Page 20 of Rocker

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Alice

Myheartsinksasmy last remaining classmate stands, slinging her bookbag over her shoulder and walking past me on her way to drop the test booklet on the professor’s desk. I look up to squint again at the large clock on the wall. Six minutes to go.

The test on my desk might as well have been written in Latin for all I understand of it. I’ve always done all right in English. I can work off context clues and usually get the general gist. Math though… My eyes drop to the page again, my heart sinking.

I’ve failed. I know it.

The last prerequisite required for me to get my degree and graduate, and this is my third time taking it. It doesn’t help that Professor Adams, who happens to be head of the math department, conveniently ignores the big star next to my name on his attendance list, which is supposed to mean I get special accommodations for test taking.

I flip the test book shut and stand, shoulder my bag, and march over to the desk where Adams is watching me beadily through his wire-rimmed glasses. My test has barely been placed atop the stack before he snatches it up, flips it open, and reads it right in front of me.

My throat tight and my eyes burning with humiliation, I stand there, waiting for the ax to fall. Adams doesn’t disappoint. He barely looks at it before putting it back down dismissively and looks up at me with his mouth pressed tight beneath a thick gray mustache. “You’re a senior, correct, Ms. Riley?”

“Yes, sir,” I say numbly. I’m studying graphic design, which means the only time I’ll ever use the math on this test is when I decide to take up astrophysics as a hobby. In other words, absolutely never.

Adams makes a disapproving noise in the back of his throat. “Have you been attending your tutoring sessions?”

The ones he sent me a passive-aggressive, borderline-threatening email about after I failed my first test in his class?

“Yes, sir.”

He nods, taking the pile of tests and shoving them into a well-worn briefcase. “Well, perhaps more sessions then.”

“Sure.” I flee the room before he can be more specific. I’m barely able to make it to the two sessions a week he already set up between classes and my two jobs. Cramming in a third is impossible without cutting my hours at the bar, which is my main source of income. The work-study job is part of my scholarship; if I fall below 15 hours a week, I lose the funding for my tuition.

I plow through the crowds of milling students in the hall outside, probably waiting for Adams's next test. They’re talking and laughing, unconcerned with the midterm, which looks like it will be the nail in the coffin of my education.

Four years. Four years of struggling and working and studying and sleeping four hours a night. Four years of feeling inferior to the people who got here because they actually belong. I’m a charity project, a way for the college to get their numbers up on “disabled” and “underprivileged” students. A statistic they can point to and feel good about. As if my time here hasn’t been miserable.

Ducking into a bathroom, I brace my hands on the sink counter, taking a few steadying breaths. I’ll work harder, that’s all. There’s no use feeling sorry for myself. It won’t change or help anything.

I’m due across campus for work-study, but I take a second to undo my messy bun and put on some lip-gloss, fully aware that I’m being ridiculous. I still look exhausted and harried but slightly more put together.

I can’t help it, though. The possibility that I might seehimtoday overshadows even the panic over my math test and inevitable tardiness to work.

As far as crushes go, this one has been annoyingly persistent, lingering like a bad haircut for months, ever since my work study was moved from the cafeteria to the life sciences building. Pathetic and definitely unrequited, but I can’t seem to shake it.

Giving my hair one last fluff, I book it, power walking across campus so I’m only fifteen minutes late by the time I arrive, panting, in the biology department office.

“Hi, Jean.” I chirp to the aging secretary, shooting her an apologetic grimace. “I’m sorry I’m late, midterm went long.”

Jean, who is easily the coolest supervisor on the planet, waves me off. “Not to worry, dear. How did it go.” My pained grimace must tell her everything she needs to know because her face falls. “I’m going to have a word with that, Dr. Adams. You have adisability, Alice. You’re legally permitted your accommodations.”

“No. Don’t. Please.” I tell her, hanging my coat on the hook by the door. “I’ll be ok, Jean. Thank you, though.”

Jean doesn’t look like she believes me in the least but shakes her head. “If you say so, dear.” She sighs. “You’ll be in room 209 today, helping Dr. Faust.”

I freeze, hand halfway to my backpack, the heart suddenly thundering in my chest. Looking around at Jean, I see her looking at me knowingly. “Dr. Faust?” I manage to squeak, straightening up.

Jean laughs. “Yes, Alice. Dr. Faust. Go along now. He’s a stickler that one. He’ll be annoyed your late.”

I doubt I’ve ever moved so quickly in my life. Practically throwing myself into the hall, I take the stairs two at a time and arrive on the second floor, landing out of breath. Looking both ways, I spot the door to 209 standing open and, bracing myself, hurry through it.

Dr. Faust sits at the desk in front of an empty classroom full of clean white lab tables. His laptop is open in front of him, and he’s frowning at the screen, severe brow furrowed, and lips turned down unhappily at whatever he’s reading.

He’s a tall man with broad shoulders and a tie knotted severely at the base of his neck. Everything about him, from the top of his neat, graying brown head to the spotless leather shoes on his feet, screamscontrol.

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