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“Right, sorry.” I wrinkle my nose. “It was the —”
“Why were you crying?”
“I told you I had a —”
“Yeah, not buying that.”
“But I did. I do. I –”
“Try again.”
“A bad grade.”
“A bad grade.”
“On my history paper.”
“What’d you get?”
“Uh, a D.”
“I thought it was a C.”
“What?”
“And I thought it happened last week.”
“I don’t —”
An oomph comes out of me rather than words. Because my spine thumps against the wall. I think it’s the wall to the left of my bed but I can’t be sure. All I know is that I’m stuck to it and he’s in front of me. That he crossed the distance between me and him in probably only a few strides and I had no choice but to retreat and get myself cornered against the wall.
“That’s what you told Cami when she caught you crying last week,” he says, staring down at me.
I look up at him, at his impassive face, struggling to breathe. “I did?”
“Yeah. You said you got a C.”
“Oh, well…”
I have zero recollection of that.
I do remember Cami asking me why I was crying — something that I’ve done at work almost every day in the past two weeks — but I don’t remember what excuse I made up. So I’m going to have to take his word for it.
“I did,” I settle on finally.
“You did, huh.”
“Yes.” I nod. “I got a C last week. And a D this week. And since my grades are usually so impeccable, you can see why I’d have a headache and I’d, uh, cry.”
He hums. “I do see, yes.”
I keep nodding. “It’s just that maybe I’m taking too much on, with school and work and… and I think I need to slow down a little. But I’ll figure it out and I’ll —”
“Maybe you should.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Slow down a little,” he says in a low voice.
