Page 19

FIFTEEN

ruby

Monday morning, I read Lorenzo’s text asking if I can bring a pack of batteries when I come over and sigh, hurrying on to class so I don’t get called out by Professor Wythe again.

The only thing that makes it okay that I crawled into bed with my best friend—and kissed him—is that my best friend is Lorenzo.

While I’ve spent the days since my transgression stewing in regret and trying hopelessly to pretend like it never happened, Lorenzo has actually succeeded at pretending it never happened—to the point it makes me wonder how many friends he’s kissed and quickly bounced back from.

I wonder whether he believes my lie that I was drunk.

I take the steps into the building and vow I’ll never lose control and kiss him again.

Ever. We can’t come back from that messiness a second time.

I get to class early but still don’t manage to beat Bree there.

Before I sit down, I glance around the lecture hall for Alli.

I haven’t seen her since the day she witnessed my humiliating scolding, which makes sense—there’s no reason for her to be taking a nutrition class.

But why else would she want to speak to our professor? There’s no sign of her today.

“Hey,” Bree says when I sit down. “So how’d you do?”

“With what?”

She blinks in disbelief. “The paper!”

“Oh. Wythe graded it already?”

“Ruby!” She gives a shocked laugh. “I got my grade yesterday afternoon. Didn’t you?”

I vaguely remember getting a notification on my phone about an updated assignment, but I forgot to check it. “I guess I did.”

“Whatever you’re on, can I have some? You are so fucking chill.”

“It’s called mediocrity. Side effects may include shame, poverty, and loss of self-respect.” I pull out my phone and check the app where our grades are posted. “Okay, I got a seventy-four percent.”

I shrug, but Bree makes a sad face. “Sorry.”

“All I need to do is pass the class. So what’d you get?” I ask even though it’s probably a 98 percent and I don’t really want to hear about it.

“A ninety-nine,” she says with a shiny smile.

“Nice. Wythe must have such a hard-on for you.”

“I hope so. I’m probably going to ask her for a letter of recommendation for grad school.” She turns to me. “You’re applying, right?”

“To grad school?” I snort. “Have we met?”

“Really? Even if I didn’t want to, my parents would make me. Aren’t your parents professionals? They didn’t do grad school?”

“My dad did.” I shrug. “I don’t need it. I’m fine with a lowly undergrad degree and whatever job it gets me.”

“And your parents?”

“They don’t care,” I lie.

“They sound cool. Mine insist on a master’s at the bare minimum but are pushing for a PhD.”

“What do you want to do again?”

“R and D director is basically my dream job. Beverage sector, if I had my way, but any of them would make me happy.” She gives a little squeal and launches into a passionate retelling of last summer’s internship experience.

Her dream job does sound pretty cool. I’ve never considered something that ambitious.

“Anyway, hopefully it’ll be worth the nightmare of graduate education.

Makes me want to follow you.” She pauses and looks at me.

“Although, I gotta be honest with you, Ruby. I’ve heard being a QA tech is kind of a nightmare.

Long hours, mind-numbing, shitty work-life balance, shittier pay. ”

I chew on the inside of my lip. “Yeah, I don’t mind. The money thing will suck, but I can survive.” Still, a tiny knot forms in my stomach. What if I can’t survive?

A knowing smile spreads over her face. “I guess you don’t have to worry about money. You can always marry Lorenzo and be an NFL wife.”

I try to act like I find this funny. “More like I can always beg Lorenzo and his wife to hire me as their maid.”

“Oh, come on. You never think about the possibility?” Bree grabs my hand and squeezes, tipping her head back dramatically. “Lorenzo is so hot. I can’t even speak around him.”

I busy myself pulling out my notes from last class, hoping she doesn’t notice that a curious mix of jealousy, pleasure, and possessiveness is heating my face. “It’s not like that between us. Never has been.”

I’m getting ready to leave class two hours later when Wythe catches my eye with a small wave. “Ruby?” she says expectantly, and I know I’m being summoned to something unpleasant.

I walk to the front of the room and wait off to the side while Wythe talks animatedly to another student about the paper we just got back. I get the feeling from Wythe’s genuine smile she’s invested a lot in him, but her smile has cooled into apathy by the time she turns to me.

“Ruby.” I’ve heard my name spoken in this tone countless times since kindergarten. She’s displeased. “I take it you saw your grade.”

“Yes,” I say carefully. Does she want me to appear disappointed? Repentant? I remain strategically neutral.

She nods and raises her eyebrows. “And?”

“And it . . . wasn’t great?”

She takes a breath. “I’m referring to the comments I left you. Did you read the comments I left you, Ruby?”

“Oh. No, I missed them. I was going to go back later and?—”

“You know, a lot of students think summer classes are going to be easier, and I’m here to tell you, not mine. It’s harder. We pack a lot into a few weeks, and I expect effort from all my students.”

“Right.” I swallow. “Um, I ask this with no snarkiness, but are you saying this to everyone who didn’t get a good grade on the paper? I just?—”

“No, I’m saying it to everyone who didn’t get a good grade because they didn’t try.”

“I did try, I’m just not a great writer. Or researcher.”

“You want to be a quality assurance tech, right?” When she sees my surprise, she adds, “Everyone filled out a sheet on the first day of class listing their career and academic goals, remember?”

“Right.”

“Let me tell you something: You could do better.”

I pause, confused. “You just handed me back a paper that I only got a C on. And I actually worked on that.”

“Well, it was a wasted effort. I liked your paper because you had a point to make and you made it; an interesting one too. Unfortunately, it had nothing to do with the original assignment. You don’t follow directions.”

The back of my neck burns with embarrassment. “I’m sorry,” I say tightly.

“I know you picked QA tech because you think it’s a slam dunk, but you’re never going to last at that job.”

“With all due respect, isn’t it the university’s job to support students in their career goals?”

“I don’t think that’s a goal. I think that’s a fallback.

And if I’m wrong, you should know you’ll land it without issue, but that’s not a job you can hold on to if you don’t work harder.

There’s always someone fighting for a position who’s willing to do more than you.

And if I’m right that it’s a fallback job, my advice is still to work harder. ”

I’m at a loss. Am I supposed to thank this bitch?

“Read my comments, Ruby. Take them to heart. Please?”

What did I ever do to piss off Wythe? I wonder on my way out. I show up to class, I do the assignments, I don’t make waves. It’s like she’s personally offended I’m a mediocre student.

I make a point not to open the student app and read her comments on my way to community garden club, but all throughout our meeting, I’m speculating about what she wrote, and by the time our meeting ends, I can’t wait any longer.

As soon as I open the app to read her comment, I think, Which one? The paper is a landscape of criticism and question marks:

Not using spell-check is unacceptable in this day and age. Fair point.

You need to look beyond the obvious and offer some insight! Ouch.

Brilliant. Why aren’t you doing more of this? This one makes me smile.

It goes on like that, a few drops of encouragement in a sea of negativity. But I get to the end, the section labeled “Teacher Comments,” and I realize this is what Wythe was talking about:

Interesting points here and there but not true to what was assigned.

It’s obvious you were bored with 90% of this topic, because 90% of your writing is stale and recycled and 10% is remarkably insightful.

You have two options if you care to succeed: Learn how to put effort into things you don’t care for or find what you’re good at (EVERYONE is good at something) and exploit it.

The words sting, but something wells up underneath, something unfamiliar that makes my heart beat a little faster. All the way home, that something battles against my irritation with Wythe, and I keep wishing irritation would win.

But long after I’ve cooked a batch of from-scratch pork gyoza, eaten half as my dinner, and packed away the rest for Lorenzo, Wythe’s words are stuck in me like a splinter, the little jitter of excitement right there with them.

I go to my desk and pull out a sticky note. I don’t have to look back at my essay to remember her words as I scribble them on the hot-pink square of paper: Find what you’re good at (EVERYONE is good at something) and exploit it.

I press the note to the wall mirror next to my bed alongside the dozens of long-forgotten neon scraps of paper, thinking maybe I’ll do more with this one than just let it fade in the sun.