I felt myself beginning to wake up. Only, I didn't want to wake up. I wanted to keep sleeping, possibly miss my morning class even. The thought was so delicious, I stretched out without opening my eyes, fully intending to go back to that wonderful unconscious state.

But before I could venture back into dreamland, my hand fell upon . . . something. It was warm, soft . . . My eyes slowly opened, and as I recognized my surroundings, I realized what I was touching. I immediately sat up, removing my hand from Lynda's breast.

I looked at her, and saw her eyes were open and she was gently biting down on her bottom lip. I closed my eyes. "I am so sorry," I said, wishing the bed would just somehow swallow me whole already. I used to think nothing could be more embarrassing than the time when we were touring and I jumped at the end of "Man from Milwaukee," only to land on my ass instead of my knees.

I was wrong.

"Well, I think it's safe to say my college experience is complete now. Thanks, Ike," she said, climbing over my legs and crawling out of bed. "Oh, relax," she laughed, patting my shoulder. I opened my eyes and saw that she was smiling. "Things like that can happen when you throw two grown adults into a twin-sized bed. Don't worry about it."

"Yeah, well, still, I'm incredibly sorry," I reiterated the apology, hoping that, years from now, I'd find the ability to look back on this moment and laugh.

"Apology accepted. Now, forget about it," she said from somewhere inside her small closet. She emerged, holding a sweatshirt. "I'd lend you a pair of pants, too," she said, tossing me the sweatshirt, "but I don't think we're the same size."

"Don't worry about it. Jeans are the one article of clothing you can wear several times, and as long as they don't smell no one will know." I smiled. I'm not quite sure why, but I did. The situation just seemed to call for it.

Lynda nodded. "All right, then. Well, I'm gonna go to the bathroom and get changed. Then we can grab some breakfast before our classes start."

As I stepped into the classroom I remembered the weekend past and gritted my teeth to the torture I was about to endure. To say the teacher was an ass would be an insult to assholes. The man could take a person's self-esteem and crush it in his greasy fingers without a second thought. One girl was late on the first day of school and he made an example of her. I think his exact words were, "I want to start the year off by letting you know I will not tolerate tardiness." Then he proceeded to rip into the poor girl until she was in tears.

The class did not start for a good seven minutes at least, but three-quarters of the class was sitting attentively with books open and pens poised. Mr. Fasano is the devil reincarnate. I am sure of it.

His orthopedic shoes squeaked against the floor as we heard him coming down the hall. I looked around and could see the look of dread on everyone's faces. This man was never given the "education should be fun" memo. Though, on second thought, he probably did get the memo but proceeded to use it as a dartboard. That was just the kind of man he showed himself to be.

He wasn't even in the door when I heard that scratchy voice barking out orders. I visibly winced, even though my mother's voice could rival his any day of the week. I guess the difference between the two is that I know my mother loves me and would never give me a failing grade for scratching an itch while she was lecturing.

"All right, class. I want to know the six main topics in chapter four. I want to see hands raised, not the tops of heads as you try to frantically look for the answer. If you don't know it, I will not tolerate cheating by looking now." His briefcase was thrown onto the desk and he pulled the map of the world down so it snapped up so quickly, I thought it was going to break. I harbored the vision of the map snapping his face and almost laughed out loud.

Almost, if I had he would have thrown me out of class and given me an F right on the spot.

I slouched back in my seat and tried to concentrate on the monotone drone of his voice. As I was frantically copying down every word he said my mind wandered back to my conversation with Lyn.

"I cannot believe that!" Lynda was laughing so hard her face was slowing turning red.

I nodded my head. "I swear, it's true." As our laughter died down I shrugged my shoulders. "That's my dad for you. You know, I think it's in the job description or something that father's must embarrass their children."

The last of Lynda's giggles trickled out and she became silent, a wistful expression gracing her pretty features. "I wish I knew," she said softly, staring out into the distance.

And that's when it hit me. Lynda never mentioned her father. Not once. And I instantly began to mentally kick myself. I'm just Mr. Smooth. "I'm . . . I'm sorry, Lyn. I didn't--"

"Oh, don't worry about it," she cut me off. "You couldn't have. It's not a big deal, really." She shrugged. "He's a doctor, and was bascially a phantom dad when I was little. My parents split, and I get a card for my birthday and all major holidays."

I sat there, a mixture of shock and awe washing over me as I looked at her sitting there, sipping her milk. She was so matter of fact. Like it was no big deal, not having her father in her life. And then for a brief, flickering moment I was happy. Happy that I wasn't her. "I . . . I don't . . . "

"You don't have to say anything, Ike," she said, reaching across the table to take my hand in hers. "I know I'm missing out, not having a REAL father in my life, but that's the way it goes sometimes. And as strange as it may sound, I benefit from it, too. 'Cause now I know what to look for. I know a real special person when I see one." She smiled softly as she gave my hand a gentle squeeze.

Unfortunately for me this was not my lucky day. Mr. Fasano had obviously had a bad weekend so he decided to take it out on me. "Mr. Hanson, would you care to elaborate on that for me?"

My mind blanked almost immediately. I stared at his face for what seemed like hours, trying to find a thought. My notes were no help; they were just random quotes he mentioned. I scanned them, hoping to see something that looked familiar, but no. I mean who even cares about the basic theories on harmony anyway. I shrugged my shoulders a bit and hoped he would be lenient. I saw his face scrunch into itself and knew the worst was coming.

"You know, Mr. Hanson, I don't give special treatment to any student, no matter what their background. I suggest you pay more attention in my class or you will not pass." He turned around and I took a small breath of relief.

Not too bad.

He turned toward the class again. "Mr. Hanson, I don't care how much you think you know about music. You may think a lot of things, but in this classroom you are a student, no different from any other. Your musical career," he leaned down and looked over the top of his glasses, "however short it was, does not entitle you to any sort of privileges. Just because you were a Backstage Boy does not mean I give a crap about you or your life. Pay attention or you are out."

Well, he definitely took the 'how to kill a person's self-esteem in three minutes or less' seminar.

Like a snake that had had its fill of carnage, the little man turned back to the board and starting writing out more "key words we'll need to know." I slouched in my seat so far my butt was almost on the ground. No one had ever spoken to me like that before, and it was a very loud wake-up call. Boston was not Tulsa.

And my parents are not here to back me up.

I sulked back to my room and threw my body onto my bed. College life was definitely not all it's cracked up to be. Feeling for the phone next to my bed I dialed the familiar number, praying she'd be home.

"Hello?"

"Hi."

"Well, Isaac, it's about time I heard from you."

I suppose I should feel guilty for running home to talk to my mother after a bad day at school, but I don't. I'm not about to shout it from the rooftops, but I'm not going to feel guilty about it, either. I rolled onto my back and calmly recalled my day to her. If anyone can sort out my problems for me it's Mom. She just has a way of making me see how my huge crises are nothing more than me blowing things out of proportion. I complained about my teachers and she reminded me that they were only there to teach me what I needed to know. I would have rolled my eyes, but I know she somehow would have sensed it and another lecture would have ensued.

"Taylor said that you've been spending a lot of time with twins?" I could hear the questioning in her voice. As if to say, What the heck was that boy talking about? Taylor does have a way of just throwing out half a story and then leaving the room.

"Scott and Sara, yes. They're good people. I've gotten closest to them really, but actually I am heading later to meet up with some guys from the dorm."

"How are you getting along with your roommate?"

"Jordan's okay. He and I aren't really in the same classes or anything, but we're getting along okay." What could I say? Be honest? Uh . . . yeah Mom he's a flaming asshole who spends most of his time in his bed with his girlfriend a girl who may or may not be legal. Call me crazy but I don't think that's what she wants to hear. I can't really blame her. I wouldn't want to hear that from my child either.

"Jess has a recital on Thursday night so we're going to that." I heard her sigh and could almost picture her sitting down at one of the stools around the kitchen counter with the receiver resting on her shoulder.

Much as I wanted my mom to break down and weep openly that her oldest was hundreds of miles away, I knew that couldn't happen. I wanted a bit of pity after Mr. Fasanos public bashing. I should have known, though. Mom doesn't give pity when you want it. When you need it? Yes, but when you want it? Definitely not.

I sighed.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing. I just miss the homestead."

She laughed. "Isaac, there's nothing here to miss. It's just the everyday."

I yawned and stretched. "Well, I should get going. I'm gonna be late."

"Oh, okay." The voice on the other end was a little quieter.

"Yeah, but I'll talk to you later. Tell everyone I said hi." I just wanted to get off the phone. I didn't want to hear the 'everyday' that I was missing.

I rested my hand on the receiver after I had hung up. Who would have thought a call to Mom would depress me so much? I missed Tulsa. Boston's great and all, but I missed home.

I was about ready to fling myself down on my bed and sleep off the rest of the afternoon when knock, knock.

"Its open."

Roach and Scooby were indeed right on time. "Dude, you look like your dog just died." Scooby raised his eyebrows. "It didnt, did it?"

I laughed. "No. I just got off the phone with my mother."

"Oh man, that explains it." He sat down on the bed. "My mom depresses me more in a four-minute phone call than a whole day of lectures."

"Nah, my mom's great. I just hate hearing that Tulsa didn't shut down entirely after I left."

"You're from Tulsa? Oklahoma?" Roach asked, swinging his keys around his finger.

"Yeah. You seem surprised."

"No, I've just never met anyone from Oklahoma. It's one of those, no offense, random states."

An awkward silence followed. What do you say after that? Thanks? Start rattling off the history of your home state? Debate the significance of Oklahoma to modern-day oil business? I slapped my hands together and stood up. "Well, now that were all thoroughly depressed, let's bring this down even further and hit the cafeteria. Nothing makes me want to slit my wrists with a plastic fork more than trying to gnaw on slowly overcooked undiscernable meat products."

Scooby and Roach exchanged looks. "Ikestah, you are one scary guy."

"It's the Oklahoma" and I used bunny ears to emphasize "in me. Let's go."

"Is pizza supposed to be this color?"

Scooby was inspecting his dinner, and frankly grossing out Roach and I. Roach spoke up though. "Scoob, enough. We've told you how many times not to get the pizza, yet you insist."

"I thought I'd be okay if I didn't get the pepperoni, but this is . . . " His voice trailed off and he poked what looked like cheese with a fork.

He dropped the fork onto the - and I use this term loosely - food and sighed. "That's it. Fuck it. I'm going to get ice cream." And with that he went to attack the yogurt machine.

I laughed. "Do you think they'll throw him out like last time?" The last time Scooby got fed up with the food he attacked the ice cream toppings with such fever the cafeteria workers threw him out.

Both Roach and I turned to watch Scooby infiltrate the frozen yogurt area and successfully but together a sundae of 1% yogurt and 99% toppings. We laughed as a petite girl grimaced when Scooby stuck his spoon in the sprinkles.

Roach spun around and pointed his finger at me. "Hey! We gotta get our ball back."

"Uh . . . okay." I was completely thrown off by the change in subject, but you learn to live with that with Scooby and Roach.

"Shane is cracking down, and our ball has been confiscated for the last time. I am tired of him and his Dave obsession." He pointed again. "He's going down!"

I raised my eyebrows. "All right, Agent Needs To Cool It Down." I held up my hands in a 'stop' sign. "I'm with you, but we should probably come up with something better than a snatch-and-run plan."

He pointed at me this time. "That's why we like you, Ikester. You're the brains of this operation."

I rolled my eyes. "Heaven help us all then."