Orientation seems to drag on forever. The professor speaking is an older woman. I can't help thinking, she looks like she hates her job. Her slender frame wears a long green, purple, and gold dress, hanging close to her ankles. There are random-sized jewels and beads spread out across the top portion of it. The jewels glisten each time she walks into the strips of sunlight coming in from the windows.

Her short gray hair is pinned perfectly in place, not a single strand astray. A lonely white rose barrette is clipped above her right ear. This helps to show off the sour expression she wears plastered across her face. Wrinkles heavily mark the corners of her beady, dark eyes. At some point, she must have enjoyed life. Her age lines tell a story of laughter, love, and happiness. I'm assuming life has worn her down over time. Years of dealing with disrespectful students and parents is enough to break anyone. I know I could never do it, children or adults. People subject them to overwork and under-appreciation. No one realizes how hard and demanding their job is.

Thick round gold-framed glasses sit along the bridge of her nose. Each time she glances down at her notes, they slide a little lower. This causes her repeatedly to stop and adjust them. After shoving them back into place, she has to find her previous position before she can begin again. Clearing her throat each time before starting back on her lecture. Her voice is monotone, making this whole situation worse. It's like I'm listening to a robot speak. I'm honestly trying to pay attention. The longer her lecture continues, the harder it becomes. I pinch myself in an attempt to wake up. Failing, my eyes begin drifting around the classroom. Her voice fades farther away as I lose focus on her, now studying the classroom.

It's smaller with only ten rows of seats. Five on each side. Big blue plastic bucket seats line each row. They're similar to the ones at the old movie theaters back home. These are more comfortable, despite being made of plastic. Each seat has an armrest on the right side, ending in a little desktop area for writing. The left is wide open.

Our teacher is now standing at the front of the class, upon a high-raised platform. Her upper body is the only part of her visible due to a dark-colored podium. A small microphone is attached to its front. The speaker increases the volume of her voice, making her much harder to drown out.

Beside the platform is an older wooden desk. Stacks of paper cover almost every inch of it. Each stack has been neatly organized. She has jammed various pens and pencils into an oversized apple container on the corner.

"BEST TEACHER" is scrawled across a miniature chalkboard attached to the front of her desk.

As she speaks, a large white projector screen drops down behind her. Without missing a beat, she begins pointing out different slides. Each has been created using a different color background containing several paragraphs. A few pictures are located here and there. It's almost comical how the pictures breathe life into this drawn-out, never-ending speech.

Once again, my focus shifts back toward the wall. Pictures of presidents and first ladies are hung in bright green picture frames. A few more portraits of random objects have been strung here and there. Several photos surround two huge world maps displayed in the back of the room. Each one is labeled differently using multiple languages.

A giant stand-up globe sits alone in the corner. A thick layer of dust covers it. I suppress the urge to run over and give it a big whirl. I would love to watch the colors swirl by faster and faster.

The other side of the room is less decorated. Instead, it has a couple of tall, thick oak bookcases. Hundreds of books line the crowded shelves, various shapes and sizes. There's no certain preference when it comes to organization.

I catch a few words she is saying as she continues droning on. Something about our class is the new future of a failing world. How single-handedly our choices can help change society for the better. It sounds like a corny line from a movie script. I'm not very interested in anything she is saying. My thoughts are overwhelmed with Hayden. I haven't said two words to him, yet my mind is stuck in overdrive. I keep thinking about all the dirty things we could do together and how good he must taste. I need to stop. I'm here for a second chance. Not boys.

I halfway glance over at the girl next to me. She's focused on the paper in front of her. I can't see what she is sketching, but her pencil flies vigorously across the paper. Her eyes squinted half shut, her tongue poked between her pursed lips. I continue looking around. We're not the only two lost in thoughts. No one seems to be paying attention.

A petite boy in the far back has his head down, and hood up. He is sleeping. His body rises and falls every few seconds. I might be imagining it, but I swear a puddle of drool is forming. It's slowly seeping out from beneath his folded arms.

Several girls in the front row are busy, typing away on their cellphones, hidden in their laps. They giggle, whispering back and forth. The brunette in the middle pulls a mini compact out, powdering her nose.

"Okay young people, any questions on today's discussion?" the teacher asks, tapping a short metal stick against the podium. The piercing sound causes the sleeping boy to jerk awake. His expression is confused, with a thick glob of drool clinging to his bottom lip.

"If no one has anything to add, this will conclude our orientation. You are now officially Jamestown University students. Congratulations on taking the first step in furthering your education. I wish each of you the best of luck. And I'll see some of you first thing Monday morning," she finishes while powering the projector off. Without another word, she heads to the desk. Her face disappears behind the mountains of paperwork.

I gather my belongings,  joining the herd, stampeding out the doors. The walk back to my dorm takes no time.

When I arrive, Skylar is standing in front of the mirror. Her fingers swiftly move back and forth, braiding her hair. She's already changed into black denim jean shorts, frayed along the bottoms. A white and black flannel top held shut by the middle two buttons. Her breasts pressed firmly together, busting over the top of her shirt. The bottom portion is tied into a neat little bow below her breast.

For the first time, I see she has a small purple butterfly tattooed on her lower back. Turning towards me, she reveals a silver, shiny, sparkling star dangling from her belly button.

While l was gone she had time to touch up her face. The eyeliner beneath her eyes is darker than earlier. Making them stand out more, along with a thick layer of white eyeshadow. After several seconds, she finishes braiding her hair into two thick braids.

"What do you think?" She asks me as I throw my bags down beside her.

"You look great.  I wish I could pull something like that off. I'd look like a beached whale if I tried," I mumbled, looking down.

"Well, now it's your turn. Come on, we only have a few hours to get you ready," she exclaims, clapping her hands together in excitement.

It feels weird allowing someone that I just met to have total control over my appearance. I hope she doesn't go overboard. Or waste too much time on me. I have never been big on makeup. I don't see what the hype is all about. Give me, a little eyeliner and some mascara and I'm good to go. The only time I go all out is for a special occasion. Or, of course,  if my nana insists on it. She believes that no woman should ever leave the house without their face done.

By the time she's finished, my face is sore from her plucking and tweezing my eyebrows. I hadn't thought they were that bad. The first and last time I attempted to shave them was a big mistake. Never again, lesson learned.

I barely recognize my reflection staring back at me. The purple eyeshadow she used combined with her shadowing brings out the green in my eyes. I'm not a big fan of the overly dark eyeliner, but, It's ok for tonight. Surprisingly, she tamed my wild hair, braiding it like hers.

Even my outfit looks good on me. She lent me a pair of stretchy light-colored jean shorts and a purple and white flannel. I'm not as brave, buttoning mine entirely and adding a white tank top under it. Despite having an undershirt on, my boobs are still trying to escape.

"Damn girl, you look sexy," she praises me, watching me in the mirror, waiting for my reaction. When she sees me smile, she mimics me. You can tell she is extremely, happy with her work.

"Let's go," she rushes me, grabbing my arm, and practically dragging me out of the door.