“Because if you were, that would be remarkably insulting. To me, to your brother, and to yourself.” She stands up, walks over to one of the photos on her wall. The one with the younger guy. “This is my brother, Marcus. He died four years ago. Car accident.”
Oh shit.
“Professor, I didn’t?—”
“So when you sit in my office and try to weaponize your grief to avoid accountability?” She turns back to face me. “I see right through it. Because I’ve been where you are. And I know what real grief looks like versus what using grief as an excuse looks like.”
I open my mouth. Then close it. I’ve got nothing.
“Here’s what I think is happening,” she continues, coming back to her desk. “I think you’re in a tremendous amount of pain. Real, legitimate pain. And I think you’ve learned that mentioning your brother makes people uncomfortable enough to give you what you want. A pass on the homework. An extension on the deadline. Maybe even a bump in your grade.”
My face is burning. “That’s not?—”
“Isn’t it?” She sits down, and her expression is sharp but not unkind. “Carter, I’m not saying you’re not grieving. I’m saying you’re hiding behind it. Using it as a shield so you don’t have to try. Because trying means you might fail, and failing means facing the fact that you’re lost and scared and have no idea who you are without your brother.”
Ouch.
I should be angry. Should walk out.
Instead, I slump back. My face does something I haven’t let it do in months—it breaks.
“Yeah,” I say. “Yeah, that’s exactly what I’m doing.”
Professor Bam’s expression softens, just slightly. “Thank you for being honest.”
“Does it make me less of an asshole?”
“No. But it makes you more self-aware, which is a start.” She opens the folder on her desk.
“Look, I guess I’ve been…not myself for a while. But, please, just give me a chance until next term and I’ll turn this whole thing around. Trust me.”
“Carter, let me be clear about where you stand. Your current grade is 52%. You need a 70% to pass this class. If you fail, you go on academic probation. If you’re on probation, you lose your scholarship.” Shit. “And since I know your family took out loans for your brother’s school tuition before he died, I’m guessing you can’t afford to stay here without that money. And all those jokes you make? All that charm? It won’t matter because you’ll be back home, explaining to your parents why you washed out.”
I wince. “I—surely there is something else I can do? Can I retake this class?”
“You need to hear it. You’re already retaking how many classes?” She pulls out another folder. “But I also think—despite your impressive commitment to self-sabotage—that you’rebetterthan this. Your reports, the few you’ve turned in,are actually good. Really good. You have an eye for detail. You understand the material when you bother to engage with it.”
“So what are you saying?”
“I’m saying I have a research opportunity. And I’m saying that if you’re willing to actually show up and do the work—real work, not charm-your-way-through-it work—I can offer it to you.”
I sit up straighter. “What kind of opportunity?”
“Winter geothermal monitoring project.” She slides a map across the desk. “Essential data collection. Continuous readings through the holiday season. Nature doesn’t care about human holidays, and neither does my research grant. This research project is worth 30% of your final grade—if you do it well. The data has to be usable, accurate, and complete. If it’s not, you get nothing. If it is, you pass. Barely. But you pass.”
Christmas. Away from home. From the pitiful looks, the careful conversations, and my parents’ aggressive cheerfulness.
From the empty chair at the table.
“I’m in,” I say immediately.
“You haven’t heard the details?—”
“Don’t need to. I’m in.”
Professor Bam raises an eyebrow. “That eager to avoid your family for Christmas?”
And there it is. She sees right through me. Again.
