Chapter 17
PLAYING BY THE RULES
KNOX
Three weeks have passed since the night of the party, and I’ve never regretted a moment more in my entire life. Okay, maybe that’s a stretch. I regret taking Staten out with my car.
I’ve never been much of a past-dweller. I live in the moment and seize the day and don’t second-guess my bad decisions, which is alarming considering I’m quite the connoisseur of them.
But what people say is true: almost committing manslaughter does give a dude a conscience.
Same with falling head-over-heels for your tutor.
Staten and I are on good terms. We’re not…
overly friendly…with each other. Our relationship is professional, diplomatic.
I made a deal with her to get her crush to notice her, and it’s not my fault that she has poor taste in guys.
I just need to focus on what I can control right now—boosting my Lit grade so I can play in next week’s hockey game.
Thanks to Staten’s academic bout of wisdom, I’ve been on a three-week grind of churning out the best literary analysis essay Mr. Hardwin has ever laid his cataracts on.
The first week was the hardest. Motivation was nowhere to be found. I didn’t ease into writing a few hundred words each hour. No, I dealt with the early stages of restless anxiety by swan diving into that Shakespearean shit and pulling something sufficient enough out of my ass.
I prepared for war with energy drink clarity, working between class periods and hockey practice, tabbing examples in my battered copy of The Great Gatsby.
I even discovered something called a thesaurus, for Christ’s sake.
I had no idea such a beautiful creation existed in the disgusting, dark corners of the interweb.
When the second week came around, I’d become a hermit. I was eating ramen noodles out of the goddamn pot with a pair of tongs. My room had become a biohazard that would’ve sent any well-adjusted adult into a coma.
Hardwin doesn’t have a lot of assignments in his class, which means I only have a few tries to raise my grade.
There are two exams that are worth twenty percent each, participation is worth another twenty, and the essay is worth forty.
If I flunk it, there will be no coming back.
And my father has been oh-so thoughtful enough to motivate me by sending seething text messages about how I’m a disappointment to the family.
Staten has helped me as best as she can, but ultimately, I’m the only person who can change my fate. Plus, a part of me wants to make her proud above all else. Prove to her that she didn’t waste her time in tutoring an idiot like me.
Now, I bring you to present day, where I’ve proofread this bad boy so many times that I see the words in my mind whenever I close my eyes. Which, I found out, is not normal in the slightest.
I familiarized myself with Hardwin’s grading rubric, fortified my claims, and left no wiggle room for dispute.
Every quote has been thoroughly dissected.
Each line of commentary is thought-provoking and insightful.
I’ve tended to this essay like it’s my firstborn child, and I never knew pride could feel this good.
With my free-range nerves supplanted by bona fide narcissism, I strut into the English building with precious cargo in tow, having opted for cosseting my essay in one of those fancy-looking sheet protectors instead of shoving it into my backpack.
Professor Hardwin is scuttling about his work area, his laptop bag disemboweled with today’s lesson plans, that pretentious air that hovers around him as encumbering as always.
I place my assignment on his desk, watching with sick satisfaction at the way he halts in his monotonous tracks. He observes me with an indifference not unlike the disposition of a bone-weary mortician overlooking the same bruise-ridden cadaver.
I made sure to give myself ample time before his next class started.
When he glances over my essay—probably expecting to get halfway through the first paragraph and sigh at the inveterate errors—the judgmental crease in his brow smooths out.
“Mr. Mulligan, your paper doesn’t reek of a careless all-nighter.”
I employ a civil smile. “I have to make up for my failed exam.”
Hardwin makes a clicking sound with his tongue, sliding my paper out from its temporary home and taking a seat in his chair. The old thing scrapes its legs against the hardwood floor, the teeth-gritting noise echoing in the emptiness of the lecture hall.
“I have thirty minutes before my next period,” he informs me, procuring a red pen of doom from within the leather mouth of his bag. “Might as well give you your grade ahead of time, seeing as you’ve been so generous as to give me a grace period.”
God, this Crypt Keeper is fucking condescending.
I didn’t expect such a quick turnaround for my grade, and I especially didn’t expect him to insist on grading my work while I’m standing right in front of him. My ribs loosen to accommodate for a jittery breath, and something ugly cramps in my belly.
“That would be great,” I force out, the treble in my voice outmatched by adrenaline. A downgrade from my usual unflappability, I’m aware.
I really wish Staten was here right now. She’s my emotional support person.
With an affirming grunt, he begins his inspection, pen at the ready, more than eager to shove me back into submission. For the sake of my sanity, I sit down in the front row, saving myself from the preliminary burn of criticism that’s waiting to herald my downfall.
I’m not expecting a perfect score, but I’m hoping for something at least in the B range.
I pull out my phone and consider texting Staten.
To say what, you may ask? I don’t know—I just want an excuse to talk to her.
My digital clock, however, works against my favor.
She has chemistry right now, and I would know, seeing as I’ve memorized her class schedule.
In an endearing way, okay? It’s not stalkerish at all.
Finally, with heavy eyelids intent on closing, I’m convinced I could fall asleep to the tick of the clock before Hardwin clears his throat rather obnoxiously. Sleep is for the weak; I can sleep when I’m dead.
I zoom over to his desk in two long strides, accepting my freshly graded essay and fostering an iota of worry at the same time.
He doesn’t say anything. No feedback, no praise.
Just returns to his mindless blackboard scribbling, colder than glacier meltwater.
When I brave a glance at my paper, a giant B+ is circled in crimson ink.
Holy shit. I fucking passed. Not only did I pass, but I aced it.
B plus, baby! Read it and weep. I’m cleared for hockey until the final class exam.
Oh my God. I need to find Staten and tell her the good news.
She’s in Organic Chemistry. Where the hell is that?
Screw it—I’ll find her. I’ll scour the entire campus if that’s what it takes.
“Thanks, Prof. H! Can I call you Prof. H?” I shout over my shoulder, pointing in his direction and receiving a deadpan look that would offend me if it wasn’t for its frequency.
I’m beginning to think he has the vernacular of a caveman because he just grunts again, not bothering to tear himself away from his blackboard.
Not even Hardwin’s sour mood can rain on my parade.
I’m on cloud nine. The only time I got this close was when I smoked a huge bowl of weed before eating an entire sheet cake from Costco while watching The Notebook.
What can I say? I’m a hopeless romantic at heart.
Speaking of hopeless romanticism, I barrel down the steps of the English building like a car with cut brakes, nearly getting swallowed by a tide of students that eddies across the quad in impenetrable currents.
It’s a bottleneck at its finest, and I’m not above shoulder-checking an irksome slow walker if I have to.
The yolky sun spills over the surprisingly cloudless sky, filling in the jagged outline of the faraway mountains, and there’s a warmth to the atmosphere that seems to celebrate my victory.
Heart cartwheeling in my chest, I eventually force my way through the midafternoon rush, bursting through the doors of the nearest science building and scaling the three-story stairs like my life depends on it.
I just have to find a mounted plate that says CHEM 120.
Texting Staten would be futile. There’s no way she’d be on her phone during class, and I don’t want to be the dick responsible for blowing up said phone.
My determination forges into a precious metal, participating in a feedback loop that works in tandem with the pumping of my hamstrings. If hockey didn’t test my athleticism every week, I probably would’ve keeled over by now.
Each classroom is a blur, my brain a convoluted mess with an impulse as finnicky as a weathervane.
I don’t know how I register each plate considering the speed I’m moving at, but I smuggle my frustration like contraband, repeating the same tireless cycle over and over again until I reach the last classroom on the third floor.
She’s not here.
Now, any normal person would just, I don’t know, wait for Staten to get out of class and text her accordingly, but I’m not that patient, nor that levelheaded.
Cursing under my breath, I comb through the next building against an unset countdown, then the next, then the next. I need to find her. I need to see the look on her face when she hugs me, and I spin her around, and flowers swirl in the air like we’re in some cheesy Hallmark movie.
Ironically, the slow burn of regret is nothing compared to the actual burn thrumming in my overtaxed legs.
Sweat glues the back of my shirt to my spine, my essay (and only evidence) nearly flying into a distant sector when I crash into the walking monstrosity that is MU’s very own parade of band kids.