‘Yes, sir,’ I mutter, unusually interested in the toecaps of my boots. ‘My next essay will be better.’
‘Then I look forward to reading it.’
He glances back at me as if he’s confused about why I’m still here.
‘Is there anything else?’
All I manage is a shake of the head. I can’t risk more words. Dr Quinn does not seem like the kind of teacher who would react well to a sobbing student and I am three inhales away from a complete crash-out, I can feel it.
‘Then I’ll see you next week,’ he says. ‘Have a good day, Mia.’
It’s the most impossible task he’s assigned me yet.
Without looking where I’m going, I stumble out of Dr Quinn’s office and into the dimly lit hallway of the Lawton building. My heart is racing, and I feel as though I’m going to throw up, like I’m floating above my own body. Other students pass by but I turn away so no one can see my hot wet face, a couple of tears escaping as I paw purposefully through my tote bag. Only I can’t find what I’m looking for because I’m not looking for anything. But I keep turning items over in my hand as my thoughts process faster and faster.
My essay was bad. My very first essay for the professor I was most excited to meet, and sure, it was a little more rough around the edges than I would’ve liked, but I did my best. Between lectures and seminars, working at Members, hanging out with myfriends and that one memorable evening in the medical centre, it’s been hard to carve out enough time to research, write and read through my essays. Pressing my silver bracelet into my wrist until the pattern of the chain is imprinted onto my skin, I groan quietly under my breath. Maybe Ihadrushed my reread. Maybe I relied too much on what I thought I already knew about the book instead of being thorough. But that hardly matters now, I believed what I submitted was good and it wasn’t. It wasn’t good enough.I’mnot good enough.
The thought is dizzying and takes root fast. I haven’t even submitted essays for the other modules yet, what if I do even worse on those? What if I flunk out? What if I have to go back to South Carolina and face my parents when they spent so much for me to come here? It’s too late to start back at Marshall, I’d have to retake the whole year and that would put me behind and look so bad on transcripts and everyone would know I failed and— My breath starts to shorten and I reach for the wall as the world pulls away from me, the sound of daily life smearing and incomprehensible as though my head is underwater.
‘Mia?’
The sound of my name pulls me onto dry land, and I know exactly who it is without even looking because the universe is definitely punishing me for my shitty paper. Oliver looks at me and I go rigid, from the top of my head to the tip of my toes. The first reported case of rigor mortis in a living human.
‘Hi!’ I say too brightly, a little manic. ‘How’s it going?’
‘Are you all right?’
I’m pretty sure from the way he’s staring at me, we’re both aware I am not.
‘It’s just an allergic reaction, I’m good.’
I rub at my eyes to drive home the point and the cuff of my sweater comes away muddy and grey. Great.
‘Do you have one of those pen thingies?’ Oliver mimes jabbing himself with an EpiPen and I shake my head, forcing my runaway thoughts into some kind of order and pushing them down, down, down.
We’ve been hanging out on a semi-regular basis, but so far, hanging out is all we’ve done. PG-13 study dates only. Not even PG-13. Our interactions would make a Disney movie look like a porno. Either we meet at The Snug, where Oliver writes and I reread the same ten lines of a novel over and over until something sinks in or, if the weather is good, we sit under his favourite tree by the river. On those days, no studying occurs. But not because we’re too busy making sweet love amongst the bulrushes, oh no. Mostly, he DJs on his Sonos Roam while I stare at his mouth, willing him to make a move that never comes. I might not be able to adequately explain Dickens’s autobiographical influence on his work, but I can tell you about the way Oliver’s cheek dimples when he smiles, just on the left side, right above the corner of his mouth. The concept of a hero inDavid Copperfield? We don’t know her. The way Oliver’s eyes flicker and close whenever a Tom Waits song comes on? Give me a pen and I’ll write you a thesis.
‘It’s not that serious,’ I say, curling my sleeves around my fingertips. ‘You coming from a lecture?’
‘On my way to a seminar.’
He looks relieved to change the subject. My knowledge of exactly what men want might be limited but Idoknow over-emotional women are not high up on the list. In the Meyers house, the only thing more reliable than my mom’s legendary meltdowns is my dad slamming the door so loud the whole house rattles as soonas she gets going. Me crashing out in the middle of the English department isn’t going to help move us out of the talking phase.
‘Anything fun?’ I ask.
‘I don’t know, is wartime poetry fun?’
‘I’m guessing not.’ I toss my hair over my shoulder, wincing when I hit my head on the wall. Truly, I am grace personified.
‘Depends on the war, really.’
Oliver scratches his jaw, a little blond scruff covering the lower half of his face and I wonder if he didn’t shave on purpose or because he didn’t have time. Either way, it looks cute. He always looks cute. His eyes flick to the nameplate on the door behind me and he shudders.
‘I completely forgot! You had Quinn this morning. How did it go, did he like your essay?’
After a moment treading water, I’m pulled back down beneath the waves.
‘“Like” might be too strong a word for it. The closest he got to a compliment was “not a complete failure”. I got a 52.’
