So, remember Pence argues that school's primary value isn't to make you smart or even well-trained, but to signal that you already possess the qualities an employer is looking for," the professor said, his voice dropping into the familiar cadence of a lecture's end. "It's about the credential, the endurance. See you next week."
"So, basically, he's saying that what he actually teaches us doesn't really matter," a guy two rows below me muttered to his friend. The other boy snorted, slamming his laptop shut with a definitive thwack.
I didn't join in the cynical banter. I just sat there, my fingers tracing the worn edge of my desk. I gathered my coat, moving with a deliberate slowness to hide the tremors in my hands, and shoved my notebook into my bag. Looking toward the door, I thought of the long, winding distance to my next class, and a sick, hollow feeling settled in my stomach.
It was Thursday. Six days since I had walked out of Mr. Jason's office, bewildered and vibrating with a strange, dark energy. Six days since a doctor in a white coat had told me I had five months, maybe three left to inhabit this skin.
I had tried so incredibly hard to bury the memories of that day. Now that I didn't have to report to the hospital for intravenous injections three times a week, I found it was almost possible to pretend. Most of the time, I could play the role of the diligent student, lost in the sea of backpacks and caffeine. Most of the time, I could ignore the way my jeans felt looser every morning.
But as the one week mark approached, the pretense was wearing thin. Anxiety was a mounting tide, threatening to breach the walls I'd built. My last chance. As bizarre as that meeting had been, and as much as I suspected Mr. Jason had a hidden, perhaps even dangerous agenda, I still clung to the belief that he was the only one who could save me.
"Pence's job market signaling is only the first type we will cover as applied to economics," the professor continued, raising his voice over the clatter of a hundred students standing up at once. "Next week, expect to cover the other applications discussed earlier. Don't forget to check the course site for the links! You will be responsible for all the material. Thank you!"
I slung my backpack over my shoulders, the weight dragging at my spine like a physical anchor. Just as I stepped into the aisle, my phone chimed in my pocket, a silent vibration signaling a missed call during my "no ring" class block. I pulled it out, my thumb swiping to unlock the screen.
My heart skipped a violent beat when I saw the digits.
It was the same number I had dialed from that freezing hospital alcove. The number that had led me to the black limo and the man in the shadows.
I braced myself and stepped out into the crowded corridor, leaning my back against the cold cinderblock wall to keep from swaying. Other students surged past me in a blur of color and noise, laughing and joking about their weekend plans, their lives stretching out in infinite, unwritten chapters.
I set my jaw, my pulse thundering in my throat, and hit the button to return the call. The phone connected instantly. It didn't even finish the first ring before someone picked up.
"Ms. Amanda," a pleasant tenor voice said.
It wasn't Mr. Jason. It was the same man who had answered the first time, the one who had hung up on me with such clinical efficiency.
"Yes?" My voice shook, a fragile thread of sound. I swallowed hard, trying to force some iron back into my tone. I closed my eyes against the fluorescent lights of the hallway, bracing myself for the final, crushing disappointment. "This is Amanda McCann. I... I missed a call from this number."