Wicked Love

and on my own.
My classes this semester have new professors. The only one who's a repeat is Dr. Armentrout, the Department Chair for the School of Journalism. I'm standing outside the door to his office at the moment, feeling nervous about my meeting with him.
I'm not sure why, except that he knows about my accident. That's what I'm calling it now.
I enter the door to his outer office where his assistant is at her desk, taking a phone call. Her nameplate reads Diane Forester; she waves for me to take a seat. I sit down next to her desk while she fills in a While You Were Out' message form.
"Yes, Dean Warrington. I'll make sure Dan gets the message. He's in a meeting right now, but should be free within the next hour or so."
She looks over at me, rolling her eyes. Apparently, Diane thinks taking phone messages is beneath her pay grade. I can't believe she calls Professor Armentrout by his given name. She looks to be in her early thirties. She has some raging red hair going on, which cannot be her natural color. She probably thinks Dr. Armentrout is an old fuddy-duddy at fifty-something.
I had him last semester in Communications and was eager to make sure I got into his Investigative Journalism class. He said he liked my enthusiasm and would be happy to recommend me for the class. It was a senior class, but having looked at my college transcripts to date, and with my current GPA, he said he didn't think there would be a problem. He was one of the most highly regarded journalism professors at the university.
She ends the call and sticks the pink message slip onto a pointed spindle, piercing it where it joins several others. "I'm sorry," she says, giving me a brisk smile, "You must be Carson Matthews?"
"Yes," I reply, "Is Dr. Armentrout running behind? Should I reschedule?"
"Oh no, no, he's ready for you. I just knew if I'd put that call through, the Dean would burn up most of your appointment time. Dan likes to keep to his schedule. He's really anal about that," she replies. "You can go on in," she continues, opening the lap drawer of her desk and pulling out an emery board.
"Okay, thanks Diane," I reply standing up.
"Oh, I'm not Diane," she says giggling like the joke's on me. "She's out sick for a bit. Some kind of elective surgery I guess. I'm just filling in for her. I'm Kandace Armentrout, and before you say it, no, I'm not his daughter. I'm the wife." She raises her left hand, proudly displaying the massive diamond on her wedding set as confirmation.
"Oh, okay. It's nice to meet you Mrs. Armentrout," I reply, wondering why she feels the need to share all of this with me.
"Call me Kandace," she says with a wide grin as if we'll be seeing each other again.
"Right. Kandace," I reply, heading over to Dr. Armentrout's office door and quickly disappearing behind it.
"Hello Ms. Matthews," the professor greets as I close the door behind me, "I'm so happy to have you back. Please, take a seat. I've got your schedule here, but before we get to that, I need to make sure you're up to the task of taking on this course. It is, you know, a senior class because there is quite a bit of non-classroom activities and work that must go into it. I recall you mentioned last semester when you applied, that you had already selected a topic. Under the circumstances, Ms. Matthews, do you wish to continue with that topic or select another?"
I squirm a bit in my seat. This is the truth or dare moment. "Well, therein lies the problem, Professor. I have no idea where my outline, notes or even the topic for my investigative project have gone. I was hoping my application to be accepted in this class wasn't contingent on the topic and outline I provided you last fall. I'm sure I can come up with a great topic and start there before our first class meets next week."
Professor Armentrout seems a bit surprised. But the fact is, when all of my belongings had arrived back in D.C. from school, there was absolutely nothing in those boxes that had pertained to my studies. Not a textbook, a folder, a journal–not even my personal laptop. I'd phoned the dorm resident who'd told me that everything in my dorm room at the time my mother had phoned campus security was packed in the presence of said campus security and shipped to the address given them.
"I see," he says, running a hand through his thick mass of salt and pepper hair. "That's probably just as well Ms. Matthews. I'm sure you'll come up with an appropriate topic. I know you've been through a lot, so you have my utmost compassion and support. I'm so happy you've recovered and are resuming your studies here at the university. So, here's the class syllabus, which includes the pre-work assignment due the first day of class. Of course, I'm happy to give you an extension if you need it."
I take the papers he hands over, and skim through them quickly. "I think I can handle it, Professor. I'll do my best. Thanks for holding my slot open. I really do appreciate you giving me the additional courtesy," I say glancing back up at him.
"I'm happy to do so. Welcome back," he replies with a smile.
"Thank you," I reply, getting up from the chair and preparing to leave. As I reach the door, he calls after me, "I'm really glad you're doing okay, Carson. You are perhaps one of the most talented students I've had in my classes over the past few years."
"Thank you, Professor," I whisper, not looking back as I leave his office. For some reason his words make me sad. I'm not sure why.

8 Somebody’s Watching Me
I remember reviewing a paper last year on Gonzo Journalism. It was by