Chapter 16
Mia
Even though I was so excited to come to Hemden, there were still plenty of things I was worried about before I arrived.
Serious issues like meeting new people, figuring out a communal laundry situation and learning to live without every single Oreo variant that might come out while I was away, but it never occurred to me that I might need to worry about my grades.
Doing well in school is the one defining quality I’ve always been able to cling to, even when everything else is going to shit.
Or at least it was until today.
‘I – I’m sorry, I thought I’d done better, I will do better. I mean, I can do better.’
I’m stammering, horrified by the tears that immediately prickle up in my eyes, threatening to make a bad situation even worse.
Dr Quinn, an older man who looks more like he should be welcoming me into Jurassic Park than singlehandedly destroying my entire sense of self, passes the paper back to me but I can hardly stand to touch it.
‘My classes aren’t easy, I’m well aware, but nor are they mandatory.
You applied to be on this course and as such I expect all my students to apply themselves.
I do realize asking twenty-year-olds to read and fully comprehend a Dickens novel in a matter of weeks is an enormous undertaking when you all have the attention span of a mayfly but that’s why I assign the reading at the beginning of the summer.
If you didn’t get ahead then you’re already behind and I very much doubt you’ll be able to catch up. ’
I squeeze my fists too tightly and my paper crumples in my hands.
‘But I did do the reading,’ I tell him. ‘And I already studied David Copperfield back at Marshall. I wrote a paper on it last fall, I got an A.’
‘Which tells me more about the practices of that particular institution than your personal ability.’ Dr Quinn sniffs and removes his glasses, cleaning them with a tiny microfibre cloth he pulls from the pocket of his shirt.
‘Standards rarely translate directly from one university to another. I have found this to be particularly true for international and state school students.’
I have never been so embarrassed in my entire life.
‘Things have been a little hectic.’ I’m ignoring the burning behind my eyes and willing the tears not to spill. He does not strike me as someone who would be super comfortable with human emotion. ‘Class only just started and—’
‘We are already at the end of week two, Ms Meyer, and this is a ten-week class. How much longer do you expect you’ll need?’
Quinn cuts me off, already filtering through a stack of other essays on his desk but I can’t make out the brutal bright red scores they’ve received, my vision already blurring.
‘Can I retake the paper?’ I ask, hopeful.
‘That’s not how things are done here. Once work is marked, it is marked. I don’t offer “do-overs”.’
When my parents finally agreed to foot the bill for my tuition, it was on two conditions.
One, I got a part-time job to contribute and two, I had to keep my overall grade above a 65.
It took months to convince them how much Hemden could do for my future with letters from my professors, endless testimonials from past students I found online, and so many promises from me, and when they finally caved, I celebrated.
Not once did it cross my mind that I might struggle with the academic side of things.
But this. A 52. If the rest of my grades look the same at the end of the term, there’s no way my parents will let me come back after Christmas.
‘That said, I do appreciate your willingness to improve yourself,’ Dr Quinn says when I don’t speak.
‘And if you intend to pass this class, you will have to. The workload doesn’t get easier.
If you can’t raise your score above a 60 on the next essay, I’ll have to assume you aren’t cut out for this level of rigour and ask you to excuse yourself from the class. ’
‘But it’s too late to sign up to another module,’ I protest. ‘And if I don’t get enough credits, I can’t pass the year.’
‘Did you know I have the highest rate of Hemden dropouts and repeats of all the classes in the university? I understand some students refer to my class as “the landmine”.’
Am I crazy or does he sound proud?
‘If you intend to buck that trend, Ms Meyer, might I suggest you apply yourself to the next book instead of coasting by on knowledge gleaned from a less exacting learning establishment.’
‘Yes, sir,’ I mutter, unusually interested in the toecaps of my boots. ‘My next essay will be better.’
‘Then I look forward to reading it.’
He glances back at me as if he’s confused about why I’m still here.
‘Is there anything else?’
All I manage is a shake of the head. I can’t risk more words. Dr Quinn does not seem like the kind of teacher who would react well to a sobbing student and I am three inhales away from a complete crash-out, I can feel it.
‘Then I’ll see you next week,’ he says. ‘Have a good day, Mia.’
It’s the most impossible task he’s assigned me yet.
Without looking where I’m going, I stumble out of Dr Quinn’s office and into the dimly lit hallway of the Lawton building.
My heart is racing, and I feel as though I’m going to throw up, like I’m floating above my own body.
Other students pass by but I turn away so no one can see my hot wet face, a couple of tears escaping as I paw purposefully through my tote bag.
Only I can’t find what I’m looking for because I’m not looking for anything.
But I keep turning items over in my hand as my thoughts process faster and faster.
My essay was bad. My very first essay for the professor I was most excited to meet, and sure, it was a little more rough around the edges than I would’ve liked, but I did my best. Between lectures and seminars, working at Members, hanging out with my friends and that one memorable evening in the medical centre, it’s been hard to carve out enough time to research, write and read through my essays.
Pressing my silver bracelet into my wrist until the pattern of the chain is imprinted onto my skin, I groan quietly under my breath.
Maybe I had rushed my reread. Maybe I relied too much on what I thought I already knew about the book instead of being thorough.
But that hardly matters now, I believed what I submitted was good and it wasn’t.
It wasn’t good enough. I’m not good enough.
The thought is dizzying and takes root fast. I haven’t even submitted essays for the other modules yet, what if I do even worse on those?
What if I flunk out? What if I have to go back to South Carolina and face my parents when they spent so much for me to come here?
It’s too late to start back at Marshall, I’d have to retake the whole year and that would put me behind and look so bad on transcripts and everyone would know I failed and— My breath starts to shorten and I reach for the wall as the world pulls away from me, the sound of daily life smearing and incomprehensible as though my head is underwater.
‘Mia?’
The sound of my name pulls me onto dry land, and I know exactly who it is without even looking because the universe is definitely punishing me for my shitty paper.
Oliver looks at me and I go rigid, from the top of my head to the tip of my toes.
The first reported case of rigor mortis in a living human.
‘Hi!’ I say too brightly, a little manic. ‘How’s it going?’
‘Are you all right?’
I’m pretty sure from the way he’s staring at me, we’re both aware I am not.
‘It’s just an allergic reaction, I’m good.’
I rub at my eyes to drive home the point and the cuff of my sweater comes away muddy and grey. Great.
‘Do you have one of those pen thingies?’ Oliver mimes jabbing himself with an EpiPen and I shake my head, forcing my runaway thoughts into some kind of order and pushing them down, down, down.
We’ve been hanging out on a semi-regular basis, but so far, hanging out is all we’ve done.
PG-13 study dates only. Not even PG-13. Our interactions would make a Disney movie look like a porno.
Either we meet at The Snug, where Oliver writes and I reread the same ten lines of a novel over and over until something sinks in or, if the weather is good, we sit under his favourite tree by the river.
On those days, no studying occurs. But not because we’re too busy making sweet love amongst the bulrushes, oh no.
Mostly, he DJs on his Sonos Roam while I stare at his mouth, willing him to make a move that never comes.
I might not be able to adequately explain Dickens’s autobiographical influence on his work, but I can tell you about the way Oliver’s cheek dimples when he smiles, just on the left side, right above the corner of his mouth.
The concept of a hero in David Copperfield?
We don’t know her. The way Oliver’s eyes flicker and close whenever a Tom Waits song comes on?
Give me a pen and I’ll write you a thesis.
‘It’s not that serious,’ I say, curling my sleeves around my fingertips. ‘You coming from a lecture?’
‘On my way to a seminar.’
He looks relieved to change the subject.
My knowledge of exactly what men want might be limited but I do know over-emotional women are not high up on the list. In the Meyers house, the only thing more reliable than my mom’s legendary meltdowns is my dad slamming the door so loud the whole house rattles as soon as she gets going.
Me crashing out in the middle of the English department isn’t going to help move us out of the talking phase.
‘Anything fun?’ I ask.
‘I don’t know, is wartime poetry fun?’
‘I’m guessing not.’ I toss my hair over my shoulder, wincing when I hit my head on the wall. Truly, I am grace personified.
‘Depends on the war, really.’
Oliver scratches his jaw, a little blond scruff covering the lower half of his face and I wonder if he didn’t shave on purpose or because he didn’t have time. Either way, it looks cute. He always looks cute. His eyes flick to the nameplate on the door behind me and he shudders.
‘I completely forgot! You had Quinn this morning. How did it go, did he like your essay?’
After a moment treading water, I’m pulled back down beneath the waves.
‘“Like” might be too strong a word for it. The closest he got to a compliment was “not a complete failure”. I got a 52.’
The words stick in my throat and I have to turn a sob into a cough. It’s too soon for jokes.
‘God, Mia, I’m sorry. That’s shit. What a wanker.’
And then a miracle occurs. Oliver puts his arms around my shoulders and pulls me close. I hear him breathe in, his face pressed against my hair, and when he exhales, long, loose strands blow behind me and my whole body shivers.
‘Don’t worry about it. He’s brutal, a bully really. Everyone knows it. He loves taking people down, especially the clever ones.’
Eleven days. Eleven days have passed since our first hang-out at The Snug and I’ve tried my best to look cute, be funny and learn literally everything there is to know about every male singer-songwriter, from Bob Dylan to Sombr.
The one thing that finally pushes Oliver to make a physical move? My getting a shitty grade on a paper.
‘You can’t let him get to you.’ He pulls away and lifts my chin with one finger. My lips are parted, my eyes hazy. ‘Quinn does not deserve this much emotional space in here.’
He taps my temple lightly with the pad of his forefinger and I have to press a hand against the wall to stay upright.
‘Did he tell you what you’re studying next?’
‘Bleak House,’ I murmur and when he moves his finger away from my face, I miss his touch immediately.
The groan that echoes off the corridor does not fill me with confidence.
‘I know there’s a clue in the title, but does it have to be so bloody depressing?’ He gags and rolls his eyes skyward. ‘It’s easy though. All you have to do is bang on about metaphors. The lawsuit is a metaphor for society, caged birds, endless fog, it’s all metaphors. That was my entire essay.’
‘And you passed, right?’
‘Can’t remember.’ He shrugs like he could care less. ‘Don’t worry about Quinn. Everyone knows he downgrades your first essay to scare you into working hard the rest of the year.’
He does? I cling to his statement like a life raft.
‘Tell you what, I’ll be done in an hour. Meet me at The Snug for a coffee? The best cure for a shit grade is a double chocolate chip muffin.’
I’ve never known anyone so easy-going before and it’s intoxicating.
This is what I want, this unbothered attitude, but my mom says I was born with a frown on my face and I fear I am destined to stay that way.
Coffee at The Snug might sound like the thing I need to pull me out of a Dr Quinn-sponsored spiral only it isn’t, not really.
It’s what I want, not what I need. What I need is to go back to my room and start reading Bleak House.
Only it’s tricky, finding the balance between the life I’ve always had and the life I always wanted.
The whole point of coming to Hemden was to change things and now all my dreams are standing right in front of me, what am I supposed to say?
Thanks, but no thanks, I’d rather read alone in my room?
‘Earth to Mia?’ Oliver cocks his head to one side. When he speaks, the iron bands that fastened themselves around my chest loosen a little and I can almost breathe normally again. ‘Will I see you in The Snug?’
‘You will see me in The Snug,’ I confirm on an exhale. ‘Enjoy wartime poetry.’
‘Ours is not to reason why,’ he calls as he strolls away. ‘Ours is but to try to stay awake for the next sixty minutes.’
Is it the sexiest line of poetry ever recited?
No. But who doesn’t love a man who can quote Tennyson like that?
Or misquote Tennyson at least. Still one thousand times more impressive than the guy I dated junior year of high school who copied a Rupi Kaur poem into my Valentine’s card after seeing it on a plaque in Home Goods.
Taking my David Copperfield paper out of my bag, I fold it in half and stick it between the pages of my notebook. Staring at a mediocre grade isn’t going to change the past and right now I’m way more interested in the future.