"I'm Not Crazy"

IX.

"Charlie," the professor said, which caught me off guard. I was in my Psychology and Human Relations class again. Her voice had punctured through the sounds of sliding chairs and rustling bags. We'd just been dismissed for the afternoon. "Could you stay back for just a moment?"

I felt myself freezing, the urge to obey immediately surfaced. It was my first time being present in her class in over a week. I'd finally managed to get my feet into motion, to make my way out into the world. It was Monday. A new week. A fresh start. I'd already gone to another class, Sociology, earlier that day. The professor had been tired and quiet. He barely looked at me, and did not seem to notice that I'd been gone.

The scraping of chairs and rustling of bags continued, and I watched my classmates shuffle out of the room. I stayed frozen. The desk was cold under my palm. I focused all of my thoughts on that feeling.

When the room was empty, the only sound became the psychology professors footsteps as she padded towards my desk. I counted 9 steps, and then looked up to face her. Even though there was nothing of malice in her face, I still felt the urge to cower.

I should have spoken; a greeting or an inquiry perhaps, but I did not know what to say, so I waited.

"Hey Charlie," she said, and I immediately clocked the softening of her voice. It was the same way therapists sometimes talked to me. I thought about her area of study and then forced all of the thoughts away. "I was happy to see you today. Are you feeling better?"

I nodded. I heard myself mumble something incomprehensible. The desk still felt cool under my palm. I realized I was leaning on it and then straightened up further.

"You were sick, right?" She pressed.

I nodded stiffly.

"Well, I'm sorry about that," she said. "Thank you for emailing me about it this weekend. In the future though, I prefer it if students reach out the day of the first missed class. It makes it easier for me to respond about make ups."

She continued on, mentioning something about the syllabus. I tried to stretch into my memories regarding the email I'd sent that weekend. It wasn't until Friday evening that I'd started trying to pull things back together. I'd missed an entire week of school by then. I had homework to do and emails to read, and the entire thing had felt like a mountain I needed to climb. My brain had felt numb in it all. The contents of the email were a blur to me, but the professor was at least making it somewhat clear that I'd feigned illness.

"...but I do grade based on attendance and participation too," she was finishing, and I'd missed the context of her statement, but the meaning was still clear.

"Oh," I heard myself say.

"Your papers are amazing, Charlie," she clarified quickly, the gentle voice practically oozing with careful placement. "And you clearly understand the course materials better than lots of my other students, but you are already lacking in participation points, and you have to show up."

"Of course," I agreed, which was more words than I thought I could possibly muster.

"I know some students have a hard time with participation," she added. "I know raising your hand to talk in front of others is harder for some than it is for others so I'm not judging that to harshly. I don't want you to worry about that in general."

I nodded, and hoped that my muteness was not mistaken for idiocy.

"But I'm going to email you a makeup assignment," she said. "It will cover the points you missed last week, and it will make sure you're solid on topics from the missed lectures, okay?"