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I tried following in Greyson’s footsteps, but my grades were never good enough for that field. I chose physical therapy and have been proud of my path. But it’s a low-tier job in the opinion of my parents compared to a heart doctor. That’s the reason I chose to pursue my doctorate, trying to elevate myself in their eyes. But I’m not sure anything I do will be enough to impress them.
I glance at the wall clock. It's already eight. Ah. I’m late again. I throw my toast in the trash and grab my bag. I wish I didn’t live on the fifth floor of an apartment building without an elevator.
By the time I hit the street, sweat is pouring down my back. My hair is slick across my face. This isn’t going to be a good look for class, but there’s nothing I can do about it now.
I sprint to the parking garage and hop in my car. It sputters as I try to turn the engine over.
Come on, not now.
Driving a used car with a hundred thousand miles on it isn’t my first choice, but it’s all I can afford while in school.
Perception doesn’t really matter to me like it does to my parents. Most choices I make are to impress them, not the rest of the world. But I still have to get to class, so I need this car to start.
Finally, it springs to life. I slam the pedal to the floorboard, causing ridiculous loud squeals as I exit the garage.
My mind races as I near the campus. My professor is very strict about punctuality. This close to graduation, I can’t have any negative marks on my grades.
My phone rings as I continue my race toward the campus. It’s my best friend, Shae.
“Where are you? This is a small class. Professor Davis is going to notice you’re missing.”
“I know. I couldn’t find anything to wear!”
She chuckles. “Brinn. I don’t think a style crisis is going to be a viable excuse.”
“This isn’t funny.”
“I know. I gotta go, class is starting. Hurry up!”
***
My heart pounds, a rapid staccato drumming in my chest as I peer into the small amphitheater. I’ve never understood why Professor Davis teaches in here. It seats over two hundred, but we only have thirty in the class.
There’s only one way in and one way out, so sneaking to my seat is unlikely, but I've got to try. It’s now or never.
I carefully push open the door, slow and steady. So far, so good. I hold its weight as it closes, praying for a soft, gentle click. No such luck. The door shuts with a boom that echoes throughout the theater.
The class, previously alive with chatter and movement, goes silent. Every head whips around, glued to my entrance, including the eyes of Professor Davis. His glare is relentless. Not coming at all would have been better than this.
With measured steps, I move forward, scanning the room for a familiar face. Shae gives me a quick wave, calling me over. Her warm smile is a contrast to the cold gazes that follow me. With a sheepish grin, I take a seat next to her.
“Real smooth,” she says, giggling under her breath.
I playfully punch her arm.
Shae and I met last year when we were paired as partners on a project. She has long, fiery red hair and porcelain white skin, with a few freckles sprinkled here and there. Everyone loves her. Not only is she beautiful, but her personality makes you feel at ease whenever you’re with her.
We’ve been best friends ever since. She made it easy to open up about the demands of my parents. She’s been a lifeline to me, helping me get things off my chest. Besides Greyson, no one has ever known the pressure I’m under. I hid it behind a cheerful exterior and have gotten quite good at it. I thought if I maintained that persona every day, eventually I’d be as happy as I looked.
Sweat trickles down my spine, making me feel clammy with the blasting air conditioning. My adrenaline slows as I calm my breathing. The squeak of the whiteboard marker resonates through the room, and I zone out to the lecture.
Ninety minutes later, the torture is over. Shae and I grab our bags and head to the cafeteria.
“Well, I’ll give it to you. You really know how to make an entrance.”
I curtsy. “Yes, I do, thank you.”
“I’ve never seen you so flustered. What’s really going on? And don’t tell me it’s about your outfit.”
