Drawing Outside the Lines by Susan Austin

Author:Susan Austin
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: SparkPress

Chapter 19

A NEW DIGGER

I join the crush of students heading to campus. Ignoring the commotion around me, I stop to inhale the familiar spicy scent of eucalyptus trees and savor the shade of giant oaks. Crossing a footbridge over burbling Strawberry Creek, I leave the trees behind for a well-trodden dirt path meandering through summer-gold grassland.

Boys crowd around me, laughing and joking, many wearing gray or black top hats. I’m familiar with this hat-wearing tradition, thanks to Parmelee.

“Gray plugs for Juniors. Black for Seniors,” he instructed. “The more battered and trampled the better. I know it looks silly, but they take the whole thing very seriously.”

Without warning, a hatless boy in front of me uses a cane to swipe another boy’s gray plug with such ferocity it takes flight. I brace for a fight. Instead, the hat’s owner roars with laughter.

“Nice hit, Haverford,” the victim shouts good-naturedly. “A few more of those and my hat’ll be ready.” Parmelee was right. Battered hats are indeed a mark of pride, although he neglected to mention second year students with canes. I suspect there are other customs to learn.

Ahead are two buildings perched on a small rise. South Hall, the four-story brick and stone building, sits on my right. I head left, toward North Hall, four stories of elaborately decorated wood, much like my old high school. Several young men lounge on the steps of two outside staircases.

“Oh, oh. Another pelican invades our hallowed halls,” one boy says to a girl walking in front of me.

“Bet that one’s a digger,” mocks another as I pass. I ignore his wisecrack.

Later I learn they call us pelicans because of our white shirtwaists, which is probably why my Theta sisters prefer blue blouses. The boys reserve the term “diggers” for students with the highest marks. How do they know I plan to live up to this nickname?

Inside the building a line of students snakes down the hallway. I must be in the right place—the recorder’s office. I line up behind a tall, skinny boy with a moustache. Every so often, he glances back at me. The closer we get to the front, the more he fidgets.

Finally, he turns around. “Excuse me miss, but Special Students register in the basement, Room 28.”

“Thank you,” I reply, hiding my irritation. Special Students are mostly girls who take a few classes before leaving to marry. If he wanted to insult me, he found the right way.

When I don’t budge, he grumbles, “Let me repeat that.SPECIAL STUDENTS DO NOT REGISTER HERE.”

“I heard you clearly the first time.”

He shrugs his shoulders. “Fine.”

When I finally enter the recorder’s room, the single line divides into two. The clerk on the left asks the irritating young man his name. “Last name first. First name last.”

“Saph. Augustus Valentine Saph. S-A-P-H,” he spells out.

“School of entry?”

“Mechanical Engineering.”

The clerk on the right asks me the same question. “Name, miss?”

“Morgan. Julia.”

“School of entry?”

“Mechanical Engineering.”

Several heads turn my way. The recorder’s pen freezes in midair.

“Certain about that?” he asks. Pausing, he adds, “An unusual choice for a young lady.

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