The Stepford Student Read online

sorry I’m late,” I said.

  “Wilkerson would not have noticed,” she said with a shrug.

  She was right, of course. Wilkerson was past his prime as a lecturer. He was regurgitating many of the same facts and figures, in the same manner and order, for the last decade. Even his tests were largely the same, much to the delight of the many fraternity and sorority members that signed up for his class. The coup de grace of it all, Wilkerson had a set of bifocals as thick as a telescope and the constitution of a lap dog.

  Maybe it was a sad commentary on the state of our society, or on the use and abuse of my tuition dollars, that a professor such as this could teach a class on Social Problems for forty years, relying on the same basic information that might have been cutting edge when he was a student. Fortunately for me, I did not have to worry about such things, so long as I stayed awake during class.

  “Today,” Wilkerson began with a sigh. “We are going to consider… the problem of inequality.” I shook my head. The old man was in desperate need of an oxygen tank.

  The rest of us started to slink in our chairs when the TA stood up, approached the Wilkerson, and then turned around to face us.

  “Inequality. That is, the rich getting richer, and the poor getting poorer. This is the end result of what some on the left side of politics describe as a continuous drive for power and money. How might such a drive go wrong in today’s society? And what is the counter-argument? Anyone?”

  “The rich might become totally isolated from the rest of us. The poor might get disillusioned,” said a guy with cornrows like Allen Iverson.

  “Some expect government to step in and save them,” said a white girl on the other side of the room.

  “And what happens if government doesn’t?” the TA asked.

  “They’d assume the government and the 1% are in cahoots,” said another.

  “And so paranoia and conspiracy theories propagate, made easier by the Internet. Is that happening now? What can we do to stop it?”

  From there, the day’s discussion and lecture went as predictably as I expected. The information was useful, but I took about half as many notes as I would take in most of my other classes, in no small part because Wilkerson was a slow talker and the time he would spend sipping tea or wiping his glasses, which was frequent and lengthy, would be filled up by his graduate TA asking questions of the class.

  At the end hour, satisfied that my A grade was safe for another week, I decided to be somewhat chivalrous by walking Chloe out of the lecture hall.

  Just as we were exiting, I got a good look at her normally beaming face. There was something different this time.

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?” I pointed at my own eyes. “You’ve got deep bags under your eyes. Did you not sleep at all last night?”

  “Oh. That.” With one hand, she reached up to gingerly rub her eyes. “I can’t talk about it.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “Chloe!” A shout came from behind us.

  We both turned toward the sound as a bubbly co-ed came galloping forward from another classroom. I didn’t recognize her, but her spaghetti straps, bronze tan, and wearing of sunglasses indoors on a cloudy day, all suggested one thing: she was a sorority girl.

  “There you are!” she continued. She pushed her sunglasses high up into her hair.

  “Did you need…?”

  “Just wanted to let you know, we have appointments at Avant Garde at 3 on Friday,” she said.

  “Ok,” Chloe said with a sigh. Was she disappointed?

  “Are you getting a hair cut?” I asked.

  For a brief moment, there was silence. Then, Chloe knocked on her own head and said, “Silly me. Where are my manners? Mike, this is Vivian. She is an Epsilon Xi sister.”

  “So you know Lauren Abernathy?”

  “Do I? She’s my little sister!”

  “I’ve known her since high school, but she rarely talks about the sorority,” Mike said.

  “Well, that’s a shame,” Vivian said. “It’s a really good House. We have some of the highest philanthropy hours in the whole Greek system.”

  “Is that right?”

  Chloe looked bored.

  Vivian noticed. “We can talk about that some other time. A friend of Chloe’s is a friend of mine.”

  “How long have you guys known each other?” I asked.

  They both looked at each other.

  “It hasn’t been long,” Chloe said.

  “But I feel like we’re going to be close friends,” Vivian replied with a smile. She slipped her sunglasses back on. As she headed out, she breezily said, “See you on Friday, Chloe!”

  A FLASH OF LIGHT. I was blinded. I stumbled and blinked, and still could only see red. Finally, a moment later, it passed. I shook my head as I stepped through the doorway and re-entered our apartment.

  “What was that?” I asked.

  “A candid shot,” David said, beaming.

  I set my backpack down on a chair in the living room as David ran back over to the coffee table. Before I could reach up to shield my eyes, another FLASH occurred.

  “Come on!” I yelled out.

  “Hold on, this is great!”

  My sight restored, I looked down at David, sitting cross-legged on the floor. Then, I saw the pile of cameras on the coffee table. Some of them were old, others looked brand new. Among the items in the collection were a Polaroid, a digital camera, and a cell phone.

  “Care to explain the strobe effect?”

  Another flash.

  “It’s a project.”

  “For a class?”

  “I’m comparing the quality of various photographic instruments. I am eager to see whether the professional pictures really are any better than what amateurs can do.”

  “Couldn’t they just use Photoshop?” I slumped into a chair.

  “Exactly,” David said as he jumped up. He began gesturing. “Six cameras, two versions of each photo, and I’m going to run an experiment to see if people can tell which ones are which.”

  “And I’m the victim.”

  “Man, I’m loving photography!”

  “Whatever happened to cinematography?” I asked, gesturing with an open palm at the sleek camcorder that was collecting dust next to the television set.

  “What can I say?”

  “You spent all freshman year talking about being the next Christopher Noland, or this generation’s Gregg Toland.”

  “Oh, because of all the home videos I made for Father?”

  “Uh, yeah!”

  “Photography is more compatible with a career as an FBI agent,” David said as he stood up. Carrying a couple of the cameras, he made his way back to the bedrooms.

  “When did you decide to join the FBI?” I asked, following.

  “It’s…,” David said before his voice trailed off. He set the cameras down on his dresser. “It’s been something I’ve been thinking about for a while now. Is that a problem for you?”

  “No, not at all. People change careers all the time. Heck, I picked my first major by pulling cards out of a hat! Who am I to judge?”

  I sat down on the foot of his bed as he retrieved more cameras from the living room. I looked around. His room looked tidier than normal.

  “But David,” I continued upon his return, “These are big changes. I thought I was your best friend. Wouldn’t you want to talk this over with your circle of friends before making such a big commitment?”

  David smiled. It was a smile I would not soon forget, a smile I had seen before on others, but never before on him. It reminded me of both The Shining and the kind of fake, plastic veneer of a sorority girl. I am not ashamed to admit that my heart began pumping with adrenaline.

  “But more than that, what does your father think about all of this?” I knew mentioning Congressman Beider would get David’s attention.

  Yet, he didn’t flinch a bit. Instead, he sai
d, “This is a new beginning. Be happy for me. I have seen my future. And it begins with… my study group. Got to go!” David spun on his heels, and headed out.

  He grabbed his messenger bag as he left. I called out, “Hey is that a new backpack?” He didn’t hear me.

  When I got up to leave, I noticed a crumpled index card. I leaned down to pick it up. All it said was “Tonight. Be there.” I stuffed the card in my pocket. It was not until much later than I even noticed the faint imprint of a Venn diagram on the back of the card.

  SOME