Tangential Curve (crossposted to ![[profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
non_plot)
This is a fleshing-out of the minisaga challenge from ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
non_plot, or part of it anyway - not the entire three years, but the beginnings.
The man at the front of the room was small and wizened and seemed to be preserved in a miasma of chalk dust, the stereotypical math professor if Lisa had ever seen one. He adjusted the mike nervously, his brief tap translating to a deafening pop when made large over the speaker system. She sighed and opened up her new notebook, chewing idly on the stem of her pencil and pushing a stray lock of short, mousebrown hair out of her face. It fell back again seconds after she tucked it behind her ear.
He began scribbling block capitals on the board, pacing his words. "This is ... Single Variable ... Calculus ... which is class 18.01 ... and I am ... Professor ... Taylor." He turned around, adjusting his glasses. "I'm passing around an attendance sheet, the first set of problems, and the syllabus for the course, as well as some other references. Please sign the attendance sheet and take a copy of the pthers, read them over at your leisure ... tutorials will start next week, there's a sign up sheet outside the classroom. Are there any questions?" He stared around with faded brown ferretlike eyes. The room was silent and new-freshman nervous, and he nodded slowly, continuing. "All right then. We'll be starting with a review of derivatives and the chain rule, and continuing on with integrals."
The door swung open and the students turned like sunflowers travelling toward a brilliant, celestial light. Lisa, caught up in the lemminglike momentum, also turned.
Standing at the top of the lecture hall's steps was a young-looking man, his dark hair dripping with sweat gathered from a breathless run across campus in the heat of Indian summer. He loped casually down the stairs and sat in the empty chair across the aisle from Lisa, stretching his legs out across the cheap grey carpeting.
Something was peculiar about him, though, and she couldn't quite figure out what. He seemed young - younger than the rest of the class - a year or two at best, still with the mid-to-tail end of gawky adolescence on his features. Shaggy brown hair that fell across his face as though his last haircut was nothing more than a distant memory. Dressing was obviously not his strong point - or maybe he'd gotten dressed in the dark - orange t-shirt, yellow sneakers, knee poking through a hole in his jeans. But ... that wasn't it. No. Plenty of geeks didn't know how to dress.
After a moment, it came to her.
Notes.
He wasn't taking any notes. No legal pad. No notebook. Not even a tape recorder. He just sat there, eyes mostly closed, breaths flowing even and calm. Not a pencil in sight. Everyone else was scrambling to keep up, scribbling grey smudges half-unreadable from drops of nervous sweat. And here was this guy, just ... sitting.
She tried to keep up with the droning at the front of the room, but couldn't. There was just something ... unreal, almost unholy about it. He just sat there, stubbornly refusing to write anything down, like he was sitting in front of the TV at home watching Star Trek: TNG. She almost expected him to open his eyes and come off with some crack about not throwing Troi out of bed for eating crackers. Not even making a pretense of notes.
Before she knew it, the class was over; she sighed and started to bundle up her books.
"Oh, excuse me, sir?"
The mysterious one finally deigned to speak. Taylor turned. "Yes?"
"I was wondering." He had a mild voice, with a slight English accent. "That list of integrals you gave us - isn't there a mistake here? Shouldn't it be 4ac-minus-b-squared, under a root sign?"
"Oh, right." He nodded absently, and picked up the microphone again, calling the stragglers back to correct his handout.
Lisa got to her feet, shouldering her deep green backpack and half-running to catch up with him as he casually climbed the stairs, out of the rabbit hole and into the fall Boston sunshine. "Hey!"
He paused. "Who, me?"
"Yeah," Lisa sighed, struggling up the last few steps under the weight of her books. "Yeah. Did you get any of that?"
"Oh sure, it's just review."
She could see his eyes now as he pushed his hair out of his face. They were a deep jade green, not brown enough to be hazel, but the with same kind of multicoloured endlessness. Lisa shifted her books to the other shoulder. "You didn't take any notes."
"I never take notes." he shrugged.
"Cocky, aren't you?"
A smirk flitted across his face, but it decided not to stay in the interests of making a good impression. "No. Photographic memory." He tapped the side of his head with a finger. "All up here."
"So ... you remember everything he said?"
"Sure."
"You wanna help me fix my notes then?" Lisa blurted. "Sometime? Taylor mumbles."
"Sure. Where are you staying?"
"Random Hall. Room 210. I'm Lisa."
"Ah, a fellow Random. I'm Ross - in 412." He stretched. "What's your number? I've got physics next. I'll call you."
"617-253-4087."
He made no move.
"Aren't you going to write that down?"
"Why?" he replied with a shrug, and turned across the leaf-littered lawn.
Lisa stood there and stared after him for several minutes, watching him disappear into the crowd of lost freshmen and hopeful upperclassmen until he was nothing more than a blotted speck headed toward the physics building. Shaking her head, she picked up her books and searched in her pockets for her already careworn campus map.
non_plot, or part of it anyway - not the entire three years, but the beginnings. The man at the front of the room was small and wizened and seemed to be preserved in a miasma of chalk dust, the stereotypical math professor if Lisa had ever seen one. He adjusted the mike nervously, his brief tap translating to a deafening pop when made large over the speaker system. She sighed and opened up her new notebook, chewing idly on the stem of her pencil and pushing a stray lock of short, mousebrown hair out of her face. It fell back again seconds after she tucked it behind her ear.
He began scribbling block capitals on the board, pacing his words. "This is ... Single Variable ... Calculus ... which is class 18.01 ... and I am ... Professor ... Taylor." He turned around, adjusting his glasses. "I'm passing around an attendance sheet, the first set of problems, and the syllabus for the course, as well as some other references. Please sign the attendance sheet and take a copy of the pthers, read them over at your leisure ... tutorials will start next week, there's a sign up sheet outside the classroom. Are there any questions?" He stared around with faded brown ferretlike eyes. The room was silent and new-freshman nervous, and he nodded slowly, continuing. "All right then. We'll be starting with a review of derivatives and the chain rule, and continuing on with integrals."
The door swung open and the students turned like sunflowers travelling toward a brilliant, celestial light. Lisa, caught up in the lemminglike momentum, also turned.
Standing at the top of the lecture hall's steps was a young-looking man, his dark hair dripping with sweat gathered from a breathless run across campus in the heat of Indian summer. He loped casually down the stairs and sat in the empty chair across the aisle from Lisa, stretching his legs out across the cheap grey carpeting.
Something was peculiar about him, though, and she couldn't quite figure out what. He seemed young - younger than the rest of the class - a year or two at best, still with the mid-to-tail end of gawky adolescence on his features. Shaggy brown hair that fell across his face as though his last haircut was nothing more than a distant memory. Dressing was obviously not his strong point - or maybe he'd gotten dressed in the dark - orange t-shirt, yellow sneakers, knee poking through a hole in his jeans. But ... that wasn't it. No. Plenty of geeks didn't know how to dress.
After a moment, it came to her.
Notes.
He wasn't taking any notes. No legal pad. No notebook. Not even a tape recorder. He just sat there, eyes mostly closed, breaths flowing even and calm. Not a pencil in sight. Everyone else was scrambling to keep up, scribbling grey smudges half-unreadable from drops of nervous sweat. And here was this guy, just ... sitting.
She tried to keep up with the droning at the front of the room, but couldn't. There was just something ... unreal, almost unholy about it. He just sat there, stubbornly refusing to write anything down, like he was sitting in front of the TV at home watching Star Trek: TNG. She almost expected him to open his eyes and come off with some crack about not throwing Troi out of bed for eating crackers. Not even making a pretense of notes.
Before she knew it, the class was over; she sighed and started to bundle up her books.
"Oh, excuse me, sir?"
The mysterious one finally deigned to speak. Taylor turned. "Yes?"
"I was wondering." He had a mild voice, with a slight English accent. "That list of integrals you gave us - isn't there a mistake here? Shouldn't it be 4ac-minus-b-squared, under a root sign?"
"Oh, right." He nodded absently, and picked up the microphone again, calling the stragglers back to correct his handout.
Lisa got to her feet, shouldering her deep green backpack and half-running to catch up with him as he casually climbed the stairs, out of the rabbit hole and into the fall Boston sunshine. "Hey!"
He paused. "Who, me?"
"Yeah," Lisa sighed, struggling up the last few steps under the weight of her books. "Yeah. Did you get any of that?"
"Oh sure, it's just review."
She could see his eyes now as he pushed his hair out of his face. They were a deep jade green, not brown enough to be hazel, but the with same kind of multicoloured endlessness. Lisa shifted her books to the other shoulder. "You didn't take any notes."
"I never take notes." he shrugged.
"Cocky, aren't you?"
A smirk flitted across his face, but it decided not to stay in the interests of making a good impression. "No. Photographic memory." He tapped the side of his head with a finger. "All up here."
"So ... you remember everything he said?"
"Sure."
"You wanna help me fix my notes then?" Lisa blurted. "Sometime? Taylor mumbles."
"Sure. Where are you staying?"
"Random Hall. Room 210. I'm Lisa."
"Ah, a fellow Random. I'm Ross - in 412." He stretched. "What's your number? I've got physics next. I'll call you."
"617-253-4087."
He made no move.
"Aren't you going to write that down?"
"Why?" he replied with a shrug, and turned across the leaf-littered lawn.
Lisa stood there and stared after him for several minutes, watching him disappear into the crowd of lost freshmen and hopeful upperclassmen until he was nothing more than a blotted speck headed toward the physics building. Shaking her head, she picked up her books and searched in her pockets for her already careworn campus map.
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Good story...one of those that makes me wanna see more!!
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