6. Chapter 6
Beau
Eejit
Translation: Idiot
Usage: To describe a foolish person, often with fondness
There’s a puddle of perspiration under the Peloton as I finish an hour-long endurance class in my guest room.
I coast through the cooldown, chest heaving, legs burning in that satisfying way that means the stress has somewhere to go besides my brain.
Midterms wrapped up earlier this week, so I’m trying to work off any lingering tension.
The first half of term has been difficult…
but also great, and I’ve learned a ton. I get along with the faculty and most of my classmates, and I’ve made loose connections around the campus.
The barista already has my order memorized, the bartender at my neighborhood pub knows I alternate between whisky and Guinness, depending on my mood, and some of the guys at the gym nod when I walk in.
It’s a small thing, but it makes me feel like I really live here now.
The only person who doesn’t seem sold on me is Torin.
I try to be congenial, but, other than when he’s nitpicking everything I say in class, he keeps his distance, though I do catch him smiling at my dad jokes on occasion.
Luckily, there wasn’t much class discussion this week with all the exams, so I haven’t heard him clear his throat and correct me in a while, which is a relief.
But I haven’t been able to get under his skin this week either.
Seeing him flustered sends a strange thrill through my middle. I miss that.
I hit the final minute of the ride and release the bike’s resistance, letting my legs spin as my heart rate settles.
Five minutes into the class, I’d thrown my shirt across the room, and now the screen in front of me reflects the sweat dripping down my shoulders, chest, and abs.
My body and the perspiration are the visual reminders I need today about the results of hard work and perseverance.
I came to Scotland for a reason, and I will see it through.
The class ends and I step off the bike. I towel off and chug electrolytes before enjoying a quick post-ride stretch.
One hamstring, then the other. My muscles protest, but in a good way.
I check my phone while I give some love back to my aching calves.
A text from Maeve sends my slowing heartbeat back into overdrive.
Maeve
Midterm grades are posted.
Beau
Already? I thought we wouldn’t get them till next week!
Maeve
Nah, they’re usually pretty quick. Grades are online. I’m going to pick up my blue books in a few. Wanna join?
Maeve
And let’s grab a pint after class today to celebrate making it halfway!
Beau
Sounds good. Will get ready and head that way.
Maeve
See you soon, handsome.
I race down the stairs on shaking legs, drop onto the chair at my desk, and open the grade portal, nerves squeezing my stomach as I click into my scores. The page loads too slowly. Finally the results appear and a hollowness sweeps through me. I blink rapidly, hoping I misread something, but no.
Post-Modern European History: B+
European Influence: The Rise of Capitalism, Colonialism, & Modern Science: A-
Protestant Reformation in Scotland: C+
I stare at the screen.
This can’t be right. I don’t make Cs, even ones with little plus signs after them.
Anything lower than a C+ is a failing grade, so while this will not land me on academic probation, I have never been so close to failing a course before. To make matters worse, it’s the only class I’m currently enrolled in that focuses on Scottish history. My main subject area.
I grab a towel and rush to the shower, working through my routine in record time. I skip breakfast—something I rarely do—downing a couple of bottled protein shakes from the fridge instead, and almost forget my laptop in my haste to get out the door.
I need to see Professor Drummond immediately.
I arrive on campus and head straight to the departmental office to collect my test booklets before walking to the shared history office.
It’s just an old classroom with individual writing desks and computer monitors, but it provides a place to work and collaborate outside of the library, a luxury many students don’t have.
I thumb through the test booklet from the Scottish Reformation course as I walk. There’s so much red ink it looks like it’s bleeding. How did I even get a C+? When I get to the office, Maeve looks up from her desk. “How’d you—?” She stops. “What’s wrong?”
Her eyes flick to the front of the blue book. “Oh, Beau.”
Thank goodness she’s the only other person here. The pity in her voice makes my stomach lurch, those protein shakes turning to stone in my belly.
If she’s pitying me, then this is just as bad as I suspected. Maybe worse. I flop down in my chair, my determination from earlier seeping out of me.
Maeve comes over and leans against my desk, but I can’t look at her. Not yet. I’m still struggling to comprehend how I managed to do this poorly on the first test in my own field. I press my knuckles to my eyes and take a deep breath, my brain spiraling.
When I look up, Maeve’s pitying eyes are gone, replaced with a firm jaw and a raised eyebrow.
“Alright,” I sigh. “Give me the pep talk. I know you want to. Not sure it’ll help, but give it a shot.”
“You know me so well,” she says with a grin, hopping up and sitting on the edge of the desk.
“Now, before I tell you it’s going to be alright and that you can do this and other such shite, why don’t you tell me what’s wrong.
We’ve all had a bad grade at some point, but pretend I haven’t and explain it to me. ”
It’s a simple question, yet difficult to answer.
I lean back in the chair, lacing my hands behind my head, trying to pull my racing thoughts together.
If I can’t pull up my grades, then I don’t have the mastery of the subject, meaning even if I pass my coursework, I’ll fail my boards, and my thesis will be rejected.
I’ll have moved halfway across the world for nothing.
And my family will find a hundred different ways to say we told you so. And—
Maeve pokes the abs I didn’t realize had peeked out from under my polo.
“Hey,” I say, jerking forward, my hands coming down to defend myself.
“Don’t think so hard about it. Just say it. Otherwise you get another poke in the place of my choosing, and I doubt you’ll like it.”
“Fine, yeah, okay.” I fumble for more words.
She pokes my ribs before I can stop her. “Out with it! What do you feel?”
“Pain! Stop that!”
She pokes again, this time one of my sore thighs.
“Disappointed!” I yell. That’s it. I feel disappointed.
She stops poking but keeps a digit poised, just in case. “Why disappointed?”
“Because I thought I’d done well,” I answer quickly, keeping a wary eye on the finger. “I prepared the best I could and thought my writing was strong. Apparently I was wrong, and that’s disappointing.”
“What else do you feel?” she asks, a stern look on her face.
I hesitate, which earns another poke.
“In the ear? Really? What is wrong with you?”
She wiggles her finger at me and says, matter-of-factly, “There’s nothing wrong with me. I’m flawless. Besides, dry willies are more intimate than wet ones.” She pokes one of my pecs. “Stop delaying. What else do you feel? Out with it!” A poke in the other thigh.
“I’m scared!” I finally shout.
“Of me?” she asks.
“No.” I pause. “Well, yes. But I’m also afraid I’ve come all the way over here, despite my family thinking my studies are a joke, and now I might not have what it takes to even get through my first semester.”
Maeve finally lowers her hand. I’m safe from the finger for now. “That’s something we can work with.”
A noise in the hallway makes me lift a hand to stall her. We both glance toward the door. When no one enters, I relax back into my chair and continue. “What do you recommend? I can’t continue to get C-plus grades.”
She looks at the booklets on my desk and sees the other two scores. “Well, you got good grades in your other two classes, which is reason to celebrate and can help keep the fear at bay.” I nod, grudgingly, not yet ready to celebrate.
“Also, there’s nothing you can do about the grade you already have, so take a deep breath, and let it go.
What’s done is done.” She takes a deep inhale and waves for me to do the same.
I do. After a moment, she exhales, and I join her, feeling some of the tension in my body releasing.
She makes me take one more before going on.
“Finally, we can use this to learn where you’re struggling. Did the professor’s comments reveal anything, or do you need to go talk to him to understand why he gave you that grade?”
I sigh. “He left a note on the back basically saying that while I know the essentials of what happened and why, I barely skimmed the surface on the implications of how the events of the past have impacted modern Scotland. That I’m not drawing my thoughts through far enough.”
“And do you agree?” she asks.
I hesitate, just for a moment, and Maeve raises her finger in warning. “Yes,” I rush to admit. “I agree. I knew it when I answered the questions but hoped I could get by with fancy words and generalizations.”
“So what do you think the real problem is?”
I sigh again, but appreciate her making me talk this out. “I suppose the problem is that I don’t know enough about modern-day Scotland.”
She nods, so I go on.
“The bigger problem is that I don’t know how to get that understanding. Knowing the GDP, current political drama, and data about public sentiment on various issues isn’t the same thing as understanding the daily life of a Scot and how the country got to where it is today.”
She nods again. “True. It will be difficult, but you don’t seem like you back down from tough problems or hard work,” she says and squeezes my bicep.
My spirits buoy with the reminder that I didn’t get where I am today by walking away when things got tough.
“You’re right, of course,” I say, the corners of my mouth finally turning up. “You usually are.”