Read Online The Fifteenth Minute by Sarina Bowen - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Sarina Bowen
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mean. But without the redemption. Luckily it’s only the tenth of the month, though. There’s plenty of time to make it up to me. So see what you can do.
I run through the snain and into the big old lecture hall. There are rows and rows of old wooden seats with red velvet cushions. The stained glass windows lining one wall depict scholars in mortarboard hats and Latin encouragements. The Harkness motto is lettered across the top. Esse Quam Videri . To be, rather than to seem.
When I’d chosen Harkness College, this is just what I’d pictured—a dusty old building, a mahogany lectern at the front of the room, and a professor in a lumpy sweater with elbow patches. I settle myself into a seat in the back row, notebook and pen at the ready, hoping the hiss I hear from the old heating system can dry me off before it’s time to go back out into the January chill.
The professor is still adjusting his clip-on microphone when I hear the first hint of trouble—it’s a sound that’s dogged me my whole life. The rapid firing of a Nikon camera’s shutter.
Oh no . Here?
My stomach drops to the floor, and I begin evasive maneuvers. I swivel my body away from the sound, then dig into my bag for my phone.
“Excuse me,” the professor says into his microphone, addressing my harasser. “This is private property. You’ll have to leave.”
The asshole with the camera will never obey him, though. It’s a lesson I learned early in life. Paparazzi make their money by not listening. They are professional assholes.
I tap on a number that’s stored in my phone. I’d hoped to never use it, but when campus police picks up, I’m happy that my overbearing manager had thought to make me store it. “Hi,” I tell the dispatcher who answers. “My name is Lianne Challice and I’m a freshman. I’m trying to attend a lecture in the Masterson building right now, but a photographer is disrupting the class, and he won’t leave. The professor has already asked him to.”
“A…photographer?” the dispatcher asks. I’ve confused him. Most calls to campus security are probably about lost wallets or drunkenness.
“He’s a paparazzo,” I try to explain. And he’s coming closer. I can hear the camera sounds and nothing else, because the whole lecture hall has gone quiet.
My back is suddenly sweaty. Rising out of my chair, I abandon my bag, my notebook and my coat. My face is mostly hidden by my phone on one side and the brim of my trusty baseball cap, which I tug as low as I can. The asshole photographer knows exactly who’s under here, but I don’t want him to get any shots he can use.
Charging up the aisle, I see amusement on the faces of my classmates. This doesn’t usually happen in a history of art survey on a Friday afternoon. I’m actually glad they find it funny instead of maddening. Though I’d like to bite someone.
“A paparazzo?” the dispatcher asks in my ear.
“Yes. He’s trespassing. It’s illegal ,” I point out.
“I’ve already sent a unit to Masterson Hall,” the officer assures me. “ETA is two minutes.”
I don’t answer right away because I’ve picked up my pace. I shoot out of the lecture room and take a quick right down a gloomy old hallway. There’s a ladies’ room down here. Running now, I reach it ahead of the photographer and yank open the door. This will only work if it’s the kind of bathroom with a lock on the inside—paparazzi don’t care about rules.
Dashing inside, I push the door shut. And? No lock. This is a bathroom with three stalls.
Thanks January. Thanks a crap-ton .
I do not rush into one of the stalls. There’s no point. At least now if I end up having to try to sue this guy or get a restraining order, I can say that he followed me into the ladies’ room. That sounds pretty sleazy. Also? This room isn’t that big, which means the asshole will have to refocus, maybe even switch lenses.
“The security officers have entered the building,” the dispatcher says
I run through the snain and into the big old lecture hall. There are rows and rows of old wooden seats with red velvet cushions. The stained glass windows lining one wall depict scholars in mortarboard hats and Latin encouragements. The Harkness motto is lettered across the top. Esse Quam Videri . To be, rather than to seem.
When I’d chosen Harkness College, this is just what I’d pictured—a dusty old building, a mahogany lectern at the front of the room, and a professor in a lumpy sweater with elbow patches. I settle myself into a seat in the back row, notebook and pen at the ready, hoping the hiss I hear from the old heating system can dry me off before it’s time to go back out into the January chill.
The professor is still adjusting his clip-on microphone when I hear the first hint of trouble—it’s a sound that’s dogged me my whole life. The rapid firing of a Nikon camera’s shutter.
Oh no . Here?
My stomach drops to the floor, and I begin evasive maneuvers. I swivel my body away from the sound, then dig into my bag for my phone.
“Excuse me,” the professor says into his microphone, addressing my harasser. “This is private property. You’ll have to leave.”
The asshole with the camera will never obey him, though. It’s a lesson I learned early in life. Paparazzi make their money by not listening. They are professional assholes.
I tap on a number that’s stored in my phone. I’d hoped to never use it, but when campus police picks up, I’m happy that my overbearing manager had thought to make me store it. “Hi,” I tell the dispatcher who answers. “My name is Lianne Challice and I’m a freshman. I’m trying to attend a lecture in the Masterson building right now, but a photographer is disrupting the class, and he won’t leave. The professor has already asked him to.”
“A…photographer?” the dispatcher asks. I’ve confused him. Most calls to campus security are probably about lost wallets or drunkenness.
“He’s a paparazzo,” I try to explain. And he’s coming closer. I can hear the camera sounds and nothing else, because the whole lecture hall has gone quiet.
My back is suddenly sweaty. Rising out of my chair, I abandon my bag, my notebook and my coat. My face is mostly hidden by my phone on one side and the brim of my trusty baseball cap, which I tug as low as I can. The asshole photographer knows exactly who’s under here, but I don’t want him to get any shots he can use.
Charging up the aisle, I see amusement on the faces of my classmates. This doesn’t usually happen in a history of art survey on a Friday afternoon. I’m actually glad they find it funny instead of maddening. Though I’d like to bite someone.
“A paparazzo?” the dispatcher asks in my ear.
“Yes. He’s trespassing. It’s illegal ,” I point out.
“I’ve already sent a unit to Masterson Hall,” the officer assures me. “ETA is two minutes.”
I don’t answer right away because I’ve picked up my pace. I shoot out of the lecture room and take a quick right down a gloomy old hallway. There’s a ladies’ room down here. Running now, I reach it ahead of the photographer and yank open the door. This will only work if it’s the kind of bathroom with a lock on the inside—paparazzi don’t care about rules.
Dashing inside, I push the door shut. And? No lock. This is a bathroom with three stalls.
Thanks January. Thanks a crap-ton .
I do not rush into one of the stalls. There’s no point. At least now if I end up having to try to sue this guy or get a restraining order, I can say that he followed me into the ladies’ room. That sounds pretty sleazy. Also? This room isn’t that big, which means the asshole will have to refocus, maybe even switch lenses.
“The security officers have entered the building,” the dispatcher says
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