Page 22 of The Trade

“I, uh, I can’t just edit my writing spontaneously like that,” I explain awkwardly. “I use dictation software to write my papers.”

Her confusion deepens. “What?”

“Dictation software,” I repeat. “It’s a speech-to-text tool for my computer. I voice my thoughts, and it types them out for me to edit later.”

“Oh.” The realization dawns on her, and she sighs, her shoulder sagging as she slides her bag off. “I see.”

My voice is barely a whisper as I confess, “I’m dyslexic and, uh, dysgraphic, if you’re familiar with either?”

She sinks back into the chair beside me. “Yeah, a little bit.”

“Well, it affects my reading and writing, but also ... my fine motor skills, among other things,” I continue, offering her a lopsided, self-deprecating grin. “I kind of hit the jackpot, I guess.”

“And you don’t receive any accommodations from Professor Hartman?”

“Not really.” I give a disappointed shrug. “At the college level, it somehow ends up being at the discretion of the professor, even when it’s legally not supposed to be. I did receive help during grade school, but things have changed. I even tried to explain my situation to Hartman during freshman year. It didn’t go well, and I ended up failing her class.”

“That’s fucked-up,” she says, indignation flaming in her dark eyes.

“Yeah, so I’ve stopped trying to explain. To her and probably most of the faculty, I’m just a lazy, entitled athlete.”

Her voice is soft as she asks, “Why do you think that?”

“Because she practically said it to my face,” I say, grimacing at the memory. “She told me to ‘put in more effort,’ that I won’t receive special treatment just because I’m an athlete.”

“Theo ...”

I scoff, attempting to lighten the heavy conversation. “I don’t blame her. Most people just see a brainless jock when they look at me. And the sad part is, I can’t even prove them wrong. I mean, I can barely fucking read as it is.”

“But you have a learning disability,” she counters passionately. “You’re not brainless, careless, or any other negative adjective you’ve been taught to ascribe to yourself.”

A bitter laugh escapes my lips, even as a heavy sinking feeling settles in my chest. She’s wrong. I might put in the effort, but I’m destined to fail at the end of the day.

“You’re not,” she insists, her tone laced with conviction. “I already told you—you have some genuinely great ideas in this paper. If Professor Hartman can’t take a moment to read between the lines, then she’s the one who’s ignorant.”

“Damn.” My lip twitches as I force back a smile. “Okay then.”

“I’m serious,” she says, thick brows knit together. “No one should make you feel less than for something like this.” She taps her pen against the table a few more times. “You know what, I think you need your own personal mantra.”

“Mantra?” I parrot, confusion lacing my voice.

“Yeah, like a phrase or saying you repeat to yourself every morning when you stare at your reflection. A positive affirmation, you could call it.” She nudges the laptop away, swiveling in her chair to face me directly. “I have one I’ve been using for the last few months.”

“Yeah?” I smirk, a spark of curiosity igniting. “And what might your mantra be?”

“Okay, here it goes ...” She clasps both hands together, a serious expression clouding her features. “My name’s Jade, and I’m a force to be reckoned with.”

A burst of laughter shoots out of me. “That’s it? That’s what you say to yourself?”

“Mhm,” she says, an infectious grin lighting up her face. “Every single morning. Want me to come up with one for you?” she proposes with a twinkle in her eyes. “How about ... My name’s Theo, and I’m smart as hell.”

A snort escapes me before I can contain it. “You want me to say that to myself in front of a mirror?”

“It works, I swear,” she says, tone full of conviction.

“Yeah, that’s not happening.”

“Suit yourself. Just know you’re missing out.”

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