Our world is dependent on cause and effect. Simple things like what we eat for breakfast, or who happens to sit next to us in the cafeteria. These seemingly meaningless events mold and shape the subsequent course of our life. The following excerpt is from the beginning my original novel, Near the End of June. Throughout the narrative, June’s world is split into two due to a mundane difference that leads to cataclysmically different ends. Add in a mysterious death and a sprinkle of romance, the story toes the line between suspense and contemplation.

If Al, then June

The time was 9:17 and the blue roses on Dr. McAdams’ desk were wilting. They’d been my focus for the past 16 minutes, as it was fundamentally impossible to focus on philosophy before 10:00 am.

Variations of the quadratic formula spilled onto the margins of one of my notebooks. The other was much tamer in comparison; it contained a few awkwardly spaced philosophical arguments. I felt bad for them, even the pencil lead was fading.

“All right, let’s review,” Dr. McAdams said with way too much enthusiasm for nine in the morning. “Can anyone give me an example modus ponens argument?”

The silence was as uncomfortable as it was predictable. After the longest nine seconds of my life, Al raised his hand as we all knew he would.

“Go for it, Al,” she said, her voice deflating.

“If I am thirsty, then I should drink water, I am thirsty, therefore, I should drink water.” Dr. McAdams smiled and unscrewed the cap of her dry erase marker.

“Excellent, thank you Al,” she said.

A pause ensued while the rest of the class waited to see who would be sacrificed for the sake of philosophy. “Gunner, how about you?”

A black hood in the back row slid ever so slightly, revealing a sullen Gunner with one ear occupied by a headphone and the other by six piercings.

“What?” he asked, his lack of attentiveness plastered his face. To her credit, Dr. McAdams, didn’t get upset, but merely repeated her question.

“Can you give us an example?” she asked. Gunner scratched the wrist of his sweatshirt.

“Yeah, I think I’ve got something.” I shifted in my seat, anticipating the severity of his next sentence instinctively. “If a student has died, then we should not have class. A student has died; therefore, we should not have class.”

A blue petal hit the linoleum as every eye in the classroom avoided the empty seat in the third row.

Gunner tucked his headphone back into his left ear like he had just made a comment about the weather. The boys who had been joking around in the third row fell silent, and a collective breath drained the room.

“What are you doing?” said Ethan, a social studies education major with a mouth almost as big as his head.

“We were all thinking it,” he said, shrugging.

“I’m pretty sure that was just you,” Ethan retorted.

“Boys please,” said Dr. McAdams. Her voice was coated with a teary film making it difficult to make out certain syllables. “The university has put out a statement concerning the return to class. If you do not feel comfortable returning, you can leave without academic repercussions,” she said. If I remembered correctly, that was a direct quote from the university’s statement. “I know that the . . . incident with Lily is difficult, but we have to return to normal at some point,” she said. Apparently, four days and a memorial service was ‘some point.’

No one knew Lily more intimately than a hair color and a collection of discussion posts, but still; one day she was sitting in the empty chair in the third row and the next she wasn’t. Dr. McAdams cleared her throat and reached for a light blue cup on her desk.

“Alright, let’s get started on those projects. I’m going to split you into your partners,” she said, grabbing the popsicle sticks which would be appropriate if we were in second grade. After picking a few pairs, Dr. McAdams found my name. “June . . . and Al.”

______________________________________________________________________________

If Ethan, then June

The time was 9:17 and the red roses on Dr. McAdams’ desk were wilting. Heads sat in hands as I scribbled a revised equation onto the margin of my aerospace notebook, my brain relaxing upon the compounding numbers. Equation as anesthetic.

“All right, let’s review,” Dr. McAdams said with three lumps of sugar in her voice. “Can anyone give me an example modus ponens argument?”

I did not have nearly enough coffee in my blood to answer the question, so I focused my attention on Ethan who was messing around with Steven in the third row. Al predictably answered the question in the background of their monkey show. This time they were draping their hoods over their heads and mimicking Gunner, who remained oblivious in the back of the classroom.

“Excellent, thank you Al,” she said, writing his example on the board. “Gunner, how about you?”

“What?” he asked. To her credit, Dr. McAdams repeated her question with limited annoyance.

“Can you give us an example? she asked. Gunner scratched the wrist of his sweatshirt.

“Yeah, I think I’ve got something,” he said. My stomach filled with ice, an omen of the discomfort about to invade. “If a student has died, then we should not have class. A student has died; therefore, we should not have class.”

A red petal hit the linoleum.

“Why would you say that?” asked Al, an English major who spoke four languages. I wasn’t sure what shocked me more, that Gunner had made such a vulgar comment or that Al’s sentence had less than two clauses.

“We were all thinking it,” Gunner said.

“Can you have some respect?” asked Al, his legs rising perplexingly from the chair. It was an unwritten rule that anything to do with Lily was to be omitted from every thought and conversation.

“Boys please, the university has put out a statement concerning the decision to resume classes.” she said. The room stirred in lukewarm discomfort as Dr. McAdams grabbed a red plastic, popsicle stick filled cup from her desk.

“Alright, let’s get started on those projects that I introduced last class,” she said, stirring the names counterclockwise with chipping maroon nails. Dr. McAdam’s pudgy fingers found my name. “June, you will be partnered with . . . let’s see. . . Ethan.”