Candy had played a lot of volleyball over the past week and proved to be in practise. The rest of us, an enthusiastic but noticeably out-of-shape Ralph included, could be best described as being in malpractice.The team had not had a chance to play a single set as a full team before their first competitive game. Combined the obvious deficiency of talent with the lack of any sort of strategy and tactics beyond "hit ball over net, lather, rinse, repeat", we were very thoroughly beaten in the first round by a squad who had driven in from a university in Pennsylvania – it turned out, all of them were there on various sports scholarships, and were quite physically fit. It was like a squad of 8-year-olds trying to play tackle football against the Green Bay Packers. In the consolation round, we faced another experienced squad, a crew of Quebeckers captained by a priest who was also a high school Phys Ed teacher. As a result, Saturday afternoon saw us out of the games, with Ginny and Ralph. As if making a move on someone like me was something to brag about, she thought with a tinge of sadness. She rolled her eyes, gathered her things, and then made her way two buildings over to American Lit. Oh how she was dreading that dry class, but it was something English majors couldn't easily escape.As it turned out, the class was fairly small--just a dozen or so students. Like grade schoolers, the professor made them scoot their desks into a large circle to "facilitate communication" as the pretentious instructor put it. Just glancing around the room Allison knew she was in for it. Of course there was the geeky set with glasses, but the scariest ones were the preppy guys in branded polo shirts and chinos. Not jeans like everyone else on campus wore. Heavens no. Almost equally terrifying was the trio of nicely dressed women who stuck their noses up in the air and only spoke with one another. Allison sighed, wishing this class were over and she was on her way to ENGL 369. Now there.
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