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I wasn't sure if Charlotte was a golddigger either, because all she did was leave her phone number—she wasn't forcing anything.

There was no point in dwelling on it now.

I quickly took a shower, put some ointment on my sore ribs, and changed into fresh clothes.

When I headed out of my room to grab something to eat, it was already 11 a.m.

I decided to go to the grocery shop just a street away. After picking up some ingredients, I headed back to Jenkins Hall and made my way to the floor-wide kitchen to make myself some pasta with chicken and vegetables.

There was one guy in the kitchen.

I knew him from my previous time here, but I never spoke more with him than 'hey' from me and 'hey' from him.

"Hey," I said.

"Hey," he said.

But a minute later, the kitchen had another guest; it was Jinny with her curly dark hair and green Crocs on. She had a frying pan and cutting board in hand.

"Jack! You're here. I was looking for you," she said, looking annoyed. "Why are you fucking so late into the night? I was trying to sleep. How late did you come back from that party?"

As she said that, the guy behind me coughed twice.

"Sorry Jinny," I replied, trying to keep my tone light. "Didn't realize it was that loud. There was a bit of a situation with the police involved so I came back late."

She huffed, placing her frying pan and cutting board on the counter. "Well, next time, try to keep it down, will you?"

As we continued preparing our meals, I filled Jinny in on what had happened the previous night, from the fight to the police station.

Jinny listened while chopping her vegetables.

The guy next to us, who had been quietly working on his soup, suddenly shared a random story about his own run-in with the police.

One night, while out on a late-night walk, lost in his thoughts and mumbling lines from his favorite novel, he caught the attention of a police officer. The officer started to question him because he thought he might be drunk or high. He explained that he was just a writer working through some ideas.

I think he was a literature student.

Anyway... After making my food, I went back to my room.

...

The next few days passed quickly. I got to know some people on my floor with friendly hellos but kept things casual. Over the weekend, Chloe arrived on campus, and I helped her move into her dorm nearby. We then grabbed dinner at the dining hall.

Monday came and it was September 9th, the day of the first lectures.

I stepped out of the dorm and walked to my car.

Across the street, a bunch of guys were hoopin' it up on the basketball court. There was even one girl out there. I didn't recognize her, but she was pretty good.

Just as I was about to get in my Mustang, a guy from my floor jogged up.

"Hey Jack, you headed to Finance, right?" he asked, panting a bit like he'd just sprinted a marathon.

"Yeah, hop in," I said, unlocking the car. "You've got yourself a chauffeur service today."

He grinned and jumped in. "Thanks, man. I owe you one."

He wasn't studying finance, but being a business student, the business facility was conveniently close by.

We dodged a few sleepy students crossing the road and found a parking spot.

I slung a light bag over my shoulder with just one notebook inside. The campus was busy, students everywhere, walking in and out, running in and out, some chatting, some smoking in a designated area, and some not in a designated area.

I walked in, grabbed a quick coffee at the café and headed for my first lecture in National Economics.

It was part of the Macroeconomics 101 program together with International Trade and Finance that Professor Sophia Fletcher, the woman from the orientation, would teach.

But she wasn't the Professor of National Economics.

No.

There was another Professor.

And this Professor was something special...

Outside the lecture hall, there was a long wooden bench where a few girls were already sitting and engaged in conversation, and there were also a bunch of guys standing near the door.

I recognized their faces but couldn't recall all their names; after the first year, people tended to specialize differently, so I mostly remembered those with similar interests to mine.

They just glanced at me momentarily as I walked past them and inside the hall.

With only 3 minutes until the lecture started, I took the exact same seat I had during orientation.

The hall was pretty much the same.

Except the blackboard was more of a greenboard.

As everyone settled in, I noticed Sam Johnson as he walked up the stairs slowly.

He had this habit of counting the steps to always sit in the same spot.

"Morning, Sam," I greeted him.

He nodded. "Morning. I see that you also picked the same spot." He settled into the seat next to mine and took out his phone, starting to record.

'I would comment on what he just said... but I won't...' I thought.

Just then, Sam spoke again: "I heard Professor Roger Blake is teaching us National Economics. He was considered for a Nobel Prize nomination last year, but they denied it last second."

"Having the knowledge has nothing to do with being able to teach it."

"Well, we will see."

Just as Sam mentioned, the Professor walked in right on cue.

The man was an oddball.

He looked like he had stepped straight out of the nineteen-seventies. He wore his long dark hair swept over his ears and sported thick, dark-rimmed glasses.

He came into class without any books or any sort of notes and immediately stepped onto the stage and absentmindedly introduced himself. "Good morning, everyone," he said, his voice flat. "I'm Professor Roger Blake, and I'll be your instructor for National Economics this semester."

There was NO passion in his words—zilch, nada.

He then started to walk about the stage in one direction and then back. "We'll be covering various aspects of macroeconomic theory, including fiscal policy, unemployment, inflation, economic growth and so on and so on," he stated, his voice droning on in a way that made it hard to stay focused.

Even the coffee wasn't helping.

It was obvious from everyone's reaction how disappointed they were; I think they were considering dropping out right here and there.

'Oh, I just remembered something' I thought and then looked up behind me.

Matt Roney was sitting a few rows up. He was a guy with short blonde hair who was mildly overweight.

I don't know how but I remembered that his phone would ring any second now.

3...

2...

1...

"Olé-lé-lé-lé-lé-lé-lé! Tara-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta!"

Matt's phone blared the Mexican Hat Dance ringtone loudly, drawing a few annoyed glances and creating a brief pause in Professor Blake's uninspired monologue.

Matt hurriedly fumbled with his phone, trying to silence it.

"Just take that call outside, please!" Professor Blake spoke loudly.

Matt, visibly flustered, quickly walked out of the lecture hall to answer the call.