“But, the load times.” Geoff shakes his head. “The system isn’t really viable this way. Because the data wasn’t compressed,” he says, glancing my way, “load times will be exorbitant.”
“How long?” I ask, my stomach still unable to hold down much since yesterday.
“Login screens, two to three minutes; individual student pages, one to two; whole class entry, at least four. Maybe longer.”
“What does this all mean?” Kent asks, scratching at his temple.
“The data’s all there.” Shreya taps her keyboard. “Technically, we could go live.”
“But,” Geoff continues, “it will take so long for screens to load that nobody can use it functionally.”
“Teachers won’t sit and wait that long for screens to load,” Shreya says. “Nobody would.”
“So what do we do?” Kent asks. “How do we fix this?”
“Start over,” Shreya says.
Geoff nods his head.
“Start over?” Kent asks, rubbing his eyes. “But the school board meeting is Thursday. I’m supposed to report out on next steps.”
“If we restart it now,” Geoff says, “it should be done by … ”
“Wednesday,” Shreya finishes. “Afternoon. If we’re lucky.”
“And this time, compress the database.” Geoff gives me a pointed stare.
“Okay, that’s what we do then. What do you need from me?” Kent asks.
“Communicate with teachers,” Shreya says. “Let them know there was an issue. Leave it at that. In the meantime, I’ll run some data analysis tests on the live data behind the scenes. It’s an opportunity to check it.” Shreya pokes at her laptop, opening windows and swiping them to corners of the screen. “Hopefully, we’ll be up and running with the optimized system by Wednesday evening. Thursday morning at the latest. We’ll let them know. For now, continue using GradePlus.”
Kent stands and heads to his office. Shreya and Geoff huddle around their computers, talking, tapping, and taking action to restart the conversion go-live process. My body aches from the lack of sleep and the general malaise of defeat. This is it. There’s no way I’m keeping my job after another misstep. I’m unsteady and dizzy as I stumble out of the conference room.
Kent’s at Helen’s desk. Her head is down, pen to pad, taking notes as he speaks. I wander past them into Kent’s office and collapse into a chair around his table. My heart, still beating faster than normal, seems to have migrated to my throat. The throbbing makes it difficult to swallow. I’m not sure if it’s worth me even staying. Should I give Geoff my resignation and go home? Take a long, hot shower and lose myself in LEGO. Kent’s got to be furious. Or at least disappointed. Embarrassed. I retrieve a napkin from my bag, clutch it in my fist, and wait for the tears behind my eyelids to emerge, but they don’t.
The door clicks, and Kent stands above me. I shake my head and stare at his feet. Lowering himself to a kneel, Kent’s face comes into view, and my eyes close.
“Vincent. Look at me.”
“Kent. I’m sorry. I know it’s over.”
“The implementation?”
“No. Us.” The toast I choked down this morning creeps up, and I’m not sure I can hold it in. Naturally, I had to do something that would only further highlight what a disaster I am to Kent.
My eyes search his face for clues. There’s no hint of a smile and the coolness he’s exhibiting frightens me. My stomach swirls, and all I can think is that vomiting in front of Kent right now would be the feather in the shitstorm of a hat I’m wearing. Lightheadedness takes hold of me, and my cheeks grow cold as the blood drains from my face.
“Vincent Manda. You’re not getting rid of me that easily. You made a mistake.” Kent wobbles before regaining his balance. “And my clumsiness was at least part of the reason. This isn’t the end of the world. We’re only losing a few days. It will be fine.”
“But, but … ” I stutter.
“But nothing. When I told you I love you, I meant it. No matter what. We’ll get through this.” He takes my hand. “Together.”
“Dr. Cutler,” I say. “The board meeting. We won’t be ready. You won’t be ready.”
My breathing becomes heavy. Tension builds in my chest as my heart begins to gallop.
“You need to breathe,” Kent urges.
