Page 7 of Goldilocks
“Some people need extra handouts.” His mocking voice reached Sam’s ear, and Sam knew that was intentional. Sam was almost certain Fionn never talked about him behind his back and only spoke of him where he could hear. Sam ignored him, but a new face amongst Fionn’s crew caught his eye. The newbie was bigger than Fionn, whose arms were buffed from working the lines on his yacht every other day, and both his eyes and hair were pitch black. Sam recognised him. He used to pass him jogging down the road every summer. He didn’t know his name, but he knew he was the son of Caroline Wreath, a woman who’d lived two houses down from Sam his entire life, though she never left the house and so never really became part of the community. Sam was pretty sure that house had been converted into an Airbnb last summer.
The girl ahead of him moved on, and Sam stepped up, aware of but ignoring Fionn’s attention and his former neighbour’s pointed stare. Even with his back turned, he felt that stare like a cold spot on his back.
“Sir,” Sam greeted. “I wanted to ask about the midterm.”
Moore waved him to step up to the podium. “Turn in is online. I don’t need a physical copy.” He packed his laptop into his bag as he spoke. “Cite all your sources. Use whatever method you prefer, so long as you stay consistent within the essay. Did you read through the packet? Any questions that weren’t answered there?”
Sam’s stomach curdled in shame, and he even felt his neck turn red. “I wondered if I could get an extension?” His tongue dried, and a thickening ball in his throat made saying the last part difficult.I have dyslexia. It takes me three times as long as everyone else to get through the readings. Four times as long to even read my own notes, never mind your colourful slides that give me a headache.
In primary school, it was a well-known fact among his teachers that he had dyslexia, and Sam had hated it. Hated that whenever they got a test back and he’d done poorly that they’d all smile and tell him it was okay, they hadn’t expected much anyway. Or when it came time for homework or assignments, Sam was given different questions. Different assessments. Different, lesser, expectations every step of the way. Even his Leaving Cert had been different from everyone else, and right up until the last day before exams began, nobody expected anything from Sam results-wise.
Sam never thought himself less capable than any of his classmates. He just needed a little extra time to read and write questions and answers. Instead of time, teachers gave him lowered expectations.
And now, in college, though Sam had an official ‘dyslexic’note on his file, there were so many students that if he wanted to get any extra time, he had to be proactive and seek it out himself. He wanted the time and space to meet the same standard as everyone else, not another round of expectations so low that Sam could never feel any achievement at all to meet them.
Professor Moore stopped packing and lifted his gaze to Sam. He was the youngest lecturer Sam had, a man in his thirties. Deep laugh lines marked his face, and crow’s feet creased the corners of his eyes; they hinted at his good humour, though it was notably absent as he considered Sam’s question.
“My extension policy is also included in the packet. Unless there are extenuating circumstances, the due date is the same for everyone. I can point you in the right direction for readings, but time management is your own responsibility,” Moore said, clear, concise and cold. Clearly he was used to students coming and begging extensions off him, and from his tone, he wasn’t very impressed by the practice.
Behind Sam, there was either a cough or a snicker; he couldn’t tell which.
Sam despised how hot his face got. How his insides roiled as he shamed himself in front of Fionn. And he hated how hefeltlike he was shaming himself for something he couldn’t help. Sam reminded himself of what he wanted with a controlled exhale: time. Time, not lowered expectations. Fionn’s presence turned his controlled exhale into a rough huff.
“I have dyslexia, sir,” Sam forced out. “And your slides are difficult to read with the curly fonts you use and the bright contrasts.”
Moore stiffened, drawing upright.
Sam didn’t mean for his voice to come out so confrontational. He wrangled the stressful feeling within and locked down that flash of bright irritation that had briefly shone through from within. “I just mean” – Sam’s voice came out calmer – “it takes me more time to get through the revision, so even if I could get just an extra day or two, I would really appreciate it.”
“Oh.” Moore glanced at the board behind him, where a headache-inducing, curly red font was set against a neon-green background detailing the midterm assessment. He blinked. “Yes. If you can write your email for me here, I’ll send on the extension form.” He handed Sam a pen and paper. He turned again to the board with a thoughtful expression.
Sam transcribed his email, telling himself to feel grateful instead of the skin-crawling irritation that vexed every nerve in his body.
“Jesus.” Fionn’s low voice reached his ears. “How long does it take to write ‘Sam’?”
The pen jerked, butchering the ‘m’. Sam scribbled the rest with a rough hand. “Thank you, sir.” He handed the paper to Professor Moore. “I appreciate it.” Despite his best efforts, it came out short.
Sam left, not even looking in Fionn’s direction. The large lecture hall opened directly to the outside, and Sam followed a winding brick path through the large campus that sprawled across almost half the city with old buildings of brick and mortar intermixed with monoliths of glass and steel. Old and new intertwined to create a university that was confusing to the senses. It was only when Sam was halfway across campus, making a beeline toward his car, that he took his buzzing phone out of his pocket and glared at the screen, frustrated to have to take the time to read after being laughed at earlier.
An unbutchered ‘M’ jumped off the screen at him.
Sam hit the call button, not having the patience to try reading the essays that Mary sent.
“Don’t you dare cancel,” Mary said the second he got the phone to his ear. “I saw your car in the lot. I know you’re here. Eric drove all the way out to see you.”
“Eric?” Sam repeated.
Mary groaned, all dramatic. “We made plans only yesterday.”
Sam stepped off the footpath into the shade of a cypress tree as he racked his memories. What was she talking about? Had Sam agreed to meet up with them? “Where are we meeting again?”
“Seriously?”
“Midterm titles are all out now.” Sam scrubbed his face, stress lifting his shoulders toward his ears. “You don’t need to give me a hard time about forgetting lunch once.”
“And can I give you a hard time for ditching me at lunch the past month? I swear, unless I wait outside your classroom, you forget I even exist.” Mary’s voice was sharp, crabby. Sam’s stress sharpened his guilt. Added fuel to his general annoyance.
“I’m sorry.”