Academic Notation

by Robin Layne

            I woke up this morning to the phone ringing. Someone I barely knew from college was begging me to help with homework—or go out for a beer, or karaoke, or whatever. Who was this guy? Certain he had evil on his mind, I tried to brush him off. Just then, the phone beeped, telling me someone else was calling. Another near-stranger, a neighbor who barely had done more than exchange hellos, gushed, “Oh, Robin, you’re home! I can’t wait to get together with you and talk!”

            “Who are you,” I said, “and what have you done to my neighbor?”

            She giggled as if it were the funniest joke I’d ever heard.

            “Why do you want to get together with me?” I said. “You never did before.”

            “I just found out about . . . you know . . . your grades.”

            “What do you know about my grades?”

            “Everybody knows. You’re an A minus. Close to the best. What’s your grade point?”

            “You mean from PSU? I don’t know. 3.73 or something. And they didn’t give me an honors rope even though they gave one to the girl sitting next to me at the graduation, who had a lower GPA than me. And when I tried to find out what was going on, all my requests were ignored.”

            “That’s a crime!” the young woman cried out. “I’m gathering some other friends right now and we’ll march on the school and protest!”

            “That won’t be neces—”

            A knock on the door interrupted my protest of the protest. I excused myself and went to answer it. A man stood beaming at me with his hand behind his back. “Mon cheri,” he said in what to me sounded like really clumsy French. “Please. Let me kiss your hand.”

            “What?” I said. “You gotta meet the guy I put on hold!”

            He tried to grab my hand, but I pulled it beyond his reach. “Is this about my grades?” I said.

            “Oui, oui.”

            “Cut the fake French. What are you holding behind your back?”

            He handed me the dozen red roses. “I know you love red roses,” the stranger said. “I asked around.”

            “Listen,” I said. “Would you do me a favor? Help me market some of my writing?”

            The stranger nodded.

            “Yes!” I cried out. I had it made!