Hail Stan

We met after class each day. I didn’t socialize—not antisocial, just uninterested. College friends came and went like a common cold and I didn’t have an interest in letting them find their place in my life for a semester. Change came when I took a statistics class to fulfill a credit requirement and I found I was completely lost in the course. As an English major, math wasn’t my forte—I could write or talk my way out of anything, but I realized that it wouldn’t have worked there. After the first lecture, I found the other students who looked as lost as I was and easily talked them into forming a study group.

Everything went well for weeks as the year began. We worked through enough of the material to continuously hand in assignments on time, earning A’s on a regular basis. I didn’t retain the information each week. We found the answers online and took turns creating accounts and running a trial-period to gain access to the full responses. Everything was online; teachers reused the same material and, overtime, people answered them online through sites like Quizlet and Chegg. There were five of us in the group, so we’d rotate each week—at some point, we had to each make a fake account as we approached the thirty-five-day mark. It was easy—the Internet took away the point of learning.

I felt guilty for not educating myself properly, but justified cheating by the fact that Stats played no role in my path as an English major. The school required students to take classes outside of their focus in order to produce well-rounded graduates. I understood it, but I didn’t support it. I always thought of it as a waste of my money. I gathered up loans to take classes I would never remember nor use in my career. Everyone had to do it, so I sucked it up and learned statistics.

The group became more than acquaintances but not quite friends. I liked them enough to converse about school-talk, like drama, classes, professors, and graduating. Sometimes, we got into realer subjects, like current events or personal lives, but I mostly listened. I let them rant about politics if they wanted and they’d listen to me ramble about the importance of Shakespeare and how his works were still studied hundreds of years after his death. They became angered once, accusing Shakespeare of blatant sexism and other isms within his works. “Well, yeah,” I countered, “it was literally the sixteen-hundreds. That was normal.” They didn’t care for my answer, but it was true. Times were different then; women were second-class citizens and it was the norm. It went to the extent of casting men to play female-roles in his plays. Ironically, cross-dressing was more acceptable than allowing women to play women.

The school pushed a left-leaning agenda, though it claimed to allow opinions of all backgrounds. While the university may have held up their part, the professors and their students didn’t. Politics always found their way into the classroom and often led to tangents about how terrible the other side was. I respected it in the sense that it was different than high school. College gave educators the freedom to include their personal beliefs into lecture, allowing for diverse styles of education and offering perspective. I didn’t particularly identify with a lot of what I heard, but I enjoyed their side. I wasn’t enrolled in school to debate politics; I wanted my degree and I wanted to get a job.

           My group of friends enjoyed themselves at school. They were in a mindset young and innocent enough to enjoy college. I envied them, but I didn’t show it.

“My trial’s up, who’s next?” asked Sam. She was arguably the smartest one of our group. I wasn’t sure about her background or her major, but I could tell by the way she presented herself that she was a step ahead of most kids in our school.

“I can go,” answered Scooter. We called him that when the professor mispronounced his last name on the first day of class. He clarified it was supposed to be pronounced: Scouter. He claimed he didn’t mind the nickname, so it stuck the whole time we were friends. Scooter, Sam, myself, Annie, and Geoff made up the group. We were all different, individual people from a variety of backgrounds. Those kinds of classes brought undergraduates like us together because we all needed to take them for credit. Students opted into supposedly easier classes like statistics or environment courses so they could fulfill different requirements. What we grew to understand was that the course description was only as easy as the professor made it. Instructors had the power to make or break a course. I could’ve enrolled in an environment course and, if the professor wanted to, they could have taught theoretical physics. To cover their back, they’d relate it back to the environment at the end of each lecture. It was a broken system.

Geoff showed up after that. We always met in the common area located in the building we had Stats in. He found us with ease, accompanied by someone I didn’t immediately recognize. “Hey guys,” he dragged a second chair from the adjacent table for his companion. “This is my buddy, Stan,” we all nodded and a few verbally greeted him. “Do y’all think he could join?”

“Oh, you’re in our class?” Asked Sam. I was relieved I wasn’t the only one who didn’t recognize him.

“I’m in the other section,” was his answer. I didn’t recall a second time-slot for the course when I signed up months prior, but it could’ve been something I glossed over. The group looked around at one another for answers, like we all wanted someone else to be the mean one and deny the request. We had a dynamic that worked; we were a group small enough to share answers but not big enough to get us in trouble for constantly having the same responses. None of us wanted to risk an outsider joining the group that could’ve potentially ratted us out.

“I don’t like anyone in class, but you guys seem cool,” he added. It was an odd thing to say, like he was trying to kiss up to us. We were just a study group, not any kind of superior organization. Once the class was over, I would’ve never talked to any of them ever again—at least, I wasn’t going to. I didn’t know if any of them would’ve stayed in contact the following semester. Throwing Stan into the mix would’ve thrown off our chemistry, but I didn’t want to be the one to tell him that.

Something wasn’t right about Stan. He claimed not to like anyone even though he wasn’t in our class. After some thought, Sam decided to speak for the rest of us, “Yeah, that’s fine.” It was short and simple, but I still wasn’t a fan.

“You people are great,” he said as he quickly sat down.

“You people?” questioned Annie. Her voice was full of offence and a small amount of disgust, like he had insulted us. The suggestion was that we were somehow different from everyone and therefore inferior. I didn’t hear it that way.

“No, like, you guys.”

“Guys?” she challenged again. I was beginning to understand why I didn’t like him so much. His mysterious lack of presence; his misunderstanding of social cues; something about his presence bared a weight like he was followed by a choir of ghosts.

“You’re literally Satan,” I accused.

“You need to watch your microaggressions, Stan,” agreed Annie.

“What? No, he’s literally Satan.” I realized it was I was spewing the words from my mouth. His overwhelming presence accompanied by the fake name gave it away. He also had little horns growing through a full head of thick, black hair.

“That’s insane—he just needs to watch his words.”

“I’m telling you I’m right, look at him!” I pointed a finger at Satan who parted his hair to hide his markings. I noticed, too, the fiery-red eyes that disappeared as he looked down. He was disguised as a college student looking to finish his degree in hospitality or something, but I saw straight through him. It started an argument; the group accused me of bullying him for being different. We fought across our table before I finally had enough, storming off and telling them to hang out with Satan instead of me. I knew I’d have to learn statistics, but I wasn’t going to succumb to his presence.

***

A week following the invasion, I found that I knew nothing about the class. I became hopeless as I received my first failing grade of the course. I knew I couldn’t fail—I needed to pass to graduate on time. I decided to corner so-called Stan and get to the bottom of who he was. I left class, waiting by the usual meeting spot of the group and looked around for him. I hoped he would be alone. Crowds of students filled the common area as classes let out. I looked for the dark hair through the masses. He may have replaced me, but I would pass the class—I was sure of it.

I found him quickly. His walk was convincing and he almost looked human. I began my approach, speed-walking through groups of friends and individual kids. I maneuvered my way to him before he could reach the table, assuring no on saw what I was up to. I felt it again: that same presence of excess weight. The looming feeling that grew and grew as I was feet away from the kid who stole my spot in the group.

“Stan,” I said. I was behind him, only separated by a couple of students. If I wanted to be rude, I could’ve reached through them and grabbed his shoulder to get his attention. The students around looked at me, being distracted by the voice in the crowd. They realized it was a name and disregarded me as someone looking for their friend. I called again, but he didn’t hear me—or maybe he was ignoring me. I grew angry, trying one last attempt, “Satan!” I yelled through a forcefully muffled voice. That time, no one turned their head to look; my voice traveled through a tunnel, assuring it only led to his ears. He stopped dead in his track, causing me to catch my own balance as I came to a halt behind him.

His neck snapped around, followed by the rest of his body in two separate motion. “Ah, Mr. Falstaff. Greetings.” His voice was different than the innocent, nervous one I had heard before. It sent a chilling feeling through my ears and down my body, curling my toes as it rushed through my veins. He knew my last name—I knew for a fact I never gave it to him.

“You’re literally Satan,” I insisted, stuttering my way through the words. I blinked and we were gone—I looked around to find an empty room that replaced the hallways of students. We were in a windowless chamber of grey walls lit up by a single, overhanging chandelier. The two of us were sat at a table, like I was being interrogated. I rubbed my eyes, closing them and pressing my fingertips against my eyelids before opening them back up to find the same scene.

“Mr. Falstaff, you want to pass Statistics, correct?”

I fumbled over my words again, feeling unable to speak in his presence, “Yes.”

“I have, in front of you, my offer,” he slid a cream piece of paper towards me. I guided my finger underneath it, picking it up and holding it to my face to read the print on it. It was a thick paper, heavy like it carried the weight of the words on its surface. I took the time to scan the piece; summed up, I would pass the class. I would become an immediate wiz in all fields of statistics for the remainder of the semester. Assignments would receive only A’s as I effortlessly blew through them for the next couple of months. In exchange for my temporary gift, I was to offer my soul permanently.

I traced my fingertips along the border of the page, fidgeting as I made my decision. My friends and I may have parted, but I could’ve shown them. I could’ve passed the class with far better grades than any of them without the effort of cheating the system. I’d show them that I didn’t need the group to be the best I could be. I looked down at the table to find a pen, setting the page down and picking it up. Satan sat across from me, positioned upright with intertwined fingertips as I scribbled my signature on the bottom line. Just as I finished, the page grew warm as his own sign burned itself into the page before sizzling into permanence.

“Pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Falstaff,” he stood up. The force of his motions caused me to as well and I met him in the middle for a firm handshake. I had made a deal and I would show everyone that I was capable of passing Stats. As we locked our grip, the room began to spin in front of my eyes. I watched as students phased in around me—or perhaps it was me appearing in front of them.

The familiar sight of the common area returned; light spilled in through the windows while students made their way to their classes. As we stood in the middle of the crowd, we unlocked hands and he turned to leave. Spinning on his heals, he headed in the direction of the table of friends I no longer needed. I looked down at my hand, finding an engravement embedded underneath the top layer of skin. It appeared to be the letter S with horns pointing out of the top, carved like it had traced by a blade heated to a thousand degrees. Statistically speaking, a hundred percent of people acquire a scar at some point in their life.