“The Mursday Effect” is a humor piece created anonymously by two authors, with each devoting him or herself to an alternating chapter each week. The newest installment in the serial will appear in each Monday issue of The Heights. It can also be found online with the previous chapters.
Though it happened several years ago, one can still hear its name uttered over the sound of frozen mozzarella sticks rolling around the Mac kitchen. When one passes the statue of St. Ignatius, the wind whispers the same song. The space where the occasional mouse skitters out into one’s suite, too, carries this sound, singsongy in tune.
“Mursday. Mursday.”
By now many of those who experienced that fateful day have gone on to their Great Reward—graduation and a high-paying job, as it is—but the remnants of the events pervade in those who dare to speak it out loud.
“There were so many snow days on Monday they switched the schedule around,” Darren Blake, young enough to not remember who Aaron Carter is and CSOM ’20, says in the Chocolate Bar to someone who also knows nothing about the world.
The truth is, Mursday was more than Boston College holding Monday classes on Thursday. Some have forgotten this by now. Many never even knew. This is the story of what really happened on Mursday 2015, and the events that occurred because of it.
***
George awoke Mursday morning late for his 9 a.m. economics class, and it took him a moment to realize that, due to these Mursday shenanigans, he didn’t actually have that class today. So more accurately, it should be said that George awoke quite early for his noon accounting class, but that does not adequately capture the acute anxiety with which George awoke and looked at his phone. The relief set in, and George felt even more soothed by the absence of his roommate, Trent, in their double in Fitzpatrick. He was the worst—constantly chatting about the drone he had purchased specifically to play fetch with his dog.
He sat up in his bed, his legs hanging off the side as he made the precarious jump down from the somewhat lofted bed. He meandered six feet over to his desk, which was littered with lightly used textbooks. He noticed at the top of the pile a certain $300 purple book for his accounting class. That’s weird, he thought. He could have sworn that book was blue. Without considering this perplexing matter further, he stuffed it into his bag and walked out the door.
George settled down into one of the high tables at Mac with his Egg McBC, the thinner alternative to the bagel, egg, and cheese. Those sandwiches weren’t even out that day. George took notice of this, mostly because the ham in the Egg McBC tasted of Lunchables, but continued eating anyway. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Trent balancing three take-away containers.
“Hey, George!” Trent shouted, prompting looks from several irritated students.
He jumped up a little in his chair at the enthusiasm in Trent’s voice. Trent was a notorious monotone talker. What was he doing yelling across Mac like some kind of cordial human? How had he already not said something about his dumb drone?
“Hey, Trent. What’s going on?” George mumbled halfheartedly, as one does when he or she has to interact with someone he or she does not like.
“Nothing much! I’m enjoying this change in schedule. But I really do miss my pet turtle at home,” Trent said.
“You have a turtle? I thought it was only your dog, Howard,” George said. “The one you got the drone for.”
“A drone? Where would I even get one of those? And for a dog, no less! You okay, George?”
Trent’s brows were furrowed, showing a concerned look George had never seen before. Was he okay? Things seemed different from yesterday.
“I’m fine, thanks. I have to go to class now,” George said as he leapt down from the chair, hurrying off to Fulton.
As he entered Fulton 135, George already felt like the weight of the world was slowly crushing him—someone had taken his seat. This is the worst thing to ever happen to me, he thought. I will never recover from this. He slipped into an open spot in the first row. It truly was a terrible thing.
“Okay, folks, time to whip out your calculators and do some accounting!” George’s professor said. She looked down at his poor, sad face in his unfortunate seat. He took out his calculator and purple textbook and got to work on a problem: a $10,000 loan with 6 percent interest due at the end of the fiscal year.
“That should be $600,” George whispered to himself, which does not happen much in real life but does for the sake of written pieces. But the calculator showed 582. George looked back at his old seat longingly, the space occupied by a curly-haired teenager who was slamming the buttons on her calculator, clearly experiencing the same mathematical impossibilities.
What kind of bizarre world was this? Where colors changed, personalities twisted, and not even math, beautiful logical math, could be trusted?
After class, George spotted the girl hurrying out of the room as she threw a worried glance over her shoulder. He quickened his pace and caught up to her by the statue of St. Ignatius. He pulled his calculator out of his pocket, flashing the 582 in her face. She looked back at him, her mouth agape (which means open, not to be confused with the Latin agape, from the latte thing).
“Meet me in McGuinn 110 at 3 p.m.,” she said.
Featured Image by Zoe Fanning / Heights Editor
