Week Four, Part 1 - Honest to a Fault

Early on Monday morning, I drive up to Notre Dame Law School. In the passenger seat beside me are my laptop case and a sack lunch. Today I’m brown-baggin’ it as my Igloo, a red and white mini-cooler, has disappeared. Granted, the Igloo’s not chic, but I’m still peeved. The cooler has served me well for ten years.

Just south of the football stadium, I drive through an automatic gate into my assigned parking lot. It’s reserved for grad students, and most of the cars are from out of state. Since I’ve been a Hoosier for almost a year, my Toyota Corolla has an Indiana license plate. It’s awful – a garish sunset over a silhouetted barnyard. “Amber waves of grain” reads the slogan. I zip past a Ford Explorer and two Jeep Grand Cherokees. Further on is a GMC Jimmy with a “LWYR 2 B” vanity plate. Must be nice, I think. I park in the corner between the Mendoza College of Business and Senior Bar, the on-campus drinking establishment.

It’s about a half mile to the law school. I walk across the street and past Notre Dame stadium. For being hallowed ground to so many, the facility is unimposing, more like a brown-brick warehouse. There’s no landscaping around it. Not even grass. Just blacktop now being used for faculty parking.

At the law library, I look around for my Igloo cooler. No luck. I settle in and review my case briefs. Preparation-wise, Monday is bearable. There are only two classes and I’ve had all weekend to prep. My biggest worry is that I haven’t been called on yet. Socratic Stress Syndrome ("SSS"), they call it, and I’ve got a bad case.

I make small talk with Heath Weaver, a fellow 1L. He’s a little younger than I am, married, wearing a snazzy sweater vest. His claim to fame is that he actually grew up in South Bend. On top of his books is a LSAT study guide. I joke that Notre Dame is making him retake the entrance exam.

“No, no,” he says. “Once was enough.” He tells me that he teaching an LSAT review course for Kaplan.

I shiver. “Glad to have all that behind me.”

He laughs. “Why, what’d you get?”

I blink in surprise. How well one did on the LSAT is a personal question.

“About the 85th percentile,” I say, rounding up a smidge. Since it’s obvious he wants to tell me, I ask Heath his score.

He says, “94.”

“That great,” I say, trying to sound gracious. “What was your secret?”

Heath says he prepared for one entire year.

“A year!” I say. “Then you should’ve gotten at least a 96.”

Heath looks offended, so I slap him on the arm. “Just kiddin’.”

Lunch is quick as my new bag only holds half of what the Igloo did. Where did I leave it? Then, between bites of ham sandwich, I remember. Last Friday, as I was loading my car, I set it down on the sidewalk behind Senior Bar.

I hurry out the parking lot. Back under an elm tree, right where I parked on Friday, sits a red and white cooler. Sure enough, it’s mine, sour milk and all.

Wow! I can’t believe no one walked off with it. Either there are a lot of honest students at Notre Dame or none of them would be caught dead with an Igloo.

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