Abby Ryan has her whole life planned out, up until graduation that is. As a journalism student at the University of Southern Washington, she has one goal in mind for her last semester of senior year: secure a scholarship for graduate school. But whe...
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I can't tell if the sharp pains in my stomach are period cramps or just a side effect of the anxiety rippling through me as I stare down at the practice test in front of me. I failed. I missed nine out of the twenty questions. I even missed the extra credit questions, which should have been easy bonus points, according to Hannigan.
The fact that I missed nearly half of the questions is bad enough, but to make matters worse, Hannigan wrote commentary on the outer margins of my test. Apparently, she thinks I should consider hiring a tutor or rereading the chapters. I can tell by the way she worded it that she doesn't believe I read them in the first place, which shows how little I understand this stupid subject.
I knew I wasn't great at chemistry, but I had no idea I was this bad at it. I want to cry, but I know those tears have more to do with the influx of hormones currently wreaking havoc on my uterus than the semi-rude comments on my paper.
"This is a good indication of how well you understand the material so far," Hannigan says to the class as she sits down at her desk. "You can pinpoint the concepts you're not understanding and study them before the first unit exam on Thursday."
I uncap my highlighter—the neon yellow one designated for high-priority tasks—and highlight the note I had made about the exam in my planner last week when it was announced.
Tristan coughs a few times, but I keep my eyes trained on my planner. Apart from a sleepy good morning from him, we haven't had much opportunity to speak once class started. Hannigan jumped straight into our new chapter lecture and then passed back our quizzes, and while I usually enjoy letting Tristan distract me, I'm actually thankful for the distraction from him today because I don't want to have to talk to him.
I don't want to have to acknowledge what happened on Friday, but knowing him, I'm in for another it can't happen again talk, which would effectively strip me of all the remaining self-confidence I have.
"Do you want me to help you study for the exam? I'm free after practice tonight."
My gaze flicks to the untouched test in front of him. He doesn't have a single red mark or note scribbled into the margin on his paper asking him if he needs to be recommended a tutor. Instead, Hannigan left him a small note at the top of the test next to the large A+ that looks a hell of a lot like a smiley face. Of course, even our chemistry professor flirts with him.
I glance back to my practice test again. If it weren't covered in enough red ink to look like a pen bled out on it, I would probably say no. I spent the entirety of yesterday in bed, binge-watching ridiculous dating reality shows while eating nearly an entire pack of Oreos. I decided then, as I closed up the considerably lighter pack of cookies, that I needed to move on from whatever this is.
I planned to keep as much space between us as possible. To keep our conversations centered around the article while only spending time together during class and the few more interviews I still have scheduled. It seemed like a great plan, but that was before Hannigan slaughtered my practice test.
