by Greg Larson
Below
the grading policies and plagiarism warnings, the syllabus for Dr. Levy’s
freshman English course says the following regarding electronics: “If your
phone accidentally rings or chimes, you are required to bring snacks for the
entire class the next session. So if you hear a ringtone, loudly cheer and
point at the guilty party, for he or she is now the bringer of snacks.”
***
Brenda
sits in the front row taking notes as Dr. Levy scribbles on the whiteboard. He
looks young for a professor and wears a skinny suit and jeans, slender. Someone
in the back of class yawns. Brenda’s stomach growls loud enough for several
students to eye her.
Dr.
Levy, with his back turned to the class, twists his head to his left and looks
down, right hand still raised to the board. He pauses and Brenda holds her
breath. He goes back to writing.
“This
class will focus on the tenets of good writing,” he says. “How do you formulate
a sentence?” He scribbles a sentence diagram.
Brenda’s eyes are down and her right hand
is looping cursive notes from the board. Suddenly, her phone rings, cracking the
quiet class in half with one of those default rings that sounds like an old
rotary phone.
She
panics to her bag, but it is too late. Several students point and yell, others
clap. Dr. Levy turns to the class and smiles. “I guess we have our first
offender.”
“I
am so sorry,” she says.
She
flips her phone open to turn the volume off. She sees it’s a text from her mom:
“Happy birthday, sweetie!”
“What’s
your name?” Dr. Levy says, pointing at her.
She
puts the phone back into her bag. “Brenda. I’m so sorry. Brenda Garruck.”
“Brenda,”
Dr. Levy says to the class, “will be providing snacks for our next meeting.” He
turns his back again.
Students
smile. Brenda shifts in the seat, her red ears pumping the heat of
embarrassment.
***
She
hands a yellow card to the campus post office clerk.
“This
was in my mailbox,” she says.
The
girl at the counter looks at it and goes into the back room. Brenda peeks to
the students behind her, sure to avoid eye contact, gazes hidden behind her
brown curtain of hair. She pulls out her phone. 4:16. Only 46 minutes until the
cafeteria opens for dinner. She’s already missed breakfast and lunch.
The
girl returns with a package from Brenda’s mother. Brenda cradles it against her
belly, bracing tightly as she walks.
She
sits down at a table in the lobby of the student center. In the foyer, two boys
holler over a Ping-Pong game. Four students sit in recliners around a coffee
table littered with paper and conversation. A couple exits holding hands, the
boy pushing the door open in front of his girlfriend.
Brenda
sets the package down on the table and pokes the tape with a pen. Before
ripping the seams, she catches the shipping price in the top right corner:
$9.65. Her chin tightens, and she pulls her lips tight as if she has just
uttered a sentence she can never take back. She does the math in her head:
sending this package cost almost one hour of work for her mom. She
re-approaches it with care.
Inside
there’s a plastic grocery bag tied tight. She undoes the knot and opens the
crinkling bag, almost looking over her shoulder as she does so. There are
squares of paper towel folded for shipping protection. Brenda takes each one
and flattens them by hand before placing them neatly into her backpack.
Under
the paper towels are 36 chocolate chip cookies that Brenda knows her mother
made herself. There is a note written on a recipe card at the top.
“Happy
birthday, Brenda! I made these with a little extra salt, just how you like
them. I’m so proud of you, and I miss you.
Love,
Mom”
She
picks one up. They are lumpy and real. She takes a small bite and closes her
eyes as she chews slowly and exhales. She opens her eyes, sparkling green with
something almost like happiness.
***
Brenda
clutches the Tupperware container against her chest as she walks into class.
Inside are 35 chocolate chip cookies from her mother. The class barks at her
entrance, and she clutches it tighter.
“That’s
right,” says Dr. Levy. “We had a first offender. What did you bring for us
today?”
Brenda
sets down the container. “Cookies,” she says, opening the top.
The
class rushes forward, bumping past her and knocking her back. Most of them eat
their cookies before they can even sit, others set them on their desk, taking
smaller bites that crumble onto their blank notebooks, leaving tiny specks of
darkness on the page.
Dr.
Levy takes one bite and sets it down before approaching the board. “Mmm,” he
says while chewing. “Did you make these?”
Brenda
nods.
“Mmm,”
he says, smacking his tongue and lips, swallowing in satisfaction. “You should
leave your ringer on more often.” He smirks to the class. They laugh around
Brenda.
Behind
the downturned shield of her hair, two large drops of darkness fall onto the
white of Brenda’s blank notebook page. She pretends to write notes, but only
scribbles. Dr. Levy sets the rest of the cookie next to his computer and turns
his back to the class as he writes on the board.
Brenda
replaces the top of the container, only crumbs left, and places it into her
backpack.
***
The
students walk out at the end of class speaking to each other loudly. Brenda slowly
collects her things.
“Wanna
get lunch?” one says to another as they walk out the door.
“Sure,
but let’s go out. I’m so sick of the cafeteria.”
Two
boys speak to each other about the cookies. “It was pretty good. Too much salt
though.”
Dr.
Levy walks out behind the groups of chatting students. “Thanks again for the
cookies, Belinda.”
Brenda
winces.
They
all walk out, leaving her alone in the room. She hauls her backpack over her
shoulder, and as she turns to walk out the door, her eye catches on something.
On the teacher’s desk at the front of class sits Dr. Levy’s half-eaten cookie.
Brenda looks out the door. Students stream past straight ahead. She looks back
to the half cookie.
She walks like she has glass shards
in her shoes. She picks up the cookie, a half bite of saliva still on the edges
of the missing crescent. She holds it lightly in her right hand and glances
through the door. Students still chat as they walk along, paying no attention
to the room that is empty except for the hungry girl with a half-eaten cookie
in her hand. She looks back down to it and quickly sneaks a nibble with her
head down, chewing lightly, crying.
Greg Larson was born in Elk River, Minnesota. He graduated from Winthrop University in Rock Hill, South Carolina in 2011 and is currently getting his MFA in Creative Writing-Nonfiction at Old Dominion University in Norfolk, Virginia. He writes mostly humorist memoir, but he also writes poetry and fiction in his spare time.
Greg recently won a humor writing contest through the Sandler Center of the Arts in Virginia Beach
he also published his college memoir, Learn How to Not Suck, through Amazon’s Kindle Direct Publishing Service.
Thank you for your gift to me on this early, early morning, this story of love and depth of love..My own mother, beloved and beleaguered, overworked and underappreciated, sent me a similar gift when I was in college. She had never received such a gift of love in her own school days.
ReplyDeleteI was stunned, surprised, overjoyed when I entered the basement of MSCW's first and oldest dormitory where the post office was located, for I seldom received mail. I grinned at our elderly postmaster, Mr. Barbee, who gave me his usual smile and "'morning!" before grinning as
he handed me a package wrapped in what had earlier been a brown grocery sack. .A package! Gosh! I'd never received a package. When I recognized my mother's beautiful handwriting, I felt tears forming. I missed my mother so much. My gift, too, was chocolate chip cookies, a delicacy I'd never known her to make. Thank you again for your gift of allowing me to remember mine and to relive those precious moments once again.