8. Priestley
PRIESTLEY
As much as it pains me to admit, Will was right about one thing. Whoever is top of that leaderboard will win the internship. And Professor Moreno has made it very clear that she is all about gaining things with hard work and through merit.
Therefore, I stay up half the night working on my part of the group project the night before our preliminary presentation.
We have to show Professor Moreno where we’re at before the final group presentation in a few weeks. Our performance in this pre-presentation will not be officially graded, but it will affect our place on the leaderboard.
Professor Moreno has created a separate group leaderboard, too … just for ‘fun.’ I’m starting to think Professor Moreno is a bit of a sadist. No wonder she’s so successful.
When I get to class the next morning, I’m sleep deprived and I’m sure my clothes are less than perfect. I still don’t look as shabby as Peter Chow, though, so that’s something.
When I take my seat next to Will on the third row, he merely side-eyes me and I do the same. We all have our cue cards with the separate parts of the presentation we worked on. My main concern is Peter not cracking under the pressure. He’s already sweating and tugging at his collar.
Professor Moreno asks who’d like to go first.
I raise my hand. Let’s get this out of the way before the fatigue really sets in. I can’t guarantee I won’t fall asleep during three other presentations on financial risk assessment and taxation.
I smooth my hair down as I make my way to the front of the room. Clearing my throat, I open my mouth to start, but Will speaks at the same time.
“What are you doing?” I whisper-shout.
Someone in the audience shuffles in their chair.
He looks at me like he’s genuinely confused. “I thought I was going first?” he asks.
“No, I’m going first.”
Professor Moreno clears her throat. Will nods for me to go ahead. It’s a small victory, since we’ve already gotten off to a bad start.
I deliver my part, and though it isn’t my best performance, I’m pleased with the points I make.
They are well-researched and clearly written.
I have been working on my oration with an esteemed tutor since I was ten-years-old.
No one, not even Professor Moreno, could fault my presentation skills. Surely?
The rest of the group are fine. Will, I have to admit, is quite impressive.
His voice carries well and his points are precise and well thought out.
Any time I silently pray for him to mess up, I have to remind myself that, for now at least, we are on the same team. He can succeed in this, I’ll allow it.
I wait for praise from Professor Moreno as we take our seats, but she just asks for the next group to come up to the front, continuing to take notes.
The next group is Alice Liang’s. I try not to wince at how much more polished they sound. Hopefully, Professor Moreno will be judging us on the content more than the delivery. I try to ignore the content of the other groups’ presentations and tell myself they didn’t compete with ours.
At worst, I can accept second place on the group leaderboard—for now. We just have to work on our delivery. Then we’ll be perfect. Maybe I’ll give Peter Chow some private lessons in oration. Lend him some clothes or make him iron his own.
When the last group take their seats, Professor Moreno makes a few more scribbles in her notebook while we watch. The anticipation in the room is palpable. She promised to share her thoughts immediately after the last group finished presenting and she’s taking her time.
She clears her throat and stands up, moving toward the board.
After writing another set of numbers down the board, she starts filling it in. This time, though, she goes top to bottom.
As I feared, Alice Liang’s group is in the number one spot. They actually celebrate with little ‘yesses’ and fist bumps. I want to tell them this isn’t a tennis match and to reign themselves in, but I don’t want to appear bitter.
I compose myself, even as Professor Moreno starts filling in the number two spot. It isn’t us.
What?
Number three. Still not us.
Number four. Bottom of the board. Our group.
My heart sinks into my stomach. In the words of the legendary John McEnroe, You cannot be serious!
It takes everything in me not to leap to my feet and demand a recount.
I’m mentally wording my outrage at Professor Moreno’s discriminatory behavior toward me when I realize that Will—the golden boy—is in our group, too.
This can’t be solely due to the professor hating me. This is because we were genuinely bad.
When I look at Will, his expression is grave and his shoulders are slumped.
Professor Moreno dismisses the class, slipping behind her desk as we file out of the room.
I think about talking to her, but I don’t even know what I’d say.
Someone grabs me in the corridor. I turn around to find Will with his hand on my shoulder. This time, he doesn’t look like he’s about to punch me.
“Can we talk?”
I nod, still unable to speak.
We head out of the main building together, automatically walking toward the library.
“This has gotta stop,” Will says once we’re safely on the path.
I think about pushing him to say what exactly has to stop, but I don’t have the energy to argue with him right now. Is this what being an actual loser feels like? How do average people get out of bed in the morning?
“If we want to pass this group presentation and get off the bottom of the leaderboard—”
“I know,” I interrupt.
For once, he doesn’t fume or throw a cutting remark back at me.
“So, what do we do?”
I push down the groan at the very thought of it and force myself to say the words. “I suppose we’ll have to work together.”
I get a call from Father as I’m pulling up outside my building.
I briefly consider ignoring it, but he’ll leave a message, and he won’t be happy if I don’t promptly return the call.
I’m put through by his secretary. As always, Father sounds busy and distracted. I wish I could remind him that he called me first. Of course, I don’t.
“How are things going at school?”
“Good,” I lie.
“I spoke to someone about your professor. She told me Minerva Moreno has a reputation for giving her students a hard time—something about a leaderboard.” He sounds amused. I would probably find it amusing if I were top of that leaderboard. If my group weren’t currently sitting at the very bottom.
He doesn’t ask directly where I am on the leaderboard, or even whether I will confirm that the rumors of a leaderboard are true, but I know this is what he wants.
“It’s true,” I tell him. “But don’t worry. I’ll be top of the leaderboard at the end of the semester.”
I hold my breath, praying he doesn’t ask if she’s already started ranking us or where I currently am. There’s a white lie and then there’s a bare faced lie.
“Good,” he says.
I let out a sigh of relief.
“I’m sure I don’t have to remind you how important it is that you prove yourself, Priestley.”
“Of course not.”
Prove myself? How much more proof do you want?
After a little back and forth in the group chat—and a lot of working around everyone’s schedules—we arrange a group study session in the library on Friday evening.
I run into Will outside. He’s wearing sweatpants and a hoodie with the Princeton Hockey logo on the front.
“You didn’t tell me you were on the hockey team here?”
“I’m not,” he says. “It’s just a part-time job, helping out the equipment assistant. He gave me this hoodie to wear while I do it.”
Another part-time job?
“How many jobs do you have?”
“Just the two.”
Usually, I’d relish the knowledge that he’s so distracted, but while we’re trying to work as a team, I’d rather he focus full-time on his studies.
“Can’t you … I don’t know, not do one of them? Just while we get ourselves off the bottom of the group leaderboard?”
He laughs and slaps me on the shoulder. “That’s not how jobs work.”
Rolling my eyes, I say, “I’ve had jobs, you know.”
“Oh really?” He raises an eyebrow, crossing his arms over his chest. “Like what?”
I’m about to tell him about all the summers I’ve spent helping out at my father’s office, but then I remember my father’s lip curling around the word nepotism and the way Professor Moreno looks at me like I’m something on the bottom of her shoe.
“I’ve been a TA.”
He rolls his eyes, dropping his arms. “That doesn’t count.”
“Why not? I had a schedule, jobs to do, a boss, a salary.”
He starts walking into the library. “Fine. Call it a job if you want.”
“And what do you do at the hockey place?”
He turns and cocks his eyebrow at me again. “The rink?”
“Yes, that.”
“I help maintain the equipment—the sticks and skates and all that stuff.”
“How does one ‘maintain’ a hockey stick?”
He shakes his head. When he smiles, a dimple pops in his cheek. Is this the first time he’s smiled around me? Or just the first time I’ve noticed?
Instead of answering my question, he shoots back with his own.
“Can you skate?”
“Of course I can skate.”
“Why ‘of course?’”
I shrug. “It’s like riding a bike, or skiing.”
He lets out a laugh and a few people look up from their desks. I enjoy the apologetic expression he gets on his face as we make our way to one of the upstairs tables.
“What’s so funny?” I whisper as we unpack our books and laptops.
“Nothing.”
“Come on, William, spit it out.”
“You know my name’s Will, right?”
“What does it say on your birth certificate?”
He opens his mouth, but before he can answer, I continue. “I never understand why people give babies names they have no intention of ever calling them. I mean, if your mother never wanted you to be called William, why didn’t she just make your legal name Will and be done with it?”
“Why does it bother you so much?”
“It’s doesn’t.”
“Doesn’t anyone ever shorten your name?”
“My name is Priestley. What would they shorten it to?”
He gets this evil look in his eye and I regret having spoken.
“Pri? Lee?”
I try to ignore him while I open my notebook to the last page I was writing in.
“No nicknames? Didn’t your frat bros have nicknames for you?”