While the rest of the class files out, Professor Meyers steadies herself against the edge of her desk, waiting until it’s just the two of us. Something in the silence feels like the earliest stages of a future recurring nightmare. When the last student leaves, she looks me square in the eye, and I’m shocked that I don’t instantly turn to stone, ice, or an anxious mess.
“How are you doing, Murphy?”
How am I doing? With regards to what? Her hopelessly vague question garners a hopelessly vague response. “I’m all right, I guess.”
“You guess?” she prods. “How are you feeling about the exam?”
My nerves settle a little. We’re talking about school. Good.
“I feel…all right.” I’m repeating myself, but I don’t have a better word. “Not bad, not good.”
“How’d the study guide go?”
“Better than last semester.”
The pitying look on her face says what we both know.It’s not hard to do better than last semester.
“I, uh. I did the math on my grade, and I think I might pass ifI can somehow manage to pull off a ninety-eight on the exam,” I say.
Kara lifts one brow, reaching behind her for her laptop. “I think that’s backward. It should be eighty-nine.” She clicks her trackpad a few times, all of her frown lines making an appearance as she scrolls, then puts the laptop back in its place and punches a few numbers into her phone calculator. It’s reassuring to know that even an accounting professor doesn’t trust her mental math. After a few more audibly heavy-handed taps, she rotates her phone toward me, showing off the giant white number on the screen: 0.891. I may suck at math, but even I know that’s eighty-nine percent. “That’s what you need.”
My gaze bounces from the calculator up to her face, checking for any tells. The flat line of her mouth doesn’t budge an inch. Why did she know the score I needed already? Did she bump my grade up out of mercy since I last checked it, or did I really do the math wrong? The second seems more likely, but neither are impossible. Either way, the difference between an A and a B+ may not be much, but it’s the jump between “almost perfect score” and “normal grade that normal people get.” I could be normal people, if I study really hard. Maybe.
“You’ve taken this final before,” Professor Meyers says, as if I need the reminder. “I haven’t changed it. Really focus on the study guide and the back half of the textbook.”
“Got it. I will. I mean I have been.” I straighten a little, collecting myself. “Thanks, Professor Meyers.”
“Just Kara is fine.”
“Thanks, Kara.” Her name feels as clunky on my tongue as it did last week.
“That wasn’t the reason I asked you to hang back though.” She shuffles behind her desk, her eyes darting around in search of…what? A letter from Ellie? A secret advance copy of the final exam with the answers all filled in? She reaches under her desk and pulls out a big pink bowl with a matching pink lid. Ah, right. My Tupperware. Of course.
“I hope it’s all right that we finished the puppy chow.” When she hands the container off, something jostles inside. If not puppy chow, then what?
“Is there something in here?”
Kara shrugs, but her lips hint at a smile. “Something from Ellie.”
I slip a thumb beneath the lid, preparing to pop it open, then stop myself at the last second. Given the events of the last few days, I think keeping Kara in the dark is for the best. “Great,” I say. “Well, I’ll see you on Friday.” I don’t even bother putting on my coat; I grab it with one hand and hold the Tupperware clamped to my torso with the other. Not that it’s heavy, but that if anything happened that might cause me not to find out what’s in here, I’d lose sleep.
“One last question,” Professor Meyers says, catching me just before I slip out the door. “I know Ellie is busy with final projects, but we keep missing each other. Have you heard from her lately?”
“Um, not very much.” I guess I had one last lie in me after all.
“All right,” she says. “Thanks, dear.”
“No problem, Professor Kara,” I say, losing my brain entirely.
Outside, the wind is wicked, but the sun is shining, giving me that “frozen turkey under a heat lamp” feeling that Illinois winters always seem to deliver on. I grip my Tupperware tight to keep it from blowing out of my arms. When I reach my car, I toss my backpack in the back seat next to my stash bag and a half dozen empty coffee cups, a small shrine to my vices and a reminder I should clean my car. The Tupperware, however, comes with me to the front seat, and my hands shake just the tiniest bit as I pop the lid off. Inside, the rough edge of a sheet of watercolor paper curls up the side of the bowl, warping a painting of a small brick building with a pine-green awning and a big, white baseball on the front. With a felt tip pen, Ellie has written the name of the bar in crisp black lines: Murphy’s Bleachers. Beneath the awning, there are two tiny figures: a blonde in Yankee navy and a brunette in Cubby blue.
It’s not until I’m home and remove it from the bowl that I realize the painting isn’t all—taped to the back is a page ripped out of a notebook with four short sentences scribbled in black ink.
Kara is thankful for company.
Otto is thankful for the guy who let him borrow the smoker.
Carol is thankful for leftover mashed potatoes.
