The lecture hall is nearly full when I walk in, and of course the only open seats are in the front row.
I’m lucky the professor is running late too, so I get comfortable, pull out my colored markers to highlight anything important, and set up my laptop in case my hand cramps upmid-lecture. Because as much as I love writing, love the feel of a pen in my hand, I learned in high school that some professors dictate like they’re competing in a speed-talking contest.
Right then, the door opens and my eyes land on the professor, who doesn’t even glance at us as he walks in.
I nearly have a full meltdown, because no.
No, no, no.
There is no way.
Diosito, if you make this a nightmare, I promise I’ll bring a bucket of fresh donuts to church on Sunday. Two buckets. I’ll make tamales for the whole neighborhood. ¿Por favor?
By the spirit of Pythagoras, I will personally explain to every seventh grader exactly how the height in a triangle works if you just let me disappear right now.
Out of all the people I could have spilled that coffee on, it had to be my new math professor?
His shirt is still faintly stained, though it’s not nearly as visible now.
When he looks up at the class, it takes him exactly five seconds to find me, and his jaw tightens automatically.
“My name is Silas Vaughn, and I’ll be your professor for algebra and analysis for the duration of this year.”
Is it too late to transfer?
His pace is brisk, but he breaks down every formula and explanation clearly enough that you’d have no excuse for not following along. Unless you simply weren’t paying attention.
His dark shirt pulls across his back as he reaches toward the corners of the board, and what strikes me is how simultaneously young and severe he looks. I could have easily mistaken him for a PhD student without a second thought.
From somewhere behind me, a guy who is clearly here out of obligation rather than interest checks his phone for the fifth time and types out a message. He has that irritating click-soundsetting turned on — the one where every letter makes a noise — and even though it’s fairly quiet, it crawls under my skin.
I’ve shifted my focus back to the last formula I wrote down when, still facing the board, Professor Vaughn says in a crisp, measured tone, “You have exactly one minute to collect your things and leave, Mr. Estrada. If I turn around and your face and your phone are still in this room, that comes with five points off your first exam.”
I swallow hard because there’s a coldness and a finality to his voice that almost make me feel sorry for the guy, who’s gone a little pale. This is a required course; five points off the first exam means you need a perfect score just to pass it safely, and something tells me this man does not hand out perfect scores.
The student gets up, red-faced, apologizes, and walks out, and Professor Vaughn doesn’t take his eyes off the problem he’s solving for a single second.
Ay Diosito,now I feel like even my breathing is too loud in this room. Four minutes left in the lecture, and I genuinely want to hold my breath until the bell rings, though knowing my luck, my head would probably explode before it does.
Head exploded, but perfect score on the exam, Amalia.
I almost laugh out loud at the voice in my head, the one that’s absolutely desperate for us to be the best, to get the highest marks, even if I’d have to drag myself to the exam on hands and knees.
For a few moments I force myself to rein in that anxiety, and the voice in my head that keeps insisting that if I don’t prove I belong here, I’m a failure.
All oftíoFelipe’s sacrifices, every hour worked for a few dollars withseñorGustav… it all adds up to exactly nothing if I’m not the best.
Pull yourself together, Amalia. You are more than a grade.
It’s just a shame that compared to the other voice, this one is barely a whisper.
Ihave one lecture left today, and I can’t wait to get home. It’s been a nonstop rush and I’ve barely had time to meet anyone. The good news is that the last class is exactly what I’m most excited about: object-oriented programming. Advanced level.
When I walk into the classroom, there are only twenty of us. I frown, double-checking my schedule. Right room, right time…so why are there so few people?
I don’t get a chance to figure it out, because a woman, somewhere around forty, walks in behind me, and wow — we have a female professor for this course? Over the last few years, more and more women have been breaking into this field, but seeing a woman teach one of the hardest courses in theuniversity gives me a quiet kind of hope that I’ll find my place here too.
“Let’s ease into it. I can see there are more of you than last year. I hope to see at least half of you at the final exam. If you don’t know what an abstract class is or how dependency injection works, do yourself a favor and don’t come back next session.”
