Chapter 2: Breathe

The walk home from the bar is uneventful. I live further from campus then most and since Jess is on my way, I routinely walk her home.

"Sure you don't want to come in?" She already knows my answer.

I don't respond with a witty remark this time. I don't feel particularly friendly toward the betrayer of trusts.

As expected, Neil is still up when I get home. I smell the overwhelming aroma of melted butter and note that the living room is littered with empty popcorn bags. Six bags means Neil is probably on his third movie. I marvel at the attention span this man has as he stares intently at the predictable horror flick.

"Mark and Jake?" I ask.

"Huh? Yeah – asleep."

I grab a bottle of water and settle in next to Neil for a while as I make my best attempt to flush the excess alcohol out of my system. I can't focus on the movie. Horror films always bore me. Well, there are always exceptions, but this certainly isn't one. I can't stop thinking about jumping into Abby's mind. The list of people I've used my gift on isn't very big. Still, I had started to assume, somehow, that most people would be quite similar. Abby, however, had more control. She had been able, however minutely, to project her will onto me.

Maybe Abby can do what I can do. If she can't yet, maybe she can learn. Finding out would mean leaving the security of my lies. Finding out would mean admitting to the fact that I am not oblivious to what happens in the minds of those I interact with. Still, I can't live my entire life without taking risks now and then. Being normal is boring. Being normal when you know that you aren't is even worse.

Three bottles of water down, I watch the latest murder on the screen.

"Alright, that's all. Night bud."

"G'night Jason," says Neil. I'm not entirely convinced he properly registers me leaving, but a response of any kind is better than I usually get. I notice that Mark's door is open as I head for the washroom to brush my teeth. I don't know why some details like that stick out at me while others, like, 'Today is garbage day' do not.

It's 7:30am and my alarm has somehow morphed from a noise-producing device to a hammer-wielding contraption of doom. My head throbs wildly with every beep of the alarm and I'm sure I nearly break the thing in two as I endeavor to reacquaint myself with blissful silence. I am never staying out late on a Sunday night ever again. I am never drinking on a Sunday night ever again. God I hope I don't throw up.

Somehow, by 8:15, I've managed to shower, eat a bagel, swallow some ibuprofen, and get on a bus. How I make my 8:30 class on time every Monday is a mystery. My headache is only a gentle throb and my nausea is quickly fading by the time I take my usual seat.

"You look like shit, manage to eat anything this morning?" It's Abby. She's being friendly. That's a good sign. Suddenly, last night comes back to me in full. God that was stupid. I must have been a lot more drunk then I realized. Had I really considered seeing if I could train somebody to do what I can do? Yes; I had considered it despite the fact that it was actually the worst idea ever. Despite the fact that, even if it were a great idea, I wouldn't even know where to start. Maybe I really should stop drinking.

"Pain killers," I say, "a key component to any healthy breakfast."

"Mr. Mercer, while I'm sure you and Ms. Torres have all manner of important things to discuss, it is I who should be the sole recipient of your attention for the next ninety minutes." Ah, Professor Eric Dawnhart. The best response is to simply nod and start paying attention.

While Dawnhart is a great teacher in his authoritative overbearing kind of way and while I would never have done nearly so well in Psych 100 if he hadn't been there to spruce it up, no amount of brilliance and good teaching can make Advanced Topics in Social Psychology interesting. Whoever decided on the last minute change that made this course a prerequisite for The Neurobiology of Sleep should be shot.

All that aside, I'm a good attentive pupil throughout the next ninety minutes of lecture, which is why it comes as a surprise when class ends and I hear Professor Dawnhart's voice raised above the din of a classroom full of students packing their bags.

"Mr. Mercer, Ms. Torres. A word please."

Sheepishly glancing at each other Abby and I wait as our fellow students file out; I don't get how it is that some of my professors are so capable of rendering me to feeling like a child; it's ... disturbing.

"Have either of you considered what you're going to do after graduating?" asks Professor Dawnhart.

Okay, so I'm not in trouble for talking at the start of class. That's good.

"I plan to get my PhD in social psychology," says Abby. Her eyes scream 'I adore you' as she answers.

"Good, good ... Mr. Mercer?"

"Jason, please, Professor," I state; Dawnhart simply looks impatient, as through how I'd prefer to be called is entirely inconsequential. "Umm, I don't know. It's just third year." Wrong answer.

"Just third year? The courses you choose in the last two years of your undergraduate education here reflect on you as you plan to move forward scholastically." He pauses just long enough that I'm about to fill the silence when he continues, "and of course you are planning to continue on after you graduate yes? I daresay the paper your diploma will be written on is worth more than your undergraduate degree in Psychology will be. You'll need a masters, preferably a PhD, if you plan to have any sort of career in psychology."

Wow. Heavy hitter. "Yes, well it's neuroscience I'm interested in. So I plan on continuing on with that." He is still just looking at me, which is unnerving enough for me to continue blathering on, " and I'm taking just about all the neuroscience courses offered so whichever graduate school I apply to should be happy enough." I hate sounding defensive; it makes me feel like I'm 16 again.

"Neuroscience? Ah, an interesting field to learn and a boring one to study. Very well. Regardless, I'd like you to consider the Mental Health Research Lab here. You would, of course, have to take a few extra behavioral psych courses, but a strong background in neuroscience could be considered an asset." Oh, so he wants me in his lab. Interesting. "You too, Ms. Torres. Your studies lead directly to the sort of work we do here and I see great potential in you." Pause. "In both of you."

What else could I say? "I'll consider it, Professor."

"Me too. Thank you, sir" says Abby.

"See that you do. Thank you. That will be all."

The door has barely closed behind us, "Wow. Dawnhart wants us in his lab. I was planning on applying anyways. Perfect."

"I totally get why he wants you. This is your bread and butter," I say, "but why me? I haven't exactly shown much interest in Mental Health. At least not from a behavioral perspective."

"I don't know," she says, sounding oddly reminiscent of my time inside her mind, "who cares. Gotta get to my next class. See you later?"

"Wait. Quick question. How do you know Jess?" I ask.

"Ah. Same sorority. I've known her since first year as well. I liked your friends, by the way. Seriously though, I've got to go. See ya."

I'm glad Mondays consist of just two classes. I don't particularly care that this means a longer Friday. I can't wait to get home and take a nap. It's only 10:00am and I'm exhausted. My second class goes without a problem. It's more interesting than the first.

It seems like in every class I take, somehow, I always seem to luck out and find myself sitting next to a really cute girl. It certainly doesn't hurt that 2/3rds of third year psych majors here are girls. For this class, it's Elyse Lee. She's part Asian, part Caucasian. I have no idea why that mix works so well for me. Her lack of an accent lets me assume she was born in the states. For two months, twice a week, she sits next to me and yet she hasn't spoken to me even once; quiet is an understatement. That's all she is to me, the adorable and very quiet mixed-Asian girl from Psych-305 Human Memory.

That changed today when she looked at me, got my attention and began to speak to me; Elyse was speaking to me!

"Jason," she enquires tentatively, "Are you partnered up with anyone for our reflection paper?"

"No," I say drawing it out a little. I had been planning on going solo, but Elyse routinely earns better grades than I manage. So, while I prefer to work alone, if she wants to work with me I'm all for it. A chance to both get a better grade and spend some time with her? Who am I to turn down such fortune?

Before I get further than uttering that one syllable she interrupts me, "Right, well, I usually prefer to do these on my own, but thought it might be a good idea to at least have a second set of eyes go over my work. Someone who is taking the same course, you know?" I nod my agreement. "So, I propose that we proof read and edit each other's work. What do you say?"

"Sure" I answer. That's actually a really good idea.

Elyse pulls out a piece of paper, neatly folds the top and rips it off cleanly. "Here's my number. Text me and we'll figure out a good time to go over each other's papers."

Class ends at 11:30. I pack up quickly and head to the cafeteria for an early lunch.

"Jason! Wait up!" Turning around I spot Mark jogging toward me. "Both my afternoon classes are cancelled, going to the cafe?"

"Naw, just going into the cafeteria to look through the windows and then leave." Sarcasm.

"Right. So anyways, Jasmine got back to me. Second date tomorrow night. Where do I take her?" asks Mark.

"You're asking me? I dunno, go running together," I say; more sarcasm.

"We go running three times a week ... not exactly a good date." Mark always ignores my sarcastic remarks. I don't know why I bother anymore. Habit I suppose.

"I don't know a thing about her other than that she runs with the cross country club and that you have an infuriating crush on her ... what else is she into?" I ask.