Total pages in book: 185
Estimated words: 175455 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 877(@200wpm)___ 702(@250wpm)___ 585(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 175455 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 877(@200wpm)___ 702(@250wpm)___ 585(@300wpm)
“No. It’s just not what I’m used to, that’s all.”
My mom should probably be mad when I return home. I had a half dozen texts from her when I got my phone back, wanting to know if I was okay, so by the time I show up at the front door, she already knows I’m alive.
She isn’t mad, though. She knows I spent the night with Carter since he’s the one who dropped me off, and she’s still hung up on the idea of him being our redemption. I don’t tell her anything. There’s no time, even if I wanted to. Coffee with Carter has me running seriously late, and I barely have time to shower and get dressed before I’m on my way out the door again.
My mind is foggy all morning. Carter doesn’t show up with flowers or Erika at my locker; in fact, I don’t see him at all until history class.
I’m still pretty fogged when Mr. Hassenfeld approaches with his stack of graded papers, slides mine across the surface of my desk, and says, “Stay for a minute when class lets out.”
My heart slides into my stomach. I’m confused, but I nod my head anyway. As soon as he walks past, I peel back the sheet to see my grade.
C-
Tightness in my chest makes it harder to breathe. I’ve never seen a C grade on one of my own papers before, let alone with a minus attached. I don’t even know how to process it.
The fog clears, but alarm sets in. I tell myself it’s just one test, just one grade, that my overall grade in this class is strong enough to survive a single C, but my face is hot with adrenaline and embarrassment.
Sitting through the rest of class is like sitting on a bed of nails and trying not to move. I struggle from one moment to the next, one second paying extra attention to the teacher, the next searching my textbook for the right answer to a question I missed. The problem is, I can’t even remember reading this chapter. I know I did, but I also know when, and I couldn’t concentrate.
When class finally ends, everyone files toward the door except me. I approach Mr. Hassenfeld’s desk. Carter frowns at me questioningly as he passes by, but I ignore him.
This is really his fault.
The teacher waits until the last student has cleared out, then he leans back in his chair, crosses his arms, and nods at the sheet of paper clutched tightly in my fist. “What happened, Zoey?”
I shake my head, feeling my face heat up again. “This was a fluke,” I assure him. “I was havin’ some personal problems. I couldn’t get my head straight. I did study for this test. I know you can’t tell, but I did. The problem is, my memory… it just wouldn’t work. I couldn’t concentrate, I couldn’t retain anything. I was…”
“Distracted,” he offers, kindly, but knowingly.
Distraction is the closest approximation of an explanation I can offer, so I nod my head. My throat is clogged with all the reasons I can’t give, but none of them matter now.
“Look, Zoey, I know you’re a bright girl with a good head on your shoulders, but I’ve seen a lot of bright girls make massive mistakes around this point in their lives, and I really hope you won’t be one of them. I know things haven’t been easy for you lately, that other kids don’t like that Jake got suspended from the team because you spoke up for yourself. But this is only high school. There’s a whole world out there after this, and you are going to accomplish great things. It won’t even matter to you how a bunch of jocks acted your senior year of high school. Jake Parsons is gonna be doin’ oil changes down at the Lube Stop and you’ll be settin’ the world on fire. Don’t lose sight of your goals, Zoey. Don’t let them distract you and drag you off the right path.”
I swallow, unable to formulate a response. I never really thought Mr. Hassenfeld noticed me, so I’m surprised to hear such a passionate plea for my future from him.
Without waiting for me respond, he leans forward and opens a manila folder on his desk. “Take this. It’s extra credit. I’m not going to keep giving you chances if you choose to screw up your future,” he warns me. “But everyone messes up once in a while, and I know you were out sick for a couple days right before, so I want to help you get back some credit you lost on the test.”
Taking the paper with a sigh of relief, I tell him, “It won’t happen again. Thank you so much.”
Mr. Hassenfeld spends another minute going over the assignment with me, then I’m finally free to go to lunch. I feel terrible as I leave the classroom, like Hester Prynne walking through town with a scarlet letter on her chest. There’s no one even around to witness my shame, but I see it, and that’s what matters. It burns inside me, picking out the worst of Mr. Hassenfeld’s insights. All the mistakes I’m making. Potentially screwing up my future over stupid shit in high school. Getting a single C on a single test might not be the end of the world, but it’s far from the only bad decision I’ve made lately. Last night I got drunk at a near-stranger’s house with Carter Mahoney. That very same troublemaker took my virginity and didn’t even bother to wear a condom.