Up and down, up and down, my eyes moved, shifting from my phone to the wall clock.  A check of the news, then a look at the time.  I drummed my fingers against the desk, half-listening to my teacher rattle off a few rules about the Spanish conditional subjunctive or some such stuff.  Then back to news, then time.  News, time.  Tick, tock.  Tick, tock.

Geez.  How long before this class ended and we could get to the good stuff?

No sooner had I thought it than the minute hand struck the 12:50 mark.  Next stop, psychology.

It was a muggy Monday afternoon at the university.  Late November, yet it felt nothing like autumn.  But that's what you get in a place like Texas.  Nothing to expect but the unexpected. 

Luckily, today was one of my short days.  One more class - and my favorite one to boot - and I would be on the road again heading home.

"You say you love me," I sang under my breath, "and I hardly know your name..."  I walked briskly out into the clammy air, careful not to let my flats tread into the ever-present muddy patches between me and the University Union halfway across the campus.

I reached the Union with five minutes to spare, but as I entered I still forced myself not to look at the vending machines with all their glorious crap on display.  I hadn't eaten anything since seven, and I'm always hungry anyway; even suspicious-looking cinnamon rolls in greasy clear packages look appetizing with those sorts of stats. 

My will won against my stomach for once, and I made straight for the Mycento Hall.  One push of the double doors, a few hasty steps upward, and soon I was perched in my usual spot, my lone seat apart from the other two hundred students (give or take another hundred depending on whether or not an exam is scheduled), ready for lecture. 

I took no notes.  I didn't usually anyway.  But this time, I found myself zoning in and out for most of the class.  I had been doing that more and more lately, the nearer Christmas Break drew.  I loved psychology, don't get me wrong.  Nothing excited me more than learning about the inner workings of the mind, unearthing the deepest, most hidden crevices of the human soul.  

Correction.  No thing may have excited me like that.  But I did not say no one. 

We all have our own guilty pleasures.  He was mine. 

And who was HE, you ask?  My boyfriend, perhaps?  Puh-leeze.  I had never had one.  I'd had plenty of imaginary friends, few real ones.  Same went for significant others.  That's what you get for being a lightning rod. 

But I liked it like that.  People are messy.  I didn't mind being around them, but I didn't necessarily want to get involved with them and live in their lives.  It's like a zoo.  Study the animals, care for the animals, love the animals from a distance.  I didn't want to get down in the hippopotamus pen and drink from their water hole just to able to say I was sharing in their experiences.

Hey, I like that.  I think I'll use that. 

But who was HE?

HE was a dead guy.  A very complicated dead guy.  And I had talked about him, laughed about him, thought about him, dreamed about him enough to the point I shouldn't have had to say his name, although it's an exceptional name.  An exceptional name for an exceptional man. 

Such thoughts concerning this very fellow drifted in and out of my head, at a time when I should have been copying down the slideshow notes.

And then I realized I was in some serious trouble.

While I daydreamed, my professor reminded us all of a big piece of our grade: research credits.  This is where we pysch students must participate in research studies in order to have experience on both sides of the two-way mirror.

This wouldn't even matter, except I forgot to sign up for any study.

I pried open my laptop and searched the research credit website for a few online studies to do, but all of them were expired.  And then, my professor spoke those fatal words, and my heart sank:

"Don't forget.  You're supposed to have all ten credits in by tomorrow, like it said in the syllabus.  They count as one full third of your final grade."

Bye-bye, 4.0 GPA.

But still, like an idiot resolved to make President's List for the third straight semester, I decided I would speak to the professor about it.  So when class ended, I got up and marched to the front of the room.  I knew it was ridiculous, but nothing ventured, nothing gained.

As I approached the stage, I noticed someone sitting next to where the professor stood.  I could see it was an older man who, from a distance, vaguely reminded me of Phil Collins- bald-headed, squinting eyes, beak-like nose- and even in his reclining position I could tell that my five-foot-eight professor easily towered over him. 

"...Just don't see how that's going to work, it borders on unethical," my professor was saying to him.  "I mean, I hope it works, but there's no way the Board will let this thing of yours get any attention unless you find a way to test-"

The Phil Collins lookalike (the resemblance was even more striking now that I could really see his face, right down to that perpetual half-smile about the corners of his thin lips) nodded towards me, looking over my professor's shoulder.  Slightly irritated, he turned to face me. 

I went too quickly.  The words just fell out of my mouth.  "Mr.- um, Dr. Ledford, I am the biggest idiot who ever lived, I forgot completely about the research credits, and I didn't plan two backup reports just in case, and I'm really sorry, so is there any way I can make up the points by Wednesday?"

Dr. Ledford looked at me with the weariness of a college professor having heard one excuse too many.  "I'm sorry, um, what's your-"

"Julia."

"Okay.  Sorry, Julia, I can't help you.  You've had over two months to take care of that.  It was in the syllabus.  All the research studies are closed?"

"All of them.  There's a few two-parters, but that won't help if I sign up today."

"Yeah.  That's too bad.  I wish I could help you, but the syllabus said-"

"I know, I know, the syllabus said," I conceded sadly.  "Thanks anyway."

Throughout this whole back and forth, Dr. Ledford's friend stared thoughtfully at me.  I wasn't paying much attention; I turned on my heel and headed for the door.

Well, this was just great.  I wasn't angry, I was just bummed.  Maintaining a 4.0 average had been one of my primary goals since enrolling into college.  I didn't care about being valedictorian, I just wanted to be a straight A student.  Scholarships noticed things like that; my eventual Master's in Counseling or Therapy would not pay for itself.  Student loans?  Ha! I'd have to donate one of my kidneys to get the money to pay THAT back before I turned forty.

So low were my spirits now that when I walked past the vending machines, I tossed my self-control to the wind.  I was starving, and my grades were about to tank.  That four hundred fifty calorie cinnamon roll was MINE today.  I reached with defiance into my pocket and rummaged around for some change.

"Pardon me," a tremulous, slow voice cut through my focus.

I whirled, automatically apologizing, "I'm sorry," and taking a step back, to see the strange little man standing before me.

A thoughtful glint lit his small eyes.  "I could not help but overhear," he said haltingly, as though he was under the influence of some powerful narcotic.  "You are in some sort of credit trouble?"

I blinked.  "Um, yes, I uh, forgot to do the studies, that's all.  It was completely my fault, I just forgot, that darn syllabus."

"Ouch."

"Yeah, tell me about it."  By this point, the Phil Collins charm had worn off, and now I only saw a creepy old man that had for some reason followed me out of the Hall to speak to me about my academic situation.  I turned back to the machine.

But he kept talking.  "That's ten whole points in your grade, isn't it?"

I shook my head.  "Twenty."

"Twenty whole points?"

"Two-zero."  I made number signs with my hand.  "Tomorrow, I'll have a C in Psychology and there's nothing I can do about it."

I had the coins in my hand, about to slide them into the machine.  And then he said, "What if there WAS something you could do?"

"That would be wonderful," I replied, half-listening.  "I'd do anything to fix it."

"Anything?"

Something in his voice changed, and it frightened me.  I don't know why.  Maybe I had a premonition of what was to come.

But instead of ignoring him, I turned and looked him directly in the eye.  "Anything," I said firmly.

His less-than-beautiful face split into a warm grin.  "Then, I may just have a solution for you, Miss-?"

"Oh, sorry.  I'm Julia Samuels," I said, putting my hand forward. 

Which he seized enthusiastically.  "Charmed.  I'm Dr. Steven J. Kurtzweil.  You can call me Dr. K."  This he punctuated with a friendly wink.

"So, a solution, eh?" I sighed, folding my arms.  "What exactly did you have in mind?"