“You’re not. I have a folder for everyone in my class. It was a joke, Melody.”
The way he says my name sends a horde of butterflies erupting in my stomach. The faint queasy churn of nausea threatens to overwhelm me, but I focus on my breathing and force myself to calm down. If he notices anything wrong, he thankfully doesn’t say anything. Instead, he tosses a very thin folder onto the desk and rises up to go to the filing cabinet. As he pulls it open, very thick files come into view.
“These are my actual problem students. You have a long way to go before you end up there. Now then.” He goes back to his seat and smooths down his tie before sitting back down. “How may I help you.”
Now that I’m here, I’m somewhat at a loss. I’ve never had to grovel before a teacher. How does one do it? Should I compliment him first?
“First off, I just want to say, you’re such an amazing teacher. I-”
“I’m going to stop you right there.” He gives his watch then me a pointed look. “You have a limited amount of time, and I’m sure you don’t want to waste it kissing ass.”
Well. That didn’t work. Straight to the chase, then. “My grades are abysmal.”
“Yes. I’ve noticed.” He flips open the folder, and a sea of red litters the page. “Your homework has been excellent. What’s going on with your test scores?” He leans back in his chair and crosses his arms. “Let me guess, partying over with the frats? You’re a freshman, so I’m guessing it’s safe to assume this is your first time away from your family.”
His pointed gaze pierces through me, making me squirm in my chair. A ghost of a smile tilts up his lips and nods as if he’s solved the answer.
“It’s not like that. I barely hang out with anyone. I’m studying as hard as I can. Please.” I stop for a moment, searching for something to offer. Something to convince him to help me. “I’ll do anything. Extra credit, tutoring, anything.”
Professor Richards taps his long fingers against the bow of his lips, his brows furrowed in thought. “I don’t offer extra credit in my classes,” he finally says, breaking the silence. “Never have. I don’t believe in it. If you study and truly try to learn the material, you’ll do well. As for tutoring,” he shrugs, “what can a tutor teach you that you can’t learn in my class?”
“I don’t-”
“Ahh. And that’s time. Next time don’t wait so long to ask for help. If I were you, I’d study that practice test hard.” He leans closer and motions for me to fill in the gap.
He’s too close to me. Far too close. I can clearly see the shadow of his beard from where he shaved this morning, the pulse of his neck; breathe in the spicy cologne he is wearing. My insides turn to mush when he flashes me that dazzling smile.
“I’ll let you in on a little secret,” he murmurs, cupping his hand to my ear. His warm breath tickles my skin. “Promise not to tell anyone?” Rapidly, I nod, hanging on every syllable that pours from his lips. “The practice test is exactly the same as the real test. The essay questions are on you, but the bulk of the test is comprised of short answer and multiple choice.” He stands back up in an abrupt manner. “Now then, I have a class to prepare for, and you need to study. Shut the door on your way out.”
I make my way to the door, casting one last look at Professor Richards before stepping out into the hallway. Maybe things aren’t exactly hopeless? My heart feels a little lighter as I make my way to my next class. Luckily for me, this one is an easy one for me. At least the B I’m managing makes me think so. I get there and settle in before bringing the portal back up. As the teacher drones on about some authors I don’t really care about, I skim the practice test, and my heart plummets.
There’s no way this can be right. The pages go on and on with no end in sight. It’s his biggest test yet. My brain goes fuzzy as dates, facts, and people merge into one singular blob. There’s no way I can memorize all of this. Most of it is stuff I don’t even remember reading about. Where was all of this information?
“Remember class, midterms next week. Forty percent of your grade.”
Bile rises up in my throat; my heart constricts until I see black dots hovering in my vision. Two midterms on the same day. Both forty percent. This is what I get for not looking at the syllabus and planning everything out. Groaning, I stare at the jumble of words in front of me. What am I going to do? The mail icon flashes in the portal, picking my mood up for a bit. In all of this, I almost forgot my email. As soon as I click and read through, the churning is back. They make no exceptions. I have to have an overall B average, or I lose my scholarship. Great. Just great. I stare back at the practice test, my whole body feeling weak and uneasy. There’s got to be something I can do.
* * *
A poundingheadache fills my head, making everything feel cottony and thick. Maybe that should be my way out. I can pretend I’m sick. People can’t fault you for that, right? I shake my head and go back to studying, trying and failing to shove my roommate’s noise out of my brain so I can concentrate. Who the fuck closes a library early this close to midterms? I cast a glare her way, but she ignores it and keeps rocking out to whatever it is she’s listening to.
The jangling beats make my headache even worse. I grip the back of my neck and rub hard, forcing the discomfort to dissipate. No such luck. Biting my lip, I go through the facts that I just read, dismayed to find they’re just as foreign to me as the first time I read them. With a frown, I tap my pen to my lips and squint at the screen. It doesn’t help that my stomach is rebelling with every caffeinated sip I take.
The anxiety alone is eating at me, pulsing through my brain, stealing my breath with each inhale. I can’t do this. My arms flop to the side as I stare at the screen. I thought I could, but apparently, I was wrong. What’s even the point in studying if I’m going to fail this miserably anyway? Even with a curve, there’s no hope for me. Fuck. I’d probably be the one setting the curve.
I just need to take a break and breath. Pulling out my headphones, I lay down and scroll to some of my classical music. Beethoven never fails to relax me; hopefully, it will work this time. As I let the sounds wash over me, I regulate my breathing, forcing deep, steady breaths in and slow breaths out. As I lay there, my thoughts jumble together in one giant ball. I can’t even pull one idea out from the rest. It’s like that squirming mass of ants that ball up and keep moving to keep from drowning, only I’m still drowning no matter how hard they climb to the surface.
Just the mere thought of cheating threatens to make me empty my stomach, but I don’t know what other choice I have. Besides, I can eventually get over feeling guilty; if I go back home, I may never be able to leave again. To me, that’s far worse. Next semester I’ll just try harder. I’ll get help sooner, just like Professor Richards suggested.
Even thinking about his name brings the slimy mass of guilt back up to the forefront. Tearing out of bed, I hurl myself out of the room and race down the hall to the communal bathroom. I manage to get inside of a stall before my entire stomach empties itself into the bowl. I kneel there, clutching the porcelain like it’s a god as my world turns upside down. I’m vaguely aware of people coming in and out, the sounds of disgust as they realize what’s happening. Bits of conversations, scathing questions of if I’m purging my meal meets my ears, adding to the shame burning through my body.
I don’t know what else I’m going to do. I have to cheat. I don’t know how, but I have a few days to think about that. The only thing I can do now is pray Professor Richards doesn’t catch me. A failing grade is bad enough, but if I have to hear him tell me he’s disappointed in me, that would be hell on earth.