[completed] Nova Carter knows exactly what the next few years of her life will look like: she will work harder than anyone else (as she didn't get into New York University to slack off); she'll be keeping her head down and prioritizing getting her a...
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Chapter Twenty-six | Honey, Fire
♫Honey, Fire (Alt) by Aaron Krause
I don't think I'm a perfectionist. When you're like me, you can't afford to be, because you can't predict the outcome of anything you do. Everything's always crooked, too much to the left or too much to the right, shaky and tilted. Not in an aesthetic 'DIY' kind of way. In a way that surprises even you, distorts your ideas until you give up.
But there's a limit to how much my body ruins for me. It's why I got into NYU in the first place. School wasn't about my hands or my physical stamina (I quit P.E. early on and the school couldn't penalize a disabled kid for it), it was about my brain. That's also what I liked so much about it. No matter how much I trembled and misspoke, my grades reflected my effort and it was a reason for teachers to respect me.
I thought academics was it for me, and that the only bumps I'd inevitably run into were created by my own insecurities and anxieties— yet here I sit in front of professor Stew's office, holding my phone with trembling hands, its brightness giving me a sharp headache.
I got a C- for my presentation. Satisfactory. One step up from the minimum passing grade.
The only comment Stew had left for the class when the list got released was, "If you wish to discuss, come see me in my office at noon." I sent him an e-mail letting him know I'd be there, just in case he'd turn me away for not saying so in advance, but he never responded, so now I'm just sitting here.
It isn't like I'm going to argue with him. I just want to know the reasoning for the low grade. Aside from my middle school years, when my incompetent school forced me into regular P.E. classes with regular kids, I've never even been on the cusp of failing a class. And it isn't even like I've been slacking off. If anything, Stew's strict nature was more of a motivation to study hard and remain in his good graces. This C- will tank my entire average.
"Miss Carter, you may enter!" Professor Stew's monotone voice startles me when it ripples through the door, but I stand quickly regardless, smoothing down my clothes and hair before I enter his office.
It's like being swallowed by brown. Brown walls, the brown hardwood flooring from outside and Stew's large brown bookcases catch my attention first. Then I notice he's dressed in a brown, plaid sweatervest and a brown turtleneck underneath, too, but I feel too nervous to laugh about it.
Professor Stew's scrutinizing eyes glance up briefly, then they return to his laptop and he vaguely gestures to the seat. "Go ahead and take a seat."
I move out of the doorway I was apparently stuck in, shutting it behind me before I sit. Then I wait for Stew to shut his laptop and press his fingertips together with his elbows resting on his desk.
"Well, what's the matter?"
"I wanted to ask about the reasoning behind my grade," I start, unsure. It takes me a while to form the words with the tension around my mouth, and it's throwing me off. "I put a lot of effort into it and I've spent the entire term prioritizing this class. If something wasn't good enough, I want to know what it is."
