Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 107803 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 539(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107803 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 539(@200wpm)___ 431(@250wpm)___ 359(@300wpm)
"This is just way too complicated," the voice continues, interrupting what little focus I'm struggling to keep. "Half of it doesn't even make sense."
I flip the page in my book as I mumble, "Sometimes the questions are complicated and the answers are simple."
"Who said that? Pluto? I'm telling you, Karissa, that shit's not even in my book!"
Those words draw my attention away from my work. I glance across the little round table at my friend, Melody Carmichael, as she rocks the wooden chair back on its hind legs in frustration. "It's Plato, not Pluto."
She waves me off, making an, 'oh, who really fucking cares' face. "What's the difference?"
"One's a philosopher, the other's a cartoon dog."
If she can't keep that straight, she's screwed come test time in, say, oh... thirty minutes.
"Yeah, well, I'm inclined to believe the damn dog makes more sense than the old planet-y bastard," she says, shifting through her thick stack of notes. Philosophy, our last class of the day, our last mid-term as freshmen at NYU, and she's reached her breaking point. Typical.
"I mean, listen to this shit," she says, reading from her notes. "Many men are loved by their enemies, and hated by their friends, and are friends to their enemies, and enemies to their friends. Like... what does that even mean?"
I shrug. "Means people are people, I guess."
My gaze goes back to my book, my eyes scanning the text again.
"And it wasn't Plato, by the way," I say, answering her earlier question. "It was Dr. Seuss."
"Seriously?" she asks. "You're quoting Dr. Seuss now?"
"He was sort of a philosopher himself," I say. "Most of his work dealt with logic and reason, society and human nature. You can learn a lot from his books."
"Yeah, well, I prefer a different philosophical doctor," she counters, dropping her chair back onto all fours, the loud thump echoing through the small cafe. "I think Dre put it best when he said bitches ain't shit but hoes and tricks."
Her dead serious tone makes me laugh. "And here I thought you worshipped at the altar of Tupac Shakur."
"Now that man put Pluto to shame," she says. I refrain from correcting her this time, not sure if she really can't recall which is which or if she's just being a smartass at this point. "A coward dies a thousand deaths... a soldier dies but once. That's deep."
"That's Shakespeare," I point out. "Straight out of Julius Caesar."
"No way."
"Yes way."
Melody's eyes shoot daggers at me as she exaggeratedly reopens her book. Despite declaring she'd quit, she goes back to work, doing some last minute cramming. She's damn close to failing philosophy and needs to do decent on the mid-term to bring up her grade. Anything less than a C and she's skipping down the path of probation, straight toward suspension.
Me? While I may not be in danger of failing, per se, my scholarship is a different story. Not all of us come from the loins of wealthy Wall Street bankers like Melody and can afford to piss around. My mother's in no position to help me, seeing how I'm not sure how she's surviving as it is. And my father, well…
Not all of us have one of those.
If my GPA dips any lower, I'm on my own. And if I'm on my own, I'm fucked six ways to Sunday. Something tells me NYU won't take an IOU as tuition payment.
"Whose bright idea was it to take this class, anyway?" Melody mutters, dramatically flipping through pages.
"Yours," I reply. "You said it would be easy."
"It's supposed to be easy," she argues. "It's philosophy. It's like, opinions; there are no wrong answers when it's someone's opinion, right? I mean, it's supposed to be rational and logical, things that makes sense, not this existential science-y bullshit."
"Ah, it's not so bad."
Truthfully, I like philosophy, all bullshit aside. If it weren't for our professor, I might even love it.
"Not so bad? It's way too much thinking."
Rolling my eyes, I close my textbook and sit back in my chair. The words are all bleeding together into a sea of nothingness, bogging up my thoughts and weighing down the stuff I do remember.
I glance around the cafe, trying to clear my mind as I pick up my chocolate mint tea. It's still warm, despite it having sat here for over an hour, ignored.
"Only you, Karissa," Melody says, shaking her head. "We get a freak seventy degree day in March and you still order hot chocolate and wear a goddamn scarf."
Shrugging, I take a sip of my drink, savoring the rich creamy chocolate flavor. I blend in usually, with my normal getup of skinny jeans and sweaters and tall boots. It's not my fault we get one warm day and everyone else acts like it's summertime in the Caribbean.
Melody's personal plan seems to be to see how little she can wear without getting nailed for public indecency. She's currently toeing the line with some tiny shorts and a crop top. I feel obscene just looking at her.
"What's wrong with my scarf?" I ask, reaching up and running my hand along the soft material. It's my favorite.
"It's all pink and stripe-y and scarf-y." She waves my way dismissively as she grimaces. "Pretty sure it's what Aristotle was talking about when he said 'how awful the truth is when there's no helping it' because there's definitely no helping that scarf."
I burst out laughing, so loud it disrupts the people trying to work near us. I cast them apologetic looks as I correct Melody. "Sophocles said that."
Or something close to it, anyway. How dreadful knowledge of the truth can be when there's no help in truth...
"You're sure?"
"Positive."
Melody groans, slamming her book closed for the second time and throwing her hands up. "I'm going to fail this damn test."
Sixteen multiple-choice questions, five short answer problems, and a two-page essay, all within an hour.
I'm in Hell.
Figuratively, of course, although it feels quite literal every time I look up from my exam to the front of the room, my eyes drifting to the sign hanging above the old school chalkboard.