Chapter 42 Yeah
They moved fast— long strides eating up the linoleum. Josh matched him step for step.
“So you really forgot it was Friday?” Andrew asked, side-eyeing him.
“Man, I had a dream I was back in high school. No exams. Just gym class forever.” Josh bit into the toast, crumbs falling. “Then you ruined it.”
“You’re welcome.”
They pushed through the heavy double doors at the end of the hall. Crisp morning air hit them— October chill, smell of wet leaves and distant bonfires from the Greek houses. Campus paths were already filling: students in hoodies, backpacks slung over one shoulder, coffee cups steaming.
They cut across the quad, boots crunching gravel, breath fogging in short bursts.
“Have you started preparing for this course’s exam?" Josh asked around a mouthful of toast. "It’s coming up in two weeks, just so you know.”
“Really? I didn't know.” Andrew’s jaw tightened.
They reached the lecture theater at 7:26— three minutes to spare. Double doors stood propped open. Inside, tiered seating rose in steep rows under harsh fluorescent panels. The room smelled of old carpet, dry-erase markers, and the faint metallic tang of anxiety.
Andrew and Josh slipped in, heads low, claiming their usual spots: last row, far left corner— backbenchers by choice and necessity. Andrew dropped into the seat, long legs stretching under the flip-up desk. Josh landed beside him with a soft grunt.
Professor Wilfred already stood at the front— mid-fifties, wire-rimmed glasses, charcoal suit, no tie, sleeves rolled precisely to the elbows. He was writing on the whiteboard in neat block letters: MIRANDA v. ARIZONA – CUSTODIAL INTERROGATION.
The clock above the door hit 7:30. Doors closed with a hydraulic hush. Wilfred turned, scanned the room once— eyes lingering on the back row for half a second— then began.
Andrew opened his laptop. Josh pulled out a battered notebook. Pens scratched. Pages turned.
Twenty minutes in, Wilfred paused mid-sentence, gestured toward the front rows.
“Questions on the voluntariness test?”
A hand rose— third row, center aisle. Purple hoodie, dark hair pulled into a loose ponytail, blue denim shorts despite the October chill. She leaned forward slightly, voice clear, confident.
“Professor, in the Dickerson case, how does the Court reconcile Miranda’s constitutional status with the exceptions carved out in Quarles and Oregon v. Elstad? Doesn’t that undermine the prophylactic rule?”
Silence rippled outward. Wilfred’s brows lifted fractionally—approval, not surprise.
Andrew didn’t hear the question. Or the answer that followed. The room’s hum— the coughs, keyboard clicks, rustling pages— faded to white noise. His gaze locked on her profile: the way her head tilted when she listened, the quick flash of teeth when she smiled at Wilfred’s response, the small crease between her brows when she jotted a note.
Josh noticed first. Elbow jabbed Andrew’s ribs— sharp, deliberate.
“What are you looking at?”
Andrew blinked once. Slowly. “Who is that girl?”
Josh followed his line of sight. “Who is that girl?” he echoed, eyebrow climbing.
“The one in the purple hoodie. The one that just asked the question.”
Josh snorted softly. “That’s Maggie. Don’t tell me you don’t know her? You’ve been in the same class since freshman year.”
Andrew’s head turned— slow, incredulous. “I swear I don’t know her.”
Josh stared at him like he’d grown a second head. “Dude.”
“What do you know about her?” Andrew’s whisper was urgent, eyes already drifting back to the front.
“Why do you ask?” Josh’s brow furrowed deeper.
“Just tell me.”
Josh shrugged, pencil tapping against his notebook. “I don’t really know much. Just that her dad’s some rich, well-known judge in Washington. Big name in appellate circles. That’s about it.”
Andrew’s gaze stayed fixed on her— purple hoodie rising and falling with each breath, pen moving steadily across her legal pad.
“Is that so,” he murmured.
Josh watched him for another second, then shook his head and returned to his notes.
Andrew didn’t. Not once for the remaining forty minutes. Even when Wilfred called on someone else. Even when the projector flickered and the room groaned in unison. His eyes traced the line of her neck, the way her fingers tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear, the small, satisfied nod she gave when Wilfred circled back to her point.
The clock hit 8:50. Wilfred closed his marker with a sharp snap. “Read Dickerson and Moran for Monday. Dismissed.”
Chairs scraped. Bags zipped. Conversations erupted.
Maggie stood, stretched once— arms overhead, hoodie riding up to show a sliver of midriff— then gathered her things.
Andrew watched every movement.
Josh slammed his notebook shut. “You good, man?”
Andrew exhaled through his nose. “Yeah.”
But his eyes never left her until she disappeared through the doors at the front, purple hoodie vanishing into the stream of students pouring into the corridor.
Only then did he finally blink. Slowly. Like waking from something deeper than sleep.