“’Night.” I wrap my arms around her so she’s not mad. She curves into me, and I kiss her neck good-night.
When the alarm rings at six-ten, I get dressed quickly, then open the door gently. As I expected, the hallway is quiet and empty. The lights are on-they’re always on-and the windows over the stairs are mirrors because it’s still dark outside, so instead of seeing outside, I see myself.
I quickly look away. I don’t think I like what I see.
layla thinks she failed (again)
Thursday, December 18, 10:58 a.m.
“Two more minutes,” Flynn, the proctor/TA says.
I’m going to fail. Completely fail. How am I going to get a job this summer if I fail? It is humanly impossible for a mere mortal to answer all these questions. I still have so much more to write for this last question. My heart is racing and my hand is scribbling and I have to get this all down. Why can’t we write with computers, why why why? Paper and pen are so archaic. How am I supposed to think? To delete? To spellcheck? I should have gone to sleep earlier. I need at least seven hours of sleep to perform properly on an exam. Next semester I’m going to bed early the night before all exams. At eight.
Only four of us are left in the room. Everyone else has somehow finished. How have they possibly finished? I haven’t even started proofreading yet.
· 11a. With a squared multiple correlation coefficient of 78.6 and a standard error of 4.347, these numbers represents a better correlation than the single variable models in 1 and 2.
“Thirty more seconds.”
· 11b. As long as there is not a significant correlation between X1 and X2, a significant multiple linear regression should give you a higher r-sq and therefore a better predictor model.
“Time up, everyone. Pencils down.” One more question!
· 12. Yes. With such a high r-sq value store size is a good predictor of profit.
Done! Flynn picks up my paper. His hands are thin and hairy. “How’d you find it?”
“Impossible.”
“Layla, I’m sure you did fine.”
All my TAs and professors know my name. I ask a lot of questions.
I walk to the door, disgusted with myself. Kimmy is waiting for me outside, smiling. “Not bad, huh?”
“I failed for sure.”
“What?” She’s shaking her head in disbelief. “No way. It was everything we talked about. You knew that stuff cold. You taught it to me.”
“There was too much to write and not enough time.”
Kimmy gestures to the cafeteria, but I have to get away from school. “Let’s go for sushi,” I suggest. “On me.” I know Kimmy doesn’t like spending money when she’s already paid for the food plan. I’m getting tired of cafeteria food.
She hesitates. “I want to get to the library. What about sushi for dinner?”
“Deal.”
“I still don’t believe you failed,” she says as we enter the cafeteria. “You’ve claimed to have failed every exam so far. And you said the same about midterms and you aced them. It’s a little annoying, actually.”
She’s probably right. I do always think I’ve failed, yet I always do well. But I’m not lying when I say the exam was hard. They’re all hard. “We’ll see. You found it all right?”
I take a grilled cheese and fries and she just takes fries.
She nods. “Yeah. Not easy, but much better than the midterm.” She watches me drench my plate in ketchup. “Would you like some sandwich with that ketchup?”
“Ha-ha.” Yum.
We sit in our regular seat. Jamie and Russ aren’t here. They left the exam a half hour ago, so they probably already ate and are either studying or napping.
“I’ve been into vinegar on my fries lately,” she says, dribbling the clear shaker over her fries.
“Yeah? Why?”
“Russ does it, and now I’m addicted.”
I pop a sopping red fry into my mouth. Yum. “Let’s eat quickly so we can get back.”
I think I’ll miss the library when we’re done. Is that weird? I love the quiet, the smell, the sense of purpose. I wonder if the hotel we’re staying at in St. Bart’s has a library. No, that would be weird. To be honest, I’m going to miss taking exams. The rush. The blood pouring from my brain to my fingers. I know I always think I failed, but I also know I won’t.
“Only one more,” Kimmy says. Her voice sounds almost wistful. Semester’s end means Russ goes back to Toronto. To Sharon.
“Only one more,” I repeat. We eat our fries slowly, as though hoping to prolong the day.
russ finishes his exam
Friday, December 19, 10:42 a.m.
Head hurts, hand hurts, who cares, I’m done. I don’t know how I did, probably not as well as I could have, but I don’t care.
I raise my hand until a proctor picks up my exam. “Have a good break,” he says.
Oh, I will. I need a break. A break from studying, from clubs, from random exam questions, from my life. Exams are so frustrating. After an entire semester, they choose twenty questions to ask. Twenty random questions. Can those really quantify my knowledge?
What I really need is a break from Sharon and Kimmy so I can figure out what I want, who I want. Wish I were backpacking with Nick in Australia for the month. Now that’s a break. He leaves for Sydney tomorrow. It’s summer there, so I guess he’ll be sitting on the beach and playing with kangaroos. No kangaroos or beaches for me. Toronto has already had three snowstorms. I’ll be shoveling, not sunning.
I grab my pencils and student card, and bolt from the room. Kimmy is still scribbling away. She’s all dressed up today, in high black boots, a miniskirt and a tight blue turtleneck. She looks hot. So what else is new?
I pick up a sandwich in the caf, zip up my coat and return to the Zoo to pack. Flight leaves at nine. I have to make some decisions in the coming month about where I want to work, Toronto or New York. Maybe I should let my job determine my girlfriend. If I return to my job in Toronto, I’ll stay with Sharon. If I’m offered something in New York, I’ll stay with Kimmy. Luck of the draw. Maybe random is the way to go after all.
kimmy gets screwed
Tuesday, December 30, 2:00 p.m.
“Do you like it, Kimberly?” my father asks.
“It” is a day in a Scottsdale spa. Facial, manicure, pedicure, massage. “Love it, Dad. Thanks.”
Valued at three hundred dollars, it could all be exchanged and used to purchase books next semester. My father the atheist refuses to call it a Christmas present, but that’s what it is. I don’t care what he calls it; it’s still nice to get presents even if they don’t know what I’d want. My mother, who’s Jewish, was never good at presents, either, and it got worse when I was eleven and they got divorced. She’d buy things I didn’t want, like rhinestone-your-own-T-shirt kits and glittery hair clips. When it comes to presents, my parents don’t know me at all.
“Honey, you look tired,” my father says.
We’re sitting on the patio of a trendy new Mexican restaurant in Phoenix. I’ve had a few too many margaritas, and my body feels rubbery and indestructible.
“I haven’t been sleeping well.”
He runs his no-polish manicured fingers through his jet-black dyed hair. “Maybe LWBS isn’t the right lifestyle for you.”
I shrug.
“You should think about your goals.” He’s nodding as he speaks, his perfectly chiseled chin bobbing up and down. I wish I looked more like him and less like my mom. I have no chin. Just a neck.
“I do. I have two consulting company interviews through school.” Interviews for first-year students are the first week after vacation. Second-years have an extra week off for winter break. I could use that second week of rest, but three and a half weeks is already too long a time to have Russ off philandering with his precious Sharon.