Page 79 of Outspoken

I desperately need a B or better on this paper. Without it, I’ll fail, and this one class will drop my GPA low enough to disqualify me from receiving financial aid. I might even have to pay some of my grants back—money I don’t have. Then, paying for next semester will be impossible. Getting any kind of decent career will be impossible.

My future will become impossible.

I close my eyes and take a few deep breaths.I can't think like that. I need to stay positive.

Since every other part of my life is dragging me down, school is pretty much all that’s left—my last bit of hope. If I can survive this semester and come out on top, maybe I’m not a complete failure.

Beyond saving my grade, doing good on this essay means my thoughts aren’t useless. That I’m not useless.

I nod to myself. I got this. Inailedthis essay. I just need to stop my negative thoughts by labeling what they are: catastrophizing and negative fortune-telling. Right now, the future is unknown. First, I need to flip this damn paper and see what my score is.

After pausing to imagine my anxieties getting placed on tiny leaves that float away downstream, I hold my breath and then flip the essay.

My heart sinks. A 15 out of 50? That's like a C-minus or D…

No.No.This is fucking ridiculous. There’sno wayI did this bad. I heard Mr. Williams was tough, but this is beyond being a 'tough' grader. Plus, this is only a foundational course. He shouldn’t bethisdamn unreasonable.

I glance at the front of the classroom. Mr. Williams has already left.Of course he has.

I quickly shove everything except the essay into my backpack. Then I walk to the student aide, who is sitting at a desk. While she's focusing on her laptop, I pause a moment to center myself. This bad grade isn't her fault, so I want to sound friendly and not boiling with rage.

She glances up and smiles, her youthful porcelain skin gleaming. She doesn't look old enough to drink, yet she's probably way closer to graduating, getting a six-figure income, and buying a house in the suburbs than I am.Yearscloser.

“How can I help?” she asks, her voice too perky for my bitter mood.

I step closer to the desk. “Um, I was just wondering about my grade. Are there any notes about why it's so low?”

“There should be comments on the essay.”

I flip through the pages. He corrected some of my grammar, but there are zero comments. I shake my head and give the aide the paper.

The bursting-with-promise-and-possibilities student aide checks it out for herself, scrunching her face. “So strange,” she says, handing it back. “He always leaves comments. Weird. Well, you can send him an email or talk with him next class.”

“Does he have office hours tomorrow?”

“They're actually today between three and five. No need to make an appointment, just walk in.”

“Thanks.”

I crinkle my apparently unfit-for-reading essay in my fist and march out of the classroom. I need to leave for work ASAP, but it's 2:40, so I'm hoping he'll be in his office early. If I keep my anger in check, maybe I can reason with him to get a better grade or some extra credit.Anythingto give me a buffer against failing.

I can’t fail. I can’t be a useless jumble of meaningless thoughts.

I really, really need this win.

Please, just one fucking win in my life.

Storming across campus, I march into the teacher's building and down a pristine white hallway with lots of windows facing an outside courtyard. I locate Mr. Williams' office. The door is locked, so I wait five minutes, pacing over the tiles and counting the minutes. If I wait much longer, I'lldefinitelybe late for work.

I wait three more minutes, but Mr. Williams doesn't show.Guess I'll have to email. Great.

As I turn to leave, something in his office catches my eye. Two long windows frame the wooden door, giving me a view inside. There's another window behind me in the hallway that lets in light from the outside, illuminating the office in a dim glow.

I cup my hand against the office window to reduce the glare, squinting at what looks familiar. The walls of Mr. Williams’ office are covered in art and posters, but one in particular is bugging me—a white canvas with distinctive circular brush strokes painted in black ink.Why is that so familiar?

I exit the teacher's building, not walking as fast as I should to get to my car. The black ink painting bothers me too much, the answer to where I've seen it before on the tip of my tongue.

Several cheerful students pass by, chatting and smiling with each other as I scrape my memories. Some of the students are alone and wearing earpods, blocking out the world. Others occupy benches or tables, using laptops or tablets that cost more than I make in three weeks. They're probably better students with bigger financial aid packages, or they still have the luxury of racking up debt because they’re so young.

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