Chapter Fourteen
Fourteen
I SHOULD BE THRILLED WHEN module one of the APM is over, but I don’t think I have the emotional capacity for anything but the kind of drained relief that makes my body feel like a deflated balloon.
I manage to squeak by with a passing grade on our first exam only by the skin of my teeth and many, many late nights of studying, which has forced me to really phone it in on Cram Session the last couple of days.
I try not to feel guilty—if the choice is between Jamie drowning or myself, I have to save myself first, even if I’m barely dragging myself ashore.
“You might be pleased with your grades today,” Professor Douse says as our last class comes to a close.
“You might be thinking you’ve made it through module one, and that indicates something about your skill.
For a few of you, that’s true. I’ve been very impressed with some of the performance I’ve seen during this module. ”
There’s a light murmuring across the classroom, and I can almost hear the smiles around me.
“But for the rest of you—and you know who you are—it will be a long uphill journey from here. This is not your high school coding camp. This program is not for everyone. And if you found the course load for module one to be overwhelming…” Douse’s gaze lands briefly on me and then slips away.
“I simply won’t expect to see you in my classes in the coming years. ”
He snaps his laptop shut while the rest of us sit in stunned silence. I feel eyes on the back of my neck, like the heat of a match held too close, and my face burns.
I don’t even notice that Gabi, who does in fact always have a bag of some variation of Cheetos on her, is sitting next to me until she pulls the bag from her pocket and tears it open.
“That dude,” she says loudly as soon as Professor Douse has gone, leaving the rest of us in stunned silence as we pack up our things, “sucks ass.”
Then without looking at me, she holds out the bag in wordless offering.
But even as I crunch on a Cheeto, my mouth burning as I realize these aren’t just Flamin’ Hot, but XXTRA FLAMIN’ HOT, I don’t have the capacity to be happy at the gesture.
Instead it reminds me how everyone here knows that no matter who Professor Douse was speaking to as a whole, I was included.
All I feel (aside from agony in the tongue region) is sick with anxiety.
I simply won’t expect to see you in my classes in the coming years.
I may have passed, but if it took all my effort just to get this far, that could very well be me. Someone who doesn’t make it.
I’ve been too easy on myself. I need to refocus. I need to stop worrying about the soapstone sitting untouched on my desk, about Jamie, and start focusing on what really matters.
My priorities are all over the place, and I need to recalibrate.
My biggest concern can’t be impressing Deonne right now.
What have I been thinking? For what? To finish studio and likely never have time to pick up my sculpting tools again?
There is no purpose, no end—and certainly, there’s no purpose or end to thinking about Jamie.
Jamie is no one to me, and sculpting is supposed to be fun. I don’t need to be the best at it. I don’t need anything but what I can gain from within these four walls—a jump start on my major, and a way forward.
There is no avoiding a check-in call with Mom and Victor after the end of module one.
I’ve been putting them off for too long, and now, at the worst possible moment with my roommates functioning at top volume, I have no choice but to answer.
Out in the living room, Mikey and Felicity, who’ve decided to become baseball fans this summer, are enjoying a game with their own energetic commentary, and Andres is in the kitchen making food, a cacophonous symphony of banging pots and pans barely muffled by my closed door.
“Blair, I don’t like what I’m hearing,” Mom says. “How can you possibly focus with Starr and Leni treating that place like a party house?”
“It’s Friday night. They’re just excited for the weekend.”
“Isn’t every day the weekend for them?” says Victor. “It’s not like they’re spending much time in class.”
“I hope you’re not planning on joining them,” Mom says disapprovingly. “You have too much on your plate to make time for partying. They’d better not be pressuring you.”
“Of course not,” I reply. “I’m getting a head start on module two tonight. I’ve been doing sprints since I got home, and I think my speed is improving, which my professor really values. I want to get through some practice modules before I go to bed.”
“That’s good to hear,” Victor says. “I like that you’re focused forward.”
For once, the praise does nothing to puff me up. Maybe because I know that all the work I’ve done has led to little improvement. The impending doom of my parents finding out how bad I’ve actually done this summer is enough of a weight to send me straight through the ground.
“I think we should start planning for fall soon. Figure out the professors you’ll want once you pass the APM,” Victor continues. “There’s also those guest lectures I sent you. Did you sign up yet?”
“I haven’t had a chance, but I’ll get to it.”
They’re both quiet, and I feel the silent conversation happening on the other end of the line.
Finally Mom says, “Blair, I think you need to figure that out by the end of the weekend. I’ve been reading the forums, and these things fill up fast. You don’t want to lose out because you procrastinated. That’s not like you.”
My chest squeezes painfully. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry,” Mom says. “Just don’t put it off any longer.”
“I won’t.”
When we hang up, I slide on my headphones and find a playlist that promises to be “Soothing Instrumental Music,” but I’m still waiting to feel soothed when there’s a knock at my door.
“Come in,” I croak, pulling off my headphones. Jamie pokes his head in, and when he spots me at my desk, he nudges the door open with his shoulder. He’s dressed for work, still in the middle of fastening his belt. My gaze snags on his hands, my head swimming.
“I need you to redo the search function,” he says with zero preamble. “I don’t have time to figure out what you messed up, but it’s only giving errors right now.”
My attention snaps to his face. “But… I tested it. It was working—”
“It’s not,” he says, and my chest tightens. The light in my room seems to spark, too bright.
“Did you copy it correctly?” My voice comes out paper-thin.
“Checked it twice.”
I take in a slow breath through my nose, my fingers curling stiffly, my muscles tightening. “You need it tonight?”
“Yeah, before I get home from work,” Jamie says. “I need to finish the database. I’m behind on my timeline.”
Something inside me cracks, a fissure running straight up my center, spider-webbing. This moment, these words—you messed up—like a rock to a windshield. An unexpected hailstone falling from the sky, punching straight through me.
“So I need to figure out what I—messed up.” I trip over the words, my tongue heavy in my mouth. “And redo it.”
“Right,” Jamie answers slowly, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. “Am I about to get another earful about not giving you enough time?”
“No. I have enough time.” It’s just that my chest seems to be collapsing. “I’ll have it done when you get home.”
Jamie’s brow furrows. “Why do you sound like that?”
Like what? I want to ask, but nothing comes out.
“Blair?” He moves to step into my room, but I point wordlessly at the invisible line at the threshold.
Jamie freezes, blowing out a frustrated breath. “That’s fine, but if you’re having an allergic reaction right now, someone’s going to need to find your EpiPen.”
“I’m not,” I wheeze, getting to my feet. I stagger to my door and get a hand around it, but Jamie puts an arm out before I can slam it shut in his face.
“Hey,” he says, his voice quieting. “What’s going on right now?”
“Nothing,” I spit out quickly, shoving at the door. “I’ll get it done.”
“That’s not what I’m asking about—Blair.”
I manage to snap the door shut between us before I have to give into my jelly legs.
I go to my knees, my forehead pressing against the door.
Jamie is still talking, but everything has turned to white noise.
I try to suck air into my lungs, but it’s like someone is sitting on my chest. I can’t expand, and the panic of not getting enough oxygen makes me greedy for it.
I told Jamie it wasn’t an allergic reaction, but if I’d been anywhere but sitting right at my desk for the last few hours, I’d swear I was going into anaphylaxis.
The door pops open again, hitting my knees and stopping. I can hear more voices now, but none of them are distinct. There could be a hundred people outside my room right now. A hundred people I do not want to see me like this.
Or maybe just four.
A hand reaches through the crack in the door, low enough to find my knee and then my aching, curled fingers.
“Blair,” someone says. Not Jamie. Felicity? “Can you move back from the door? Please?”
I shake my head, squeezing my eyes shut. I need to lie down. I need—
“Hey, it’s okay. It’s fine.” The hand on mine tightens almost painfully, and I realize I’m making a horrible sound—a keening, wheezing noise. Like I’m being slowly flattened.
“Can you do something for me?” Felicity asks, sounding far away. “I need you to look around and find three things you can see. Right now. Just look around and find three things. You don’t have to say them out loud, but think them.”
I tip my head back. Popcorn ceiling. Doorframe. Knob.
“Can you do that?”
I make a noise that feels like yes, but I know it’s not. I know I’m not forming words right now. Felicity somehow hears it anyway.
“Now three things you can touch,” she says. “You don’t have to get up.”
She squeezes my hand. Her skin, hot against mine. The door, its smooth faux wood when I drop my forehead against it. The rough carpet pressing into my shins.