AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Ipanicked,” I say, understanding the truth as I speak it. “Both times, completely destroying any chance I had at clear thinking.”
“So?” he says, allowing me to write my own prescription.
“So next time I calm myself down before I start the quiz, and maybe I won’t be such a screwup.”
He frowns a bit at my phrasing but doesn’t comment.
“Do I still have a chance at passing?” I ask. Much as I want to pass, there’s no point in trying if it isn’t numerically possible.
He references the scoring rubric in my syllabus and does a few calculations. “It’s possible, but every point matters. You’ll need near-perfect scores on all your assignments and above-average scores on the rest of the assessments.”
There’s no need to worry about the assignments since Noah checks everything before I turn it in. As for the assessments, above average shouldn’t sound so hard, but considering I’m currently hovering around 30 percent...
“So?” he asks again.
I meet his eyes, surprised to see a different hardness there, like maybe he actually thinks I can do this and doesn’t want me to give up.
“Let’s get to work,” I say.
He doesn’t nod, doesn’t tell me I’m a good soldier, but there’s something in his expression that I find encouraging. We attack the quiz, diving into the little mistakes and how not to make them, and then he explains the incomprehensible lecture in language that actually makes today’s assignment seem simple. Too bad for everyone else that he isn’t teaching the class.
“You’re a really good teacher,” I say, putting my laptop away and shouldering my backpack. “Is that what you’re going into?”
He freezes, and his expression—a mixture of confusion and distaste—reminds me so much of that first day in the lab that I nearly laugh out loud. We worked so well together today that I nearly forgot how socially awkward he can be.
“Accounting,” he says, his posture like a deer in the headlights.
I save him from having to bolt again by leaving first. He’s still sitting there when I reach the door and turn to wave goodbye.
Chapter 8
Terrible Tuesday
“Why do we have toname the days of the week?”
Ivy squints at me like I’m the loon I am.
“Seriously, it carries either a stigma or a basketful of unrealistic expectations.” I toss Trusty onto the couch and continue walking to the far end of our tiny living room, where I am forced to reverse right as I’m hitting my stride.
“Is this going to be an extended rant?” she asks, looking up from one of several textbooks surrounding her.
I ignore her and keep talking. And pacing. “Wednesday, for example. Hump day! So pretentious! Just because it’s the middle of the week, I’m supposed to have a much better day? Whatever.”
Ivy sets aside her textbook and settles into the cushions without comment, her eyes following me as I wear a runway into the brownish carpet.
“Thursday: exciting only because it is the day before Friday. Friday and Saturday? I’m supposed to look forward to them all week long, but mostly I dread their lofty, unfulfilled expectations.”
Her nod registers in my periphery.
“Sunday is fine, I suppose, but there’s always Monday, dread of dreads, looming on the horizon, so Sunday night is awful.”
I pause my pacing to look out our back windows onto the central courtyard of our apartment complex. There’s nothing happening out there except a few colorful leaves fluttering down in the still sunshine. It doesn’tlooklike an awful day. How deceptive.
When I turn back around, Ivy’s arched eyebrows accost me. “Are you going somewhere with this? Because I have a huge paper due this week. Do you actually require attention, or can I get back to work and throw you an occasional mm-hmm?”
Flopping down next to Trusty, I get to the root of my problem. “I used tolikeTuesdays. No pressure of a looming week or an empty weekend. Such an unassuming and underrated day.”
“You’ve given this some thought.”
