I would cry if I wasn’t so dehydrated. I’m in shock. This is like a goddamn sleep paralysis nightmare. I’m a spectator in my own story, staring through a sullied looking glass.
“Does this mean…” My voice trails off, anxiety spiking in my belly. I feel like I’m going to be sick. I don’t want to speak the next words into existence, but I have no choice.
“Am I getting fired?”
There it is. The nuclear explosion—one that scatters radioactive ashes, displaces a twenty-foot tsunami, and shatters the ground into brittle segments.
Mrs. Winslow, strangely, doesn’t seem afflicted by any ounce of hopelessness. Her frown lifts into a small half smile, emphasizing the age-old crinkles by her eyes. “No, Staten, you’re not getting fired. You just need to pick up more clients to cover the cost of the donor’s scholarship aid.”
She says it like the solution is so…simple. This would be so much easier if there was some magical list of all the struggling students that need tutoring help.
And it’s not just a matter of finding clients. I’m out approximately two thousand dollars. I’d drown before I could paddle to a rogue piece of driftwood. Either my workload will increase beyond what’s manageable, or I luck out with a wealthy client who becomes my sugar daddy—sans sexual arrangements, of course.
How could I possibly find someone generous enough to help someone like me? If I’ve learned anything while clawingmy way through the lower class, it’s that offers from those with money to burn in their cashmere pockets often come with a caveat.
Holy shit. I need to fix this before my mom finds out. Shecan’tfind out.
Look on the bright side, Staten. At least you’re still employed.
I must have disassociated because Mrs. Winslow pokes her face into my field of vision. “Staten? Are you okay?”
Schooling my expression, I paste on a hollow grimace, though I’m pretty sure I look constipated at best. “Yeah, sorry. I’m…I’m good. Just trying to recall if I know anyone who’s in need of tutoring.”
She nods, setting her paper packet of evil aside. “Maybe start with peers in your current classes? I’m sure there are plenty of students who are struggling with the curriculum. Things tend to get rockier during exam season.”
Class. That’s a good start. I have Intro to Literature for my next period, so maybe I’ll be able to interrogate some of my classmates. You know, in a nonthreatening way.
I can fix this. I don’t need anyone’s help, and nobody needs to know that I’m as poor as a church mouse. I’m not going to let my ex-donor ruin this for me. Like the tarot reading I got done by that Etsy witch for an alarmingly low price said, I’m in charge of my own destiny.
And, Destiny, hold onto your vagina, because you’re about to get fucked.
Intro to Literature:a junior-level class that I got into as a sophomore. Luckily for me, I excel when it comes to English, and judging by the tirade Professor Hardwin gave the entire class following the latest exam, there are plenty of students who could benefit from my magic touch.
Professor Hardwin is a stickler when it comes to missed midterms, but after I told him about my dance with death, he was more than willing to let me make up the test. A gift from God, if you ask me. I aced it, of course. Ninety-five percent. And that was with half my brain on medical leave.
Mr. Hardwin analyzes his students with an overly critical eye, his intimidating loafers clacking around the front of the lecture hall.
Reber Hall is one of the most stunning buildings on campus, inspired by a Gothic architectural style that looks like it was pulled straight out of the history books and plopped into our blip-on-the-map ghost town. Barely anybody knows about Maple Grove. Hidden in overgrown ivy and off the well-trodden path, it’s frozen in perpetual fog and a velarium of nimbus clouds, always the uneasy pit stop rather than the final destination.
Fall is sort of like a constant year-round, home to the world’s largest sugar maples and congregations of cobblestone houses with vine-twined bargeboards and pointed-arched windows. Weathered, reclaimed by nature. Even the downtown area is small—a quad enclosed by mom-and-pop shops, ranging from a cinnamon spice bakery, a little antique thrift store, a clothing boutique with an entirely handmade catalog, and a three-story bookstore that I’ve lost hours in. Everything is very old-fashioned here. A lost art, especially with the gentrification of eastern Minnesota.
Minnesota University has an air about it that’s inexplicably peculiar. Some people swear that this particular wing of the college is haunted, but I think it’s just old. There’s a beauty in that, though.
Instead of an empire chandelier, there’s a large skylight above us—one that allows mango hues of sun to rinse over the classroom mid-morning. Maroon chairs are tucked against thirty-inch-long, mahogany-carved tables, and a stainedchalkboard is mounted on the far wall. Lastly, there’s a matching flight of stairs that bisects the lecture hall like an inlet cleaving through towering sea stacks.
“Can anyone tell me what F. Scott Fitzgerald’s purpose is in using unreliable narration and what effect it has inThe Great Gatsby?”
No hands go up. In fact, it’s deader in here than the last day of hell week. Participation is usually grim, especially since our professor takes sick pleasure in making an example out of any student who gets his questions wrong. There’s a reason this class is mandatory for all juniors. Nobody in their right mind would sign up for it otherwise.
Since the class is on the smaller side, it comes as no surprise when I raise my hand, and a groan somewhere in the far back permeates the musty room. I practically haveOVERACHIEVERwritten in black ink on my forehead.
It’s honestly not the worst thing to be in college. Sure, my affinity for good grades has infected my social life with its nerd germs, but throwing myself to the goddamn wolves on a Friday night isn’t durable in the long run. I’m not going to look back on my college years and reminisce about that time Stacy from Tri Delta had to get her stomach pumped. I’m going to be at my impressive job, making a name for myself and raking in seven figures annually.
Plus, I wouldn’t last five minutes at a party. It’s true what those coming-of-age movies say: the socially inept have no place amongst the popularly inclined. A class division exists for a reason.
Professor Hardwin, as usual, ignores my recurring hand. “Mr. Mulligan, care to answer for the class? You do look oh-so entertained by the topic at hand,” he sneers, sarcasm leaking into his hoity-toity tone.
I have no idea who this “Mulligan” classmate of mine is.The seat he’s in right now is a few rows ahead of me, and it’s normally unoccupied. From the back, he’s got a decent head of brown hair, but the slouch in his posture couldn’t be more indicative of his hatred for this class.
