Ghost Program by Marion Desaulniers Page A

liquid.  As usual, I found a desk and placed my backpack underneath, then watched as the other students filed into the classroom, most of them talking quietly to each other as they pulled out their lab books.  In this class as well, I noticed a few empty seats.  Mr. Breame entered the classroom, his handsome face smiling pleasantly while he took a pen out of his pocket to mark attendance.  He called my name, and I raised my hand.  I could’ve been mistaken, but it seemed as if he made eye contact with me for a moment longer than anyone else and in spite of his amiable and professional comportment, his dark eyes seemed shifty and cold as if they betrayed his true character.  I looked down at my desk suddenly uncomfortable and hoped he didn’t sense my unease.  Not that it should have mattered, I didn’t really know the guy or care what he thought of me.  His personal opinions of me surely wouldn’t affect my grade.
     
       I suddenly remembered my project and reached inside my backpack.  I palmed the thumb drive and typed manual and shoved my chair back.  Walking to the front of the room, I saw Mr. Breame staring at me again, his dark gaze locked onto my body.  Nervously, tentatively, I cleared my throat as I stood before his desk piled high with books and papers.  He looked almost angry for a moment, then smiled politely.
       “Can I help you with something, miss?”
       “I-I....want to turn my project in,” I choked out.
       “This early?  It’s not due for another two weeks.”
       “I know.”
       “That’s fine.  Is that it there?  In your hand?”  He rudely snatched the manual out of my hand. 
     
       He hadn’t seen the thumb drive because it was in my fist.  I handed the small disk to him.  He flipped through the first few pages of my software manual, his cheeks turning ruddy, and I could’ve almost sworn that he became excited.
       “And what is this?” he demanded.
       “It’s Casper.”
       He suddenly seemed softer, gentler towards me.  “Very nice,” he said.  “I had one other student turn in a project early so you’re not alone.”  He smiled again.  “Is there anything else I can help you with?”
       “No,” I said.  Behind me came the sound of the students tapping their keyboards as well as a few coughs and murmurs.  The minute hand on the hanging clock made a tick as it clicked forward.
     
       Mr. Breame turned around and dropped the thumb drive into a box of supplies on the desk, but not before marking it with a piece of masking tape on which he’d scribbled my name.  He sat on his soft chair, reading my printed software instructions and licking his lips.  I couldn’t understand Mr. Breame’s strange behavior towards me, one minute seeming downright hostile and the next polished and mannerly.  Was it because he hated women or did he just not like me personally?  Maybe I was reading too much into his behavior and making assumptions about a man I knew nothing about.
     
       I remembered so well the Mr. Breame from my dream, a falsehood that looked and felt so much like the real one in the classroom.  Today he wore the same outfit my mind had imagined that night, a starched, plaid shirt complete with several pens in the front pocket, thick-rimmed glasses perched on his nose.  I’d never had so much as a single interest or thought about the guy until last night, so why would I dream about him?
     
       I sat down to my programming lab, and the tasks in my lab book kept my mind off of my insecurities.  Although the lab work was routine and uninteresting, there was a certain comfort to be had in the simple, typed instructions as they provided for me a realm in which existed only logic, predictability, and reason.  So unlike the world my Casper software had shown me, a dark place filled with uncertainty and emotion. 
     
       I soon finished my assignment, saved my work to disk, placed my lab book in my backpack, and left