Page 7 of The Assist
“The worst,” I admit. She places a hand to her forehead and then swipes a strand of hair out of her eyes. Katrina is the same age as me but has a total mother-hen vibe. Maybe because sheisa mother. She brought Christian in with her once. He is adorable, but he’s also the best birth control ever. Katrina has her hands full between classes, working, and raising a little man by herself. Puts my own crap in perspective.
“It’s nothing I just failed my first statistics test.”
“Oh, that sucks. I’m sorry.”
“Thanks.”
She looks up to the ceiling. “What’s the quote you’re always writing about failure?”
“We learn from failure not success.” I roll my eyes. “I know. I know. But I don’t have any clue how I’m going to get an A when I’m already struggling a month into the class. The first month is supposed to be easy.”
“You get what you work for not what you wish for.” She recites another one of the quotes I often write on the to-go cups.
“It feels more like a suck it up, buttercup kind of day.”
She pulls a cup from the counter and fills it with our house brew before handing it to me. “For the road.”
I shake my head but grab a sharpie and write the quote on my to-go coffee.
“Another night of disappointed faces when they realize the quote girl isn’t here.”
That makes me smile. I love that I’ve been able to add a little bit of positivity. We’ve all got our struggles and I want to be someone that builds up other people.
The quotes were my idea. A random scribbling when I would notice someone looked like they were having a bad day or seemed stressed. Eventually they became something people looked forward to and I started writing them on every cup. It really isn’t so hard to tell who needs tough love or an inspirational pick me up based on their demeanor or tone when they order. The quotes on the sides of the cups have become a part of the café, and it’s a legacy I’m proud of.
I trek back to the sorority house with determination and resolve. I won’t just ace statistics, I’ll destroy it.
Suck it up, buttercup.
* * *
Two days later as I’m preparing for class, my inspired mood is appropriately deflated. Another late night of studying and homework leaves me pessimistic and petulant. I hate who I'm becoming. I've worked too hard and have come too far to crumble under pressure.
I decide to dose myself in positivity. Maybe if I feel good about how I look, some of those good vibes will soak into my attitude. I pull on my favorite yellow sundress and matching chucks. With a nod at my reflection, I’m off.
The large auditorium is made up of a semi-circle of three sections that face the podium, which stands front and center. Since Vanessa dropped the class and left me alone in my misery, I opt to sit in the back on the far right.
At exactly one minute before class begins, the eye candy arrives. Kudos for getting my head out of my ass to notice the trio of jocks. Vanessa would be proud. Honestly, what has my life become that I'm so overwhelmed with schoolwork that it took so long for me to appreciate hot guys without Vanessa to point them out?
When Professor O’Sean takes his position behind the lectern, I sit straighter in my seat and attempt to give him the kind of attention I usually reserve for the first week of class, jotting down nearly every word that exits his mouth and tallying the number of times he pushes his glasses up with his middle finger. Is he trying to flip us off or is it just a happy coincidence?
I’m able to focus on independent and dependent events for six minutes and fifteen seconds before I find my gaze wandering across the top of the lecture hall. My eyes go directly to the jocks. One in particular. Foot propped up on the seat in front of him, baseball hat pulled low. His teammates are next to him looking bored out of their skulls, but at least their eyes are open.
Honestly, how did this guy get an A? His tutors must be amazing.
When class is dismissed, I hurry out and then pace the sidewalk.
I can do this.
Ihaveto do this.
I turn and face the massive fountain that sits in the center of the quad and take three deep breaths. When I turn back to Stanley Hall, it’s just in time to see the three basketball players finally emerge. Statistics is the first class I’ve had with any of our college’s nationally ranked team. They seem to stick together, though, always travelling in groups.
“Hi, excuse me.” I smile brightly and step directly into their path.
They exchange a confused look but slow down instead of trampling over me like a bug, which they could very much do.
All five feet and three inches of me stands taller. I make eye contact with each of them, trying to look friendly and not at all intimidated, which I’m not . . . nope, not at all, and then lock my gaze with the sleeper’s. He’s the shortest of the three, but the intensity of his navy blue eyes makes it hard for me to find my voice.
