1. What the Heck?
1
What the Heck?
Diana
October
I can sense doomsday coming as my now-graded calculus midterm is placed on my desk, face-down.
Mathematics was never my strong suit—especially calculus. Numbers and letters? I don’t care what anyone in my major of classical studies says—the Sumerians were high as fuck back then.
Same with Newton. Fuck that guy.
The test is face down on my desk and my table mate Lucia is staring down at her paper, frown lines creasing her brows. That’s not a good sign. She’s a psychology major but chose to take this class with me because both of us were in dire need of fulfilling our general math credits to graduate.
Neither of us needs it for our respective careers but apparently, the private prissy school that is the University of Southern California requires it.
Lucia, however, is much better at math than I am; if she were to not do well on this particular exam, then there’s not a doubt in my mind that I am utterly fucked.
I tried my best—I really did—but I guess there was no hope for me after all.
Closing my eyes, I slowly flipped my test over and creaked one eye open. In red ink, near the top of the paper where my name is written, is the number seventy circled messily.
Oof, a low C. That’s not good. Let doomsday begin. I can smell the failure already.
“Lucia,” I whisper. “What did you get?”
Her brown eyes trail over to me, panic lacing the dark irises. She shakes her head slightly, giving me the signal that I dreaded: she didn’t do well, either.
I read over the markings my professor made on each question, my heart beating faster and faster with each incorrect answer. This was the midterm I’d been studying my ass off for weeks yet, unlike history and other humanities, numbers were never a breeze.
“Maybe the scores will be curved,” Lucia whispers. “If everyone else did as bad as us, then that could end up being a B instead of a C.” She taps a dark green fingernail on my test.
I swivel my head around the classroom, not as hopeful as my friend. Unlike most of my classical studies lectures, the size of this class is approximately twenty or thirty students, give or take. With every class, there’s always that one kid who will ruin it. I scan the classroom at each person, wondering who it could be.
Who could play a contributing factor in my future?
I can’t afford for my grade to go any lower than its current standing, which isn’t great. My entire undergrad depends on this.
“Okay, students,” Professor Scott’s booming voice brings us all to our attention. Though he may be in his sixties, with graying hair and what my mother would call “old man glasses” perched on top of his head, he still has that ability to silence an entire room of students who are just impatiently waiting to walk across that stage and be handed their diploma. “I hope you had enough time to review your scores. Put them away, as we’ll be moving on to the next chapter.”
Someone must have raised their hand because after reaching the wood podium, he calls out, “Yes, Bailey?”
I turn around to find the box-blond in a red crewneck with the school’s logo, much like half of the class, seated at the very back. Bailey Emerson. I’m not familiar with her but my roommates attend a couple of the parties that her sorority hosts.
“Will our scores be curved this time around?”
Scott pinches his nose and sighs. From where I’m seated—the second to the first row—it’s a very visible sigh. He was expecting someone to ask that. “I’m afraid not this time, Ms. Emerson.”
“What was the highest score?” Bailey asks, in that nasally voice that drives me insane; even though I don’t believe she’s annoying, precisely. I just don’t associate myself with her social circles.
Though I must admit, I am curious about the scores.
“A ninety-five,” he answers. “It was the only A in this class so the rest of you better study harder for the next quiz. I won’t go so easy.”
My eyes widen and I swear I hear someone choking on air in surprise. A ninety-five? Only one righteous asshole with the brain of Einstein or Athena got an A on the midterm? Honestly, I’m a little scared for the rest of the semester if everyone else did so terribly.
Scott moves onto the lecture and I try my best to keep up. The thing with calculus is that the subject is so meticulous. One little slip-up and you could go downhill. The stakes are so much higher with math and science than with English and History. In the humanities, there are so many interpretations of stories and past events.
Math? There’s only one answer. Everything else is wrong.
At least, that’s how I see it.
When class is over, Lucia and I walk out of the classroom—where I find myself glaring at another guy who bumped into me—and out of the building, heading towards the Main Library before my shift begins. She also needs to start on another paper for one of her psychology classes.
“Hey, what are you doing tomorrow?” She asks while we look at the shelves for a particular book she asks.
I shrug. “Homework, work, and Gilmore Girls .”
She chuckles. “You do that every day, though.”
I nod. I don’t need to argue otherwise—Lucia has been one of my best friends since we were both assigned roommates our first year in the dorms. Even now, we live off-campus with each other; along with two other girls and one guy because housing in South Central Los Angeles is crazy expensive.
“I’ll order takeout this time,” she assures me. “I still owe you for introducing those Croquetas to me. They were heavenly.”
I grin. “No need. You showed me what real Ethiopian food is supposed to taste like.” Lucia is technically an Eritrean-American to her core but because her culture isn’t well known due to how fucked up it can be—her words, not mine—Ethiopian food is the closest we can get.
She pushes each book aside and reshuffles them. I groan internally, knowing that I’m the one who will have to arrange them. Why can’t people have enough human decency to just place their book exactly where it’s supposed to go? It not only drives me crazy but the head librarian has the absolute worst case of OCD.
If she suffers, then so does everyone else.
A phone ringing breaks through the silence of the library. The Main Library is usually pretty quiet, especially on Fridays, when everyone is getting ready for the weekend, doing who the hell knows what.
Lucia checks her phone and her dark eyes widen. “You will not believe what Bailey just sent me, D.”
I raise a brow, busying myself with reorganizing the books. “What now?”
“She just found out who got the A.”
My hands freeze over an old book I don’t bother reading the spine of. “So?”
“Aren’t you curious to know? Isn’t that little voice in your head telling you to prod me for details?”
Honestly? Yes. I wanna know the name of the son of a bitch (or just, bitch) who messed with everyone else’s grade.
I give in to my curiosity and wait for Lucia to show me the screen so I can go find the person responsible.
My jaw drops in horror. “No.”