He releases her into my arms and she slumps against me, accepting her fate. I’m already walking Mia across the dancefloor when she stops short.
‘What about your date?’ she asks, panicked. ‘You can’t just leave.’
‘It’s not a …’ I start to say, turning my head to see the deserted booth. Well, even if it was, it sure as shit isn’t now. ‘Let’s go.’ I put an arm around her shoulders and guide her towards the door. ‘I don’t need you bleeding on these boots. They’re suede.’
‘I’ll do my best.’ She raises her hand above her heart and swallows hard. ‘You’re pretty great in a crisis.’
‘Thanks,’ I say through gritted teeth. ‘Let’s get you to the doc.’
She truly has no idea.
16
Mia
Even though I was so excited to come to Hemden, there were still plenty of things I was worried about before I arrived. Serious issues like meeting new people, figuring out a communal laundry situation and learning to live without every single Oreo variant that might come out while I was away, but it never occurred to me that I might need to worry about my grades. Doing well in school is the one defining quality I’ve always been able to cling to, even when everything else is going to shit.
Or at least it was until today.
‘It’s not a complete failure,per se,’ Dr Quinn is saying, but all I can think about is the essay he’s holding in his hands and the huge 52 written in red pen at the top of the page, circled several times, just to make sure I don’t miss it. ‘But I read your application essay and graded your entrance exam. I expected more. There’s a lack of depth, Ms Meyer, a lack of curiosity. It all felt terribly rushed.’
A rush of nausea threatens to bring up my lunch. A 52. That’s a 2:2 at Hemden, a low C at Marshall and the shittiest grade I’ve seen since I insisted on sitting a high school chem test while suffering from walking pneumonia.
‘I – I’m sorry, I thought I’d done better, I will do better. I mean, I can do better.’
I’m stammering, horrified by the tears that immediately prickle up in my eyes, threatening to make a bad situation even worse. Dr Quinn, an older man who looks more like he should be welcoming me into Jurassic Park than singlehandedly destroying my entire sense of self, passes the paper back to me but I can hardly stand to touch it.
‘My classes aren’t easy, I’m well aware, but nor are they mandatory. You applied to be on this course and as such I expect all my students to apply themselves. I do realize asking twenty-year-olds to read and fully comprehend a Dickens novel in a matter of weeks is an enormous undertaking when you all have the attention span of a mayfly but that’s why I assign the reading at the beginning of the summer. If you didn’t get ahead then you’re already behind and I very much doubt you’ll be able to catch up.’
I squeeze my fists too tightly and my paper crumples in my hands.
‘But I did do the reading,’ I tell him. ‘And I already studiedDavid Copperfieldback at Marshall. I wrote a paper on it last fall, I got an A.’
‘Which tells me more about the practices of that particular institution than your personal ability.’ Dr Quinn sniffs and removes his glasses, cleaning them with a tiny microfibre cloth he pulls from the pocket of his shirt. ‘Standards rarely translate directly from one university to another. I have found this to be particularly true for international and state school students.’
I have never been so embarrassed in my entire life.
‘Things have been a little hectic.’ I’m ignoring the burning behind my eyes and willing the tears not to spill. He does not strike me as someone who would be super comfortable with human emotion. ‘Class only just started and—’
‘We are already at the end of week two, Ms Meyer, and this is a ten-week class. How much longer do you expect you’ll need?’
Quinn cuts me off, already filtering through a stack of other essays on his desk but I can’t make out the brutal bright red scores they’ve received, my vision already blurring.
‘Can I retake the paper?’ I ask, hopeful.
‘That’s not how things are done here. Once work is marked, it is marked. I don’t offer “do-overs”.’
When my parents finally agreed to foot the bill for my tuition, it was on two conditions. One, I got a part-time job to contribute and two, I had to keep my overall grade above a 65. It took months to convince them how much Hemden could do for my future with letters from my professors, endless testimonials from past students I found online, and so many promises from me, and when they finally caved, I celebrated. Not once did it cross my mind that I might struggle with the academic side of things. But this. A 52. If the rest of my grades look the same at the end of the term, there’s no way my parents will let me come back after Christmas.
‘That said, I do appreciate your willingness to improve yourself,’ Dr Quinn says when I don’t speak. ‘And if you intend to pass this class, you will have to. The workload doesn’t get easier. If you can’t raise your score above a 60 on the next essay, I’ll have to assume you aren’t cut out for this level of rigour and ask you to excuse yourself from the class.’
‘But it’s too late to sign up to another module,’ I protest. ‘And if I don’t get enough credits, I can’t pass the year.’
‘Did you know I have the highest rate of Hemden dropouts and repeats of all the classes in the university? I understand some students refer to my class as “the landmine”.’
Am I crazy or does he sound proud?
‘If you intend to buck that trend, Ms Meyer, might I suggest you apply yourself to the next book instead of coasting by on knowledge gleaned from a less exacting learning establishment.’
