Chapter 18

Okay, you probably don’t need to know all the details of my course load and who was teaching it. Only as needed. I did find out the details of carrying a double major, which meant I had to take the intro course for bio majors. Along with my psych requirements. And a couple of core courses.

When I was done, I had a pretty heavy course load. I hoped I hadn’t bitten off more than I could chew, but now I could use my new favorite tool, the one I had dubbed Brain Sponge, which allowed me to focus so thoroughly on an assignment that it felt like having eidetic memory. Though the lucky eidetic people usually only had to glance at a text once to recall it perfectly.

It took me longer, but still way less time than the old way of studying and with a much higher success rate. Plus when I was done I felt like I really understood the material, something the eidetic people can’t often do.

I resolved that I wasn’t going to fall behind, as I had a couple of times last year. Catching up had been a bitch.

Still, I’d spent most of last year studying my “old” way, which involved, beyond the usual absorbing the textbook and attending lectures, occasionally peeking into a prof’s or a TA’s head and “borrowing” some of their knowledge, which I retained as if I had learned it myself. But those opportunities didn’t always present themselves conveniently and I sometimes had had to rely on the old standby, cramming.

But cramming involves a lot of stuff being packed into short-term memory, which fades quickly. Sometimes right before the exam.

So my new plan was to periodically, perhaps once a week, do a “Brain Sponge” session for each of my courses. They should be quick, since we would have covered only a small section of the text. But “Brain Sponge” allowed me to retain this information for a longer term.

I had been a bit surprised at this when I first examined it. My understanding of “Brain Sponge” had been that it put the information you wanted to retain into short-term memory. The intense focus of the study sessions removed any distractions and allowed the absorption to happen quickly.

Out of curiosity this past summer, I had pulled out one of my texts -- chemistry, if it matters -- and tested myself on the material covered in various chapters of the book. I was surprised to find that I still retained most of the detail, and could even answer the sample questions at the end of each chapter.

So I had revised my theory of how this new tool worked. It appeared that it was not just short-term memory at work here, but rather that it also stored it in long-term memory. Or maybe only in long-term memory, I hadn’t figured that out yet.

What “Brain Sponge” didn’t give me was a superior understanding of the material. It was only an understanding at the level of what the book explained. I could eventually come up with a decent understanding of the subject matter by working it out in my head.

So my plan this year was to retain as much of the book’s knowledge as possible using “Brain Sponge”, and supplement it by “borrowing” an instructor’s understanding of the material from their epicenter, which would of course be at a much deeper level.

I felt confident that I could keep up with everything by using all these tools. By now I thought that I could get a decent grade in every subject by working at it. However, what I really wanted out of this place was to assimilate each course’s content and come away with an appreciation of the field.

Centuries ago that had been the goal of higher education -- to send educated people out into the world, capable of discussing a variety of subjects nearly at the level of the people who taught those subjects. That almost never happens now, because education, even at a place like this, no longer aimed to produce scholars, but rather to produce people who could reason, who could then be employed by industry or government.

I was actually looking forward to classes beginning again. I’d been nervous last year, not sure if I could keep up. Sometimes I felt like I’d somehow fooled everyone, that I’d been admitted here by mistake and would soon be found out. But it had worked out and I’d been able to keep up. A lot of that had been the result of my ability to peek into the instructor’s minds and grab their understanding.

And so the semester began. I had fulfilled more than the requirement for undergrad math, and had already taken chemistry. I had a core requirement for an arts and humanities course, so I signed up for a survey course in art history, and as soon as I did I could hear Gail whispering in my ear.

I was surprised that she was still lurking in my head. She’d dropped me last year for some guy she’d fallen head over heels for. She’d given me a better grasp of art, something I’d never been aware of, and it had led to some amazing sex. When she’d dumped me I had felt miserable at losing her and also thankful because I wouldn’t feel like I was cheating on Karen. Maybe after four years as a psychology major I’ll finally understand why I’m so screwed up.

I also registered for my first biology course, Cells and Organisms. The textbook looked interesting but challenging. I signed up for a required psych class in Behavioral Statistics. I’d taken an AP Stats course in high school, but this was oriented specifically to the behavioral sciences.

Most students at my level had to take a foreign language class, at least two semesters, but I’d learned French, Spanish and some Italian in high school and had tested out of that requirement. Though if they were to test me again, I’d probably fail; it had been a while since I’d used them for anything more complex than “Excuse me, where is the bathroom?”

In the end I had a reasonable class schedule which shouldn’t overwhelm me. Larry, who was a business major with a minor in partying, had signed up for Spanish for his language requirement. Perhaps I’d get a chance to practice with him, polishing the parts of what I’d learned which were now a bit tarnished. We’ll see.

As I walked the campus I realized I was recognizing people I’d seen around last year. Some of them I knew by name, some were just familiar faces, but the place was now starting to feel somewhat more comfortable, a home away from home. I’d always felt just a bit out of place last year, like an interloper, but that was mostly gone. People would recognize me, too, and say hi or nod a greeting to me.

I also saw a few of the girls I’d hooked up with last year around campus, too. In high school this might have led to an awkward encounter, a memory of something they’d rather forget. Here it was different: Grownups fucking each other to resolve a basic need, then moving on. No regrets (mostly), no bad feelings if you ran into each other again.

And as soon as I thought about that, I thought about Karen. What we had together, physically, was so spectacular that it left me breathless, soaring. No other woman had come close to that feeling. But hormones are relentless, always stirring up trouble.

I got horny, like everyone else, and Karen was now on the other side of the country. I wouldn’t see her till Christmas. So sooner or later I was going to be looking to hook up with someone, just to take the edge off. I was okay for now, but I knew my dick would be sniffing around pretty soon. I forced it out of my mind and started reading my biology text. The first class was coming up tomorrow.

True to form, they wasted no time in the lectures. From the start, it was jump in with both feet. The amount of detail was overwhelming. For a while I felt like I had at the beginning of my freshman year, not sure I could keep up with all the smart people. But I gave myself a pep talk; ‘You did okay last year, even with the challenging chemistry and math classes.’

Sure, there was a lot to learn, but I could do it, especially with my new toolkit. When I get the chance I’ll try to poke around in a TA’s mind and get a sense of the framework where all this new information is fitted. Once that’s in place, the understanding follows.

Behavioral Statistics was also pretty intense. But I realized that a lot of the ideas seemed familiar because, of course, I’d taken a statistics class in high school and many of the concepts were the same. I focused on the differences and tried to piece things together.

It took me a week or so to get into the rhythm of classes and assignments. I was getting a sense of how much work I needed to devote to each class so I wouldn’t fall behind. I set up a schedule of weekly “Brain Sponge” sessions for each class and made sure to keep to it.

It wasn’t that hard; each class only required perhaps twenty minutes of laser focus, given that we probably didn’t cover more than 15-25 pages in the text. I did these sessions in the library carrels behind closed doors.

I came out of each of those sessions feeling confident of my grasp of the concepts and new ideas. To be honest, it was a bit of a rush, that feeling of understanding the material. I never had that in high school, at least not until later when I’d found out how to peek into the instructor’s mind and “borrow” their knowledge of the subject.

One day I sat down for my Cells And Organisms lecture, getting settled in my seat, and opening my notebook (which I seldom used, but it looked good to have something on which to capture the pearls of wisdom that the lecturer tossed our way).

The instructor rushed in, a minute or two behind his time, and extended his apologies for his tardiness. To make up for it he jumped in to his lecture at a slightly faster pace than usual to make up lost time. He was clearly leaving a few people behind, but he had a schedule to maintain.

I won’t bore you with the details. He was zipping through a discussion of one of the finer points of parthenogenesis, expecting us to keep up. It wasn’t working. It was covered in the text, but this had greater detail and I was getting confused about a particular mechanism so I raised my hand.

Grudgingly he paused, saying “Yes, Mr. Carter?” Well, at least he remembered my name. I asked my question, pointing out that the text did not fully explain the mechanism he’d just sped past, and why did it occur in the rare cases where some animals could also reproduce sexually as well as parthenogenetically.

He had to stop and think about it, not looking happy, but answered my question satisfactorily. But before he could pick up again, another person raised their hand with a follow-up question, which he also answered. Then, glancing at his watch, he said, “We’d better move on or we’ll fall behind the syllabus, okay?”

Class ended and we were dismissed with a reminder about the reading for the next class. I packed everything up and joined the mob charging the exits.

In the hall I turned toward the exit I usually took, when I felt a tap on my shoulder. Discúlpame, por favor, sorry, I mean, excuse me, can I ask you a question?”

I’d heard the Spanish and had already translated it in my head as I turned. “Mr. Carter, is it? Did I hear the professor correctly?” He had an accent which I couldn’t quite recognize. It was in his Spanish as well.

“Yes, I’m Tom Carter. Have we met?”

“No, my name is Alfonso Marquez. This is my first year here. I have ... wait, uh, ... I have transferred here from another school. I heard your question and it was one that had bothered me as well. I was the one who asked the question just after yours.”

He poked at the issue that had apparently bothered both of us, asking my opinion, until he was satisfied.

“Gracias, señor, sorry, I did it again. I keep falling back into Spanish. It is my language. I am still not quite... cómodo, oh, what is the English word?”

“cómodo in English is ‘comfortable ‘.”

“Ah, thank you, Mr. Carter. I am frustrated when I cannot find the right word.”

“I felt the same way about learning Spanish. It is a slow process, but so far you seem to be doing just fine. And please, call me Tom. Or just Carter, which is what almost everyone calls me.”

“Thank you. Carter. Please call me Al. I am trying to fit in to American college life. I have a class now, I’d better go. Thank you for the talk.”

He stepped away with a nod and headed for the exit. Okay, maybe somebody to practice my Spanish with.

Every couple of days I’d sit down at my PC and start a long email to Karen. I’d found that telling her about what I was learning forced me to focus on how I wrote about it, forcing me sometimes to have to think about something I’d just learned, because I wanted to explain it clearly and concisely. I didn’t realize it until later but that had become part of my learning process, too.

She was as wrapped up in her classes as I was, perhaps even more. She had told me that last semester she had finally broken down and joined a couple of study groups, because they helped her to figure out what she still didn’t understand.

She said she’d done the same thing this year, but now it was early in the term and it helped her to understand what topics she was still shaky on. As a result she felt a little less pressured. I was glad to hear her say it. I had been a bit disturbed at the sense of panic in her emails last year at this time. The study groups would certainly help.

I’d noticed that even Larry had seemed to be a little more focused this year. Last year it had seemed to me that his classes were something he had forced himself to slog through before he could get to the weekend and parties. This year it looked as if he were spending more time with his books. I was afraid to bring it up with him for fear of jinxing it.

But there was still a strong party contingent in the dorms. I honestly don’t know how they got through their course work, because it seemed like the only topic they discussed was which parties looked promising for the coming weekend. Either they were seriously smart and didn’t have to study much, or they had found the tenuous balance between just passing and flunking; it seemed they invested just enough energies in their studies to get by.

Larry had made a comment last year that I was becoming a bit of a tool, and didn’t know how to relax on the weekends. I hated to admit it, but he wasn’t completely wrong. I didn’t find the party circuit that attractive because of their focus on everyone getting as wasted as they could. That kind of party doesn’t do much for me, so I tended to avoid the usual round of frat parties. But I resolved to make an effort to get out more on the weekends.

On a Friday evening several weeks into the semester I went to the dining hall for dinner. I didn’t know where Larry was, since he normally tagged along, but tonight I was alone. The best thing offered tonight was Salisbury steak and mashed potatoes. Salisbury steak is just a mound of baked hamburger with gravy poured over it. They usually did a better job on the menu, but this was the best of a number of bad options.