MERRITT #3
I tuck my phone away, laughing at my girls, who I would actually probably die without, and grab my iPod off the cluttered desk, popping in the wired earphones. I circle my thumb along the trackpad for far too long before finally finding a good playlist and pressing Shuffle.
When “Breathe” by Anna Nalick starts playing, my chest deflates, and some of the tightness I’ve been carrying all day starts to seep out.
This is exactly what I needed to make it through this shift.
A tiny slice of serendipity that fuels my exhausted soul, giving me just enough energy to finish shelving the books and check out the handful of people who come through the door.
For sleeping approximately six out of the last forty-eightish hours, I’m surprisingly wired sitting behind the desk as I read over my personal essay for the hundredth time.
It has to be the closest thing to perfect that’s ever existed if I’m going to submit it with my application to law school.
Depends on who you ask, but arguably, your personal essay is one of the most important parts of your application and sometimes the deal breaker on your acceptance.
Thankfully, I’ve maintained a 4.0 since starting at OU, and I got 165 on my LSATS on the first try because I studied my ass off for literally a year in preparation.
The only thing that would be more devastating about not being accepted to OU Law would be not being accepted because I wrote a lackluster personal statement. Or even worse, because I let my GPA slip in the eleventh hour. I can’t even fathom the concept of not getting in.
I’m not even allowing that thought in my head as a possibility because it’s not.
I’m getting into OU Law. I’ve worked my entire academic career toward this, and not achieving it isn’t an option.
By the time my shift is over and I’m getting ready to start closing down, I’d honestly forgotten all about Creative Writing class and the thesis until I see the email from Professor Hart sitting in my school email inbox.
The sound of my exasperated groan echoes around the empty store.
“Please do not fuck me, Professor Hart,” I mutter to myself as I click open her email. “Respectfully, I am already being fucked by everything else in my life.”
I suck in a breath and hold it while I scan the email that’s mostly just expectations, timeline, and a project synopsis and grading rubric at the beginning, until I get to the end, where the assigned partner and topic are listed.
That breath stutters out of me in a woosh.
No.
That’s not… No.
Shaking my head, I drag the cursor over the words, highlighting them as I read them again, because I’ve obviously read them wrong.
No. No. No.
Absolutely the fuck not.
You and your partner are to read Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte and write a dual, alternating point of view novella following the story’s theme. This is not necessarily a retelling, but more so your own spin on the classic. Please follow the attached rubric.
Partner 1: Merritt St. Pierre
Partner 2: Bennett Legros
Reminder: Your novella must be a minimum of 30,000 total words and must be fully edited and proofread by your turn-in date. As a reminder, AI should not be used in any capacity for this assignment, and if it is flagged that you have, you will both receive a zero.
This assignment will reflect 50% of your final grade this semester.
There will be no individual grades given. Each partner will have to write at least one POV themselves, with the entire manuscript working together as one fluid piece. Each partner will need to submit their own individual contributions, but only one grade will be given for the totality of the work.
In layman’s terms… work together to receive a passing grade.
Good luck.
Professor Hart
This cannot actually be happening right now.
It’s not possible.
There’s no way that the universe is this cruel. That my karma is so fucked-up as to be something this horrible.
Not only is this worth half of our grade for the entire semester, but it’s one grade.
I’m not going to be graded only on my portion, but also on the work of the fucking idiot who literally doesn’t even show up to class half the time.
Of course this would happen in the one class where I need to make sure I get a good grade to maintain my GPA for my law school application.
And of course, out of everyone who I could’ve been paired with in this class, it’s…
Bennett Legros?
He doesn’t even need the grade, or even to pass the class, to chase a puck around in a circle!
I’m not even sure he knows how to read.
Let alone a fucking classic novel written in the 1800s.
I slam my laptop shut and drop my forehead down onto the top of it with a groan.
I’m doomed. Seriously, I’m beyond fucked, actually. This is the worst-case scenario.
I’m going to fail this class, and I can kiss my acceptance into law school goodbye.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
What the hell am I going to do?
I ask myself that question, but tragically, logically, I already know the answer.
Apparently, I’m going to put the fate of my future in the hands of a guy who has never taken a single thing seriously in his entire life.