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“So... I’m confused.” The guyholding my life story paper flips pages back and forth as I will my knee to stop bouncing. There’s no desk to hide it under in the cavernous auditorium where my human-development class is currently engaged in the purgatory of peer review.
I didn’t even want myprofessorto read this, let alone a peer.
Apparently I missed the fine print announcing today’s activity, or I would have prepared myself. Or skipped class. At the very least, I would have left out certain sections until the final draft. Honestly, I was counting on the size of the class giving me some anonymity.
Instead I’m sitting face-to-face with a fresh-out-of-high-school debate king—it doesn’t even look like he shaves yet—who is probably only in this particular class because someone told him it was a great place to meet girls. His cologne is suffocating. And he’s peering into my deepest pain.
Peering and prodding.
“Benson is... your brother?”
“Yep.” I haven’t spoken aloud about Benson with anyone besides my family and Ivy since his death, and nowthisboy wants to be the first? He glances at my leg, which has gone spastic again. I stop it.
“You say he’s ‘gone,’ but you don’t say why or how, only how that changed you and your career path.”
“It’s my story, not his.”
“True, but I think clarification would give your reader—”
“Look”—I glance at his paper in my lap for his name—“Aaron. This paper is not going to be read by anyone else but the grader. Ever. It’s a reflection paper, something that helpsmereflect onmylife. I already know the details, so it isn’t necessary to rehash them.”
Aaron repositions his glasses with a sniff and consults the peer-review form we’ve been given. His pencil scratches out a few comments, including the suggestion to fill in the gaps I intentionally left, and he drops an empty compliment about my writing style in an unsuccessful attempt to assuage my irritation. It’s a good thing we did his paper first, or I might have ripped him—I mean,it—to shreds.
The irritation sticks with me all the way back to my apartment. Discovering Ivy home and alone is nothing short of a blessing. I shut the door a little harder than necessary and flop onto the couch.
“Bad day at the math lab?” she asks from behind the pile of books and papers on the kitchen table.
“I don’t have math on Thursdays.”
She makes an affirmative sound and eyes me shrewdly, shutting her laptop. “So... what’s up?”
I don’t want to talk about this, even with Ivy. She’s on the couch before I know it, her warmth easing the irritation that’s covering my pain. I stare the other way and blink like mad.
“Life story?”
I nod, knocking one traitorous drop free. I ignore it since it’s on the cheek opposite Ivy.
“Benson?” she asks.
I nod again. “I didn’t know we were doing a peer review.”
Ivy gifts me a groan of validation.
“Right?” I say. “Honestly, why do they do that? Anyway, in the paper, I... uh... mentioned Benson and my change of major, and mypeerwanted me to fill in the details. He said it would help my reader understand better, but I told him, other than the grader, no one besides me is going to read this. Ever. I’m not filling in those details.” My voice fails at this point, but Ivy waits for me to collect myself before she says anything.
“Gracie, hon,” she says, “have you considered that, maybe, your reader—you—would benefit from taking a closer look at those details?”
And because she’s the best friend ever, she doesn’t ask anything else, just sits next to me and holds me together as I fall apart.
Chapter 17
Demented Analysis
My professor called it “dimensionalanalysis.”
I just think it’s demented.
Noah insists it’s the best thing since sliced bread, and he’s determined to convert me. I’m not inclined to listen, especially since we’re probably the only two people in town studying on the Tuesday afternoon before Thanksgiving break. The only other people in the lab are two employees, scrolling on their phones as they bide their time.
