Atmosphere by Michael Laimo

she fathomed, as he wore dark, impenetrable sunglasses.
    He was completely bald.
    Jaimie felt a burning sensation in her gut, a bubbling acid of alarm rising from deep within her bowels as she tried to calculate whether this was the same person as the man on the subway train. Had he followed her for some sick, insane reason? Dear God, she prayed not.
    She took a tentative step forward, legs wobbling as she returned his gaze. Quickly his countenance registered in her tired mind and she could see that this bald man's features were different from the last: the nose bigger, body stouter, lips fuller. And his clothes were different too. Although donned entirely in black like the man on the subway, this stranger wore pants instead of jeans, and no leather jacket.
    Different person.
    But so damned frighteningly similar.
    Then she caught sight of something else, something so bizarre that it scared her for real this time, and she gripped her gut in vain attempt to curb those out-of-control acids burning a hole in her stomach. Truly, she was unable to tear her sights away from the strange picture before her.
    Still staring directly at her—or so it seemed—the student had a pencil gripped in his right fist, fingers wrapped tightly around it. He was haphazardly running it back and forth across the surface of the exam booklet on his desk, creating a dark blotchy layering of lead that virtually covered the entire front page like a glossy paint.
    He grinned, viciously wide, seemingly in response to the tremble in Jaimie's bottom lip.
    Like the man on the subway.  
    She found the strength to tear her feet from the carpeted floor and headed for the exits, feeling two vicious eyes boring holes in her back. Before finally escaping through the doors, she willed herself to spin her sights back one last time, to convince her burdened mind that the eerie image was indeed real and not drummed up within her imagination. The student was still there, newly shorn head reflecting shinily within the dusty neon lamps—just as she had seen him seconds earlier.
    However, to her surprise—and relief as well—his stare had not followed her. Instead, he remained in the same seated position, camouflaged eyes watching the spot she just vacated. Apparently he wasn't looking at her.
    So then who was he staring at?
    Following the straightforwardness of his gaze, Jaimie quickly searched the point of his observance and beheld a familiar sight.
    Another male student sat amidst a circle of empty seats, pinned by the glimpse of the bald student. A freshman by the young looks of him, his exam lay folded neatly on the desk in front of him. He wore a sweater, jeans, and had a pair of walkman headphones wrapped around his neck. Undoubtedly mindless to his surroundings, he returned the catatonic gaze, eyes glossed with moisture.
    Shivering at the familiar, yet unusually eerie sight, Jaimie finally fled the confines of the lecture hall.
    A wash of neon fell upon her eyes, the brighter lights from above temporarily blinding her. Squinting, she hurriedly paced down the oval-shaped hall, around the corner to a small student lounge area where she had plans to meet Tracy Shueler and Barbara Hall. Arriving there, she leaned against the back of a chair, breathing heavily, watching over her shoulder just in case...
    A hand gripped her elbow from her blind side.
    Jaimie leaped, yanking her arm away with a gasp. She spun, backpedaling.
    "Whoa," Tracy said, raising her hands in a defensive posture. The black sweater she wore hung upon her skinny frame like a loose curtain on a rod. "You a little tensed-up today?"
    Jaimie relaxed her shoulders, clearing her face of a wave of hair that escaped her scrunchie. She loosed her knapsack, placed it on the orange vinyl couch next to them, and sat on the armrest. "You scared the shit outta me," she said, blowing out a lungful of air.
    Tracy smiled, however weakly, placing the black canvas bookbag she carried next to Jaimie's