“I’m afraid there’s nothing more we can do.” The registrar motions to the door, and panic zips through me.
“There must be something,” I plead, looking up from my phone. “I can improve my grades, or—”
“Yes, that would have been possible if you’d engaged in the probation process, Miss Prescott, but you chose not to, and it’s no longer an option.”
“But—”
“The best course of action at this point,” she continues coolly, “would be to enroll in a community college to improve your grades, then reapply next year.”
Community college?
I almost laugh at the suggestion. No way would my father allow that.
Oh, God. My father. He’s going tokillme. My stomach hollows at the realization.
She continues to speak, but I can’t hear the words. Static fills my head as I try to process what’s happening. I couldn’t keep up with the workload, couldn’t stay on top of things like everyone else seems to manage so effortlessly, and it’s finally caught up with me.
I’ve flunked out of college.
I’m a failure.
Humiliated tears press at my eyes, and I try to blink them away. The registrar motions to her office door again, indicating the conversation is over, and I rise from the chair in a daze, limbs struggling to cooperate. There’s a line outside her office, and I push past a few people, but don’t register their reactions. I can’t do anything other than stumble out of the building into the icy January air, numb with shock.
How could I have let this happen?
I tremble as I lean against the brick wall of the school I’ve attended for the past two and a half years. The school my father fought to get me into, using his connections to secure a place for me, despite my protests. Did I want to follow in Dad’s footsteps as an architect? I don’t know. I’ve never known. But when I got fired from yetanothermenial job and Dad jumped down my throat, it seemed easier to agree to college to get him off my back, especially when he insisted on covering my tuition.
Of course, that didn’t get him off my back at all. If anything, it only made him more involved in my life.
Starting college at twenty-three wasn’t great, but even worse was the way it felt like every class was a struggle. I couldn’t get my head around things like the switch from AutoCAD to Revit, couldn’t get my brain to retain the dry, bureaucratic rules about zoning laws, and don’t even get me started on the math. Who knew there was so much math involved? Honestly. Kill me now.
My favorite part of the course was when I could be creative, but even then I managed to fuck up, like when I had to make the model for my renewable design project and spent so long perfecting it that I missed the deadline. I just wanted it to be as good as it looked in my head, but it never turned out right.
Nothing ever does, for me.
A fact of which my father will be all too happy to remind me when he learns I’ve ruined yet another thing in my life. That I’m once again back to square one, with no solid plans for my future.
Tears threaten again, but I force myself to take a few deep breaths. The frigid winter air fills my lungs, bringing me back into my body, and I shove thoughts of my father from my mind as I try to get my head on straight.
Underneath my fears about Dad, under the sting of humiliation at having failedagain, there’s another feeling. One I’m not used to.
Relief.
And if I let myself bereallyhonest, I can acknowledge how much the past few years have worn me down. How I can’t imagine going back there after this reprieve, even if they allowed it. I hadn’t realized how burned out I’d felt, but having that weight lifted from me is enough for my body to release the tension it’s held for so long.
Finally. It’s over.
My phone buzzes in my coat pocket, and I pull it out to see Dad’s name on the screen. I stiffen, any relief I felt vanishing, and I reject the call, shoving my phone away. I can’t deal with him now.
But as I head wearily out through the campus gates, my boots wet from the slush of last night’s snowfall, my phone buzzes again with another call, then another, then with a text. With unsteady hands, I pull it out to see a message from Dad.
Dad: Answer your damn phone, Iris.
Shit.
Does he know already? Is that possible?
No, I tell myself.Of course he doesn’t know.
