Chapter 2: Classes, Classes, Classes
The alarm wasn’t a sound; it was a violation. A brutal, digital shriek that tore through the fog of a deep, dreamless sleep. Jules’s hand slapped the nightstand, fingers scrambling across the laminate before finding the phone. He jammed his thumb on the screen, silencing it. The sudden quiet was almost as jarring.
Gray light seeped around the edges of the blinds. 7:02 AM. He lay still, listening to the unfamiliar silence of the dorm. A pipe clanked somewhere in the walls. A distant door slammed. This was it. Day one. The real start.
He dragged himself upright. The room was cold. He pulled on jeans, a clean t-shirt—checking twice it was right-side out—and a worn flannel. In the small mirror over the sink, his reflection stared back: pale, hair sticking up in chaotic tufts, eyes still soft with sleep. He splashed water on his face, the shock of it a blunt anchor to reality.
The cafeteria was a cavern of noise and fluorescent light. The smell was a greasy cocktail of scrambled eggs, bacon, and industrial-strength cleaner. Students moved in sleepy herds, clutching trays. Jules navigated the line, grabbing a slice of rubbery toast and a large black coffee in a paper cup that was already going soft in his hand.
He found a spot at the back, a small two-person table wedged between a trash can and a pillar plastered with old event flyers. He sat facing the room, a habit from high school. Observe first. Engage later.
The scene unfolded like a silent film with a terrible soundtrack of clattering cutlery and shouted greetings. A group of athletes in matching sweatshirts dominated one long table, their laughter too loud for the hour. Near the windows, a cluster of serious-looking students had textbooks open next to their oatmeal, arguing in heated whispers. He saw Leo, the frat president, holding court at another table, surrounded by eager-looking freshmen. Leo caught his eye, gave a theatrical wink, and went back to his story.
And then he saw her. Maya. She was at a table by the far wall, alone. Her head was bent over a thick, cloth-bound book, one hand holding her hair back from her face, the other scribbling notes in a margin. She wore large, round glasses this morning. She took an absent-minded bite of an apple, never looking up. A sanctuary of quiet in the din.
Jules looked down at his toast. He thought about walking over. The idea sent a jolt of pure anxiety through his stomach. You owe me a less-boring film recommendation. He hadn’t. He had nothing. He wasn’t ready.
He focused on the other dynamics. Two groups of guys, one at a table to his left, another to his right. They weren’t looking at each other, but the space between them felt charged, like the air before a lightning strike. The left table had a jock-ish vibe; the right table were skater types, with beanies and hoodies. An old tension, probably from high school, imported into this new space.
Jules took a sip of his coffee. It was bitter and burnt.
And then it happened.
It wasn’t a thought. It was a knowing. A silent, colourless film strip that spooled out behind his eyes in the space between one heartbeat and the next.
He saw the guy from the left table, a blond with a square jaw, stand up. He saw him say something, his lip curled. He saw the tallest skater kid stand too, his chair scraping back with a scream. He saw them walk toward each other, a slow-motion convergence. He saw the blond throw the first punch, a wild, looping right hook. He saw it connect with a sick, wet crack. He saw the room erupt—trays flying, girls shrieking, bodies piling in.
The vision was absolute, horrifyingly detailed. He could smell the spilled coffee and ozone of violence.
He gasped, a sharp intake of breath that burned his lungs. His hand clenched, crushing the paper cup. Hot coffee erupted over his fingers. He dropped it with a curse, the brown liquid spreading across the linoleum.
“You okay, man?”
A guy at the next table was looking at him, concerned.
Jules shook his head, hard, as if trying to dislodge water from his ear. The cafeteria snapped back into focus. The two tables of guys were still seated. They were still ignoring each other. Nothing had happened.
It was just… a daydream. A stress-induced hallucination. Too much change, not enough sleep.
His heart was hammering against his ribs. His fingers stung from the coffee burn. The vision had felt more real than the toast on his plate.
He couldn’t stay here. He stood up, his legs unsteady. He left his tray, the ruined cup, the puddle on the floor. He needed air. He needed to get to class, to something normal, to a lecture hall where things followed a syllabus.
He weaved through the tables, head down. He passed the left table. He passed the right table. The sense of impending violence was a physical pressure in his temples, a low hum.
He pushed through the double doors into the corridor.
He took three steps.
The sound from behind the doors wasn’t a shout. It was a roar. A composite of anger, impact, and splintering plastic. It was followed by the unmistakable, hollow thwack of a fist meeting flesh. Then screams. A crash that sounded like an entire tray rack going over.
Jules froze. His blood turned to ice.
He didn’t look back. He didn’t need to. He knew exactly what the scene looked like. The blond’s looping right hook. The spray of spittle. The chair scraping back.
He knew it, frame by frame, because he had already seen it.