Everyone quieted when the professor walked in, wearing a plaid jacket and white beard. Santa Claus in madras. He placed his books and papers on the desk and, without a word, turned to the chalkboard and wrote: WHO AM I?
The letters were bold, sharp white against green. I’d had lots of teachers start class by writing their name on the board. This was a little different.
“Who am I?” he said aloud, his voice carrying easily over the rows.
No one answered. The professor looked up, scanning us closely. I felt as if he were committing each of our faces to memory, though that was impossible with more than half the room’s chairs filled.
“No one read the course description?” he said, surprised. “No one knows who I am?”
There were a few chuckles, but that was it. He nodded, not surprised and only mildly disappointed. I felt guilty, but not enough to be the first victim. It was obvious from his tone, his stance, the fact that this was Philosophy 101 that the answer was more than just “Professor McMillan.”
“I assume none of you have taken a philosophy course before. Correct me if I’m wrong.” No one spoke. He continued patiently, “This is a course that will require lively discussion. I expect a great deal of participation and preparation. If you cannot commit to that, you are in the wrong class and I expect your seat will be vacant next class.”
I thought he might find a lot of vacant seats, but mine wouldn’t be one of them.
“So,” he said, scanning the crowd. “Let’s try this again. Who am I?”
“Professor McMillan?” someone finally ventured.
“Yeesss,” Professor McMillan said dramatically, spreading his hands to the class. “See? It’s not so hard, is it?”
A few people shook their heads. Of course, none of them had spoken.
“But,” he said as I, and everyone else in the room, knew he would. “Who is Professor McMillan?”
The door opened then and my breath caught as I recognized the man with dark-rimmed glasses who strolled in, arms laden with photocopies. “Ah,” Professor McMillan said. “Our summer TA has arrived. Lucas, thank you for joining us.”
“A pleasure, as always,” he answered, taking a seat in the front corner.
“Who am I?” Professor McMillan continued, giving up on us, “It’s one of the great questions of philosophy. What defines us? What makes us who we are? Can we even be defined?”
He paused, his eyes sweeping the silent crowd. “Know thyself, for in knowing thyself, you understand others. Of course,” he added, “the great philosophers also believed true self-knowledge was impossible.”
A few students exchanged confused looks. Professor McMillan saw, but didn’t acknowledge them.
“The human spirit is complex. The closest we can come to understanding ourselves is by examining our values, our talents, our beliefs. What makes us happy? This will answer ‘Who am I?’ ”
He nodded to Lucas, who stood and began counting stacks of the papers he’d come in with.
“Then we can move on to ‘Why am I here?’ ” Professor McMillan paused thoughtfully. “Heavy stuff, huh?”
There were a few relieved laughs. He was right—much heavier than I’d imagined. It made my head swim a little and I hadn’t even cracked a book, but I felt a thrill at the thought of doing so. It sure beat the things my brain was occupied with now: the ingredients of a mocha latte or how to make a Super Buzz-Buzz Espresso. And, of course, the mark.
“This is Lucas; he’s part of our undergraduate teaching assistant program and will be helping throughout the class.” Lucas smiled and waved. “We’ll review the syllabus when you each have a copy.”
Lucas handed the agenda for our biweekly class down each aisle. He paused when he saw me, smiled, and nodded before continuing on. I listened as Professor McMillan talked through the class outline. Socrates, Plato, Aristotle, Locke, Hume, Descartes, Russell, Kierkegaard. “Everyone’s favorite optimist.” A few more chuckles.
He reviewed the required texts and our first assignment, to be completed in the next three days. At the end of class, Professor McMillan thanked us for participating. “I look forward to seeing you on Thursday,” he concluded. “Those of you willing to read and engage, that is.”
Students stood, stretched, waved to friends, left in groups. I was in no hurry to go, wanting to savor this, my first college class. I collected my book bag and notes slowly, letting other students file past.
“Hello, coffee girl.”
He was close enough that I could smell his cologne, sharp and woodsy, hitting the back of my throat, slightly dizzying. Or maybe it’s just that I knew it was him. Lucas. I’d seen him a few times at the coffee shop, but we’d only spoken once. The day I saw the mark. Still, every time, there was that eye contact. The attraction now was unmistakable and I felt my heart pounding so hard with him standing next to me that I was sure he could see it through my thin T-shirt.
“You can call me Cassie.” I kept my gaze level, confident.
“Yes. Cassandra Renfield. Our one audit student. You don’t see a lot of people slogging through philosophy just for the fun of it.”
“Well, maybe I don’t know what I got myself into.”
“Maybe.” He didn’t seem to have anything else to say, so I started toward the door. He followed. “Do you have another class now?”
“No. This is the only one I’m taking.”
“Can I buy you a cup of coffee?”
I turned to face him, sure he was making fun of my job. “Are you joking?”
“Well, I know you like it.”
“Love it. But don’t you have another class or something?”
“No, that’s it for today.”
I hesitated. I don’t know why. I’d thought about Lucas, remembering his name, said by the pretty blonde the first day. “Are you allowed to … fraternize with students?”
He snorted. “It’s just coffee, Cassandra. I’m not asking you back to my apartment.”
I turned bright red, could feel my face on fire and looked away, hoping he wouldn’t notice. Right. He was quiet and it was horribly awkward. I felt like he could read my every thought.
“Come on,” he said finally, softer. “It’s a beautiful day. We’ll sit outside.”
Café Lennox was a Parisian bistro wannabe: striped awnings, iron furniture, umbrellas. Lucas and I took a seat on the brick patio facing the quad.