NICE TO MEET YOU
By Gentleman William
Sandra twirled her pencil around in her fingers as she sat, waiting impatiently for class to start. Her foot tapped nervously. The first day of the semester was always a little anxiety-producing, even for someone as naturally intelligent as she was. Sandra had graduated high school at the top of her class; a valedictorian with a long and distinguished list of extra-curriculars that helped her get into Stanford, where she sat – still waiting – for her English Literature course to begin.
Finally the door at the front of the lecture hall opened, and a bookish Professor walked in, a bundle of papers and books held precariously in his hands as he mumbled his apologies for running late. The first part of every college class seemed to follow the same script; welcome to insertcourse-name here, pass out the syllabus, groan as the number and style of exams and papers is discussed.
Midway through the obligatory droning of the policies on academic integrity and plagiarism, Sandra felt someone