Josie Guerrero is focused on one thing: getting accepted into the prestigious art studies program within the Art School at the University of Southern Washington. With thirteen weeks to create her sophomore portfolio, she knows she can't afford any d...
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The gust of warm air sweeping through the busy courtyard pulls at the hem of my dress, blowing the thin linen fabric up my thighs as the sun warms my bare shoulders. I could stay out here all day, basking in the warmth that I know will be gone all too soon once the cool September air replaces it, but since I'm already running late to my next class, I don't have time to appreciate the warmth as I pull open the door of the psychology studies building.
I wasn't planning on taking Abnormal Psychology to fulfill my required elective credit this term, but since the upperclassmen have a whole week to pick their classes before registration opens for underclassmen, I was left with whatever classes still had open seats.
Unfortunately for me, it was this or History of Horror Cinema.
Pulling open the lecture hall door, I slip in quietly, thankful that Professor Brinkerman is too busy shuffling through a stack of papers on her desk to notice my late arrival. Spotting an open seat a few rows up, I hurry up the steps and sit down before the hall lights dim and the projector whirls to life. I barely have time to pull out my notebook and pen before she's clicking through the slides of the PowerPoint, launching headfirst into a lecture covering the first chapter from the textbook. I try to write down everything she says because — according to RateMyProfessor — she gives away all her exam questions in her lectures.
We're going over the material we were supposed to read last night for assigned reading. I'm probably going to have to reread it, this time without taking study breaks every few pages to stalk a certain basketball captain's social media. Apparently, he's not much of a photographer since his Instagram hasn't been updated in a year and a half. But he does seem to be active on Twitter, which means I spent more time than I'm willing to admit scrolling through his tweets dating back six years. I will go to the grave with that confession — and the knowledge that he used to live-tweet his reactions to every new Game of Thrones episode in high school.
By the time Professor Brinkerman clicks to the last slide, most of the class is packing up their bags, their eyes trained on the clock above the projector screen. It's two minutes past the scheduled class time.
"Before you go, I have one final announcement. I'm sure most of you have already read about the semester project in the syllabus; it's a collection of mini-projects that will combine to make up your final exam grade."
She fumbles with the remote in her hand until the rubric for our semester project appears on the screen. I read over the syllabus when I printed it out a few nights ago. We're supposed to create a new podcast each week about any topic we want as long as we can use what we learned in our assigned reading to analyze it.
I uncap my pen and jot down a few notes as she goes over the rubric, underlining specific due dates and requirements, like the forty-minute minimum time length and the fact that she's going to award ten extra credit points to her favorite podcast at the end of the semester.
