  “You’re setting the bar high for yourself, Bettie Page,” he joked. “Stockings and garters? You won’t be able to keep that up.”

  I shrug,.“Maybe not, but I refuse to wear pajamas in public. I’ll transition to more comfortable clothing as the weeks go by. I draw the line at Uggs though.”

  I check my vintage rose gold watch and am slightly irritated that the professor is now 15 minutes late. The other students in the hallway don’t seem to care about the teacher’s lateness as they are either engrossed in conversation or are scrolling through their phones. It’s a diverse group, with the exception of age. I’m by far the oldest person in this hallway. This is expected though and part of the reason for my wardrobe choices. I could have thrown my hair into a messy bun, put on some yoga pants and worn more comfortable shoes just to fit in, but I’m no phony and I love my clothes. I’ve embraced my sexy librarian chic these past years along with my music career. My copious amounts of tattoos add to my allure, although I get them for myself, not to impress anyone. The majority of my ink are literary quotes, poppies (my favorite flower), and music references. I also have several dedicated to San Francisco, my beloved adopted city.

  When I moved here from my small town in New Jersey, I knew instantly that I’d found my place. The rolling hills, pastel buildings, the weather, the people, and attitudes. The city is my place, I’ve never felt so comfortable anywhere else. As a kid, I felt like a freak and as an adult things weren’t much different in my conservative town. The people of San Francisco are my people, the misfits and oddballs of the world and I love them all.

  I’m jostled from my right, my attention focused on the door to the left. I turn and see the professor, a middle-aged woman trailing a cart behind her of oddly shaped jars. Her gold wire-rimmed glasses are sitting low on her nose and another pair is nestled on the crown of her head. A wild patch of blonde curls falls haphazardly around her shoulders. On her shoulder hangs a huge brown leather purse, overflowing with papers. At first glance, she’s a hot mess. Further inspection only backs up this impression. Her professor review rank is low but I thought it was exaggerated and I was unable to schedule this class at any other time. Looks like the reviews weren’t far off.

  “Good morning everyone. Sorry I’m late. I couldn’t find parking and then the storage room was locked and my back is acting up a bit. Come in everyone and take a seat and we’ll start in a moment. Can I get some brawny young bucks to help me with this cart? Be careful, we don’t want any of these bottles to break, that would make the next hour and a half a miserable experience.” I swear this was one full sentence. She didn’t even take a breath. Also, it probably won’t take a broken bottle of ghoulish whatever to make this class unbearable.

  We file in and two men tackle the cart, looking petrified. I choose a table at the front of the classroom because I’m channeling my inner Hermione. Whatever, I’m older, I’m paying for all of this myself, I want a good seat. Across from me a young woman with a super tight ponytail, jeans and a button-down shirt sits. I give her a smile. Two more young women join us at our table and I lean in to commiserate.

  “So, this lady? Amirite?” I half whisper.

  Their response is the furthest from what I’m expecting.

  “She seems very eccentric. I heard she’s very knowledgeable about biology, though,” says the 20-something sitting across from me.

  The girl sitting next to me nods. “I like to give all teachers a fair chance. You shouldn’t read the reviews,” she scolds.

  Now I feel like a total cynical asshole, so I give a nod back. “I guess you’re right. I’ll give her a shot,” I say this while looking around for another open chair. There are none. This class is a requirement and there are too few classes open. Looks like I’m stuck with these nice ladies for today.

  The teacher calls for attention and we give it to her. “Okay, scientists, let me tell you a little about myself and then we’ll go through the syllabus and expectations. I need a few volunteers to pass it out.” She holds a stack of unstapled, collated papers.

  After 15 minutes of receiving papers, organizing them and then stapling the syllabus together, I am ready to walk out. I roll my eyes to the one woman at my table who hadn’t said anything about the teacher earlier and she gives me a dirty look back. What the hell, where did these people come from? Apparently a place with super low standards for professors.

  “Thanks for putting those together scientists. I was having back issues last night so I wasn’t able to finish them up.” Okay lady, I know from the library that most copy machines collate and staple for you.

  “Let’s get to it,” she says clapping her hands together. “My name is Mrs. Lee but you can call me Carol, I like to keep it casual here. This is my 13t
h year teaching at State and I’ve only failed three people. Hopefully, everyone can get an A. All you have to do is everything I say.” She cackles and I die a little inside.

  After about 30 more minutes about her personal life, her teenage son who hates her, her two dogs that she loves more than any human (note: she doesn’t mention her son as the exception), and finally all about her unfortunate divorce, she finally has us open the syllabus.

  “The main thing I want you guys to learn is to think critically. Science is all about questions and I don’t want you to be afraid to ask yourself a lot of questions. Never ask me questions though,” she says with a tiny giggle.

  I raise my hand. “Are you serious? We can’t ask you anything?” I realize I’ve asked her two questions but ya know what? I’m an adult and not afraid to call her on her bullshit.

  She looks me up and down. “You’ll want to dress appropriately for my class, prepare to get messy.” Then she turns her head and continues. I sit there open-mouthed Is this lady for real?

  While she drones on about how great her class will be and how she has a “funky” teaching style, I disassociate from her and look around the room for entertainment or at least something to look at. The room gives disorganized a whole new meaning. There are papers, boxes, materials, plants, and unidentifiable piles on every surface around the room. The student tables are filled with students, some are standing hoping to get into this class. I’d give up my spot in a heartbeat if I could. There was no other class that worked with my schedule.

  My gaze stops on the most interesting table in the room. There are three men and one woman who looks about my age. I can’t tell what the one dude looks like because he is partially blocked by the lady, but the guy next to him is beautiful. He has short, dark hair, the longest eyelashes I’ve ever seen and eyes so dark they look black. He looks huge sitting at the small table. I take a minute to peruse the rest of him. He’s wearing a black Metallica t-shirt and his forearms are perfect in a way I’m sure they already have their own Twitter handle. His hands are big and folded on top of his syllabus. My eyes meander back to his face and I notice his lips, his full, gorgeous, smirking lips. Wait, smirking? Busted. He is looking straight at me and has caught me eye-groping his arms. I smile and he winks. Not too bad. I’m sure I’m the color of my red folder, but hey, I shrug at him and own it. I vaguely hear Carol mention how her chiropractor has told her to quit teaching, and I see the best thing ever. Hottie forearms rolls his beautiful eyes.

  I continue to zone out and check out the rest of the students, but stealing glances at my new best friend about every 30 seconds. Carol drones on and I try to listen to her diatribe on homework and how it’s the most important part of higher education, blah blah blah.

  Finally, after the most ridiculous two hours of my life, Carol dismisses us from class. While I’m walking out of the class in a daze, I notice that there are a few other people who look as flabbergasted as I do and that makes me feel a bit better. I meet sexy forearm boy’s eye and he gives me a big smile. One thing I know for sure is I’ll have to find a new table next class and I definitely have one in mind.

  Moldy Oldy

  I’m early again to class and this time I loiter next to the door so I can make sure I can sit elsewhere. Carol is actually on time today and is dragging another cart that is emitting an odor most foul. She gives me a sour look and points up and down at my outfit and shakes her head. Birch, please. I will not have a teacher in mom jeans with holes, Crocs, and a fleece vest shame my style choices. Ugh, not that there’s anything wrong with those choices! Wear what the fuck you want, but Crocs? Just no.

  My outfit today is a bit more subdued. I’m wearing black skinny jeans, a dark purple silk tank top, and a slouchy black cashmere cardigan. My hair is down in long red waves and I’m rocking some purple heels, I mean, they’re not stilettos. What’s her problem?

  I hurry past her cart of doom and then walk casually into class. When I reach my table from the other day, I keep walking and sit in Hottie forearms’ seat. Tight ponytail gives me a look like I just killed her puppy and I know I’ve made the right choice. I need to surround myself with like-minded people or I’ll get stabby. A cute guy who looks to be more in my age group sits next to me and takes his earbuds out and smiles at me. He has shaggy blonde hair, blue eyes, and a friendly smile.

  “Hi, I’m Mike,” he says.

  “I’m Lia. I hope it’s okay I moved my seat,” I gesture to myself.

  “Fine with me, how about, Carol, huh? She seems stable,” he says with a chuckle.

  I let out an exaggerated breath. “Oh thank Ozzy,” I grab his arm. “I knew I made the right decision to move.”

  He laughs again, “Oh yeah, why’s that?”

  I point my thumb over to my old table mates. “Let’s just say that Carol has some loyal scientists in the front and I kept rolling my eyes into the universe alone on Tuesday.”

  “Well, roll away, this is an eye-rolling safe zone.” He gestures to the table as Hottie forearms takes a seat across from me. “I’m sure Javier will agree.”

  “I agree that someone needs to open a window.” He covers his nose. “What the Freddie Mercury is that smell?”

  Ok, I need to take a minute here. This guy, Hottie forearms, Javier (Jesus fuck that’s a hot name), just invoked a classic rock star’s name. Oh. My. Jagger. That’s my fucking thing and if my panties weren’t already half melted from the forearm action, they are now. I will play this shit cool though because I’m Lia frickin’ Kiley and I am a stone cold cucumber.

  “It’s Carol’s cart of doom,” I say sarcastically. “It’s going to get messy, scientists!” Why am I talking? Seriously, the cucumber has left the building.

  Javier Hottie forearms gives me a smirk. Jesus Benatar Christ, he’s hot. “Not a Carol fan?”

  Mike saves me, “Lia here is a refugee from Carol’s fan club in front.”

  “You’re not a plant, are you? Carol seems like she might have spies in this joint.” I narrow my eyes at Javier and cross my arms.

  He laughs. “It’s funny that you think she’s that organized.”

  I shrug. “You’re right, who has time for espionage when you’re trying to convince your only child to massage your lower back while stapling papers?”

  All of us laugh and Mike pats my shoulder. “Welcome Lia, this is your table now. Take comfort in your people, and please, keep the scary, oedipal images to yourself.”

  Ooh, I like these guys, and they are nice eye candy for when this class gets tedious, which I’m sure will be a frequent occurrence.

  “Well, as long as there’s not a ceremonial sacrifice later, I accept your offer to roll my eyes freely, and will keep those images to myself, maybe.”

  Javier is staring at me with intense interest. “You look familiar. Have we met before?”

  “I’m not sure.” I’m totally sure. I’d never forget hottie forearms, never. “Do you hang out at the library downtown?”

  “Library? The main branch?” he asks.

  I nod. “I worked there for years until I started school.”

  I cringe, he does not need to know that I’m old enough to have worked somewhere for years. Ugh, who am I fooling, this will be a friends only scenario anyway.

  “Never been,” he says. “Have you done any theater?”

  “Nope, but I am a singer,” I offer.

  Dawn breaks, “Yes! I saw you sing at the Elbow Room last month. Your arrangement of Elvis Costello’s “(What’s so Funny ‘Bout) Peace, Love, and Understanding” was breathtaking. I had to leave when you sang “Nothing Else Matters” for fear I’d propose to you on the spot.”

  I blush, hard. Occasionally I get recognized for my music but it’s rare and usually at the venue where I’ve just performed. I’m secretly thrilled he loved my Metallica cover and the botched proposal is promising. The cucumber has returned, though. I can talk about my music endlessly.

  “Thank you. I don’t usually get recognized for my sing
ing. I’m Lia, by the way.” I put my hand out to shake his.

  “Javier.” He takes my hand and gives it a hearty shake. I take it back and meet his friendly gaze. “I’m so glad you’ve decided to join us and I promise, no sacrifices will be made.”

  This was the last pleasant part of class. Right after Javier and I made friends, Carol brought class to order and then jumped right into a lecture about sociopaths and how they ruin lives without care. I feel like this was more of a book report on her ex-husband but she then dovetailed into talking about mold and decay (fitting?). We all then became aware of why we were being subjected to the lovely garbage smell that has made its way into every crevice of the classroom. Carol is a world-class hoarder and her ability to collect food and then leave it to rot may be legendary. She droned on and on about molds and spores while at least five people left for good and then my old comrade, tight ponytail, stood up abruptly, ran to the nearest trash can and promptly threw up. Carol assured us all of this was normal and then at the end of class asked Javier and Mike to be good boys and help her dispose of the cart filled with decay. When she said “good boys,” she caressed Mike’s back. He went pale and gave me a look that screamed, “help!”

  “I’ll also assist you, Carol,” I say. I’m ride or die with these guys now and am willing to go down with the ship.

  “Oh, that’s okay sweetie,” she says condescendingly, “I’m sure you don’t want to get your hooker heels dirty.”

  What? She did not just call me a hooker. My hands go to my earrings and Mike grabs one and gives it a squeeze. “Hey, let’s get you back to that corner.” Both he and Javier get up, ignoring Carol’s hands on hips disapproval and walk out with me.

  I turn to Mike. “She called me a hooker, right?”

  He nods, trying not to smile. “That she did, but to be fair, she’s wearing Crocs and probably hasn’t had sex in a really long time.” We all shudder.