Thirty-Five
Time flies, and my second quarter rapidly comes to an end. The threat of expulsion has ignited a fire under me, and in spite of everything—the lack of sleep, the nightmares—I am doing better in my classes. In Asian American studies, I have an A-; in history and statistics, I have Bs; and in psychology, I have a B-. If I can keep it together for my finals, I will be taken off academic probation.
Geoffrey has attempted to text me on numerous occasions since the chopsticks incident. I’ve mostly ignored him or responded with curt, one-word replies, which seems to offend him.
, he writes back. I can almost imagine his whiny tone, and I put my phone away, annoyed.
In class, he tries sits next to me, invading my space. I can’t believe it took me this long to notice what a screwup he is. He’s abrasive, pushy, and irritating. His quips about feminism are just showboating, an attempt to make himself appear better than other men. His shirts are stupid.
“The final will be composed of one hundred multiple-choice questions,” Professor Thompson says. “I’ll be uploading a list of all potential topics that will be covered tonight. Be warned—it’s a lot.”
The class groans. From the chair to my right, Alexis prods me. “Did I hear her right? One hundred?”
“Ugh. Yes.”
“I don’t have room in my brain for the answers to one hundred questions.”
“Me neither. I’m scared.” I put my head in my hands. “I really need to pass this class or I’m screwed.”
“It’ll be fine. We’ll get together to study this weekend. By the end of it, the final will be afraid of us, not the other way around.”
I peek at Alexis through my fingers. “And if I fail . . .”
“Stop that,” she says, scolding me. “You won’t fail. You’re one of the smartest people I know. I’ve been talking to some of the other people in class, and they’re open to meeting for a study group, too. I’m thinking Saturday at six. Is that cool with you?”
I’m grateful for her, and sad to leave when we get to the door. As usual, she gives me a quick hug, her sweet perfume lingering around me. “Saturday at six,” I repeat, inhaling until I grow dizzy.
I missed the bus this morning, and George reluctantly agreed to drive Umma to work so that I could take the car. Unsurprisingly, he complained the entire time. (“Can’t you take a taxi? I’m so busy,” he whined.)
With every step that I take, I catch a whiff of Alexis’s scent, which lingers on my clothing. I’m so lost in my thoughts of her that I don’t notice the rapid footsteps behind me until I reach the parking lot. I stop abruptly. The footsteps stop, too. It’s late in the afternoon; the sun is casting long shadows over the ground. My heart pounds, stuttering through each beat. I plunge my hand into my bag and search for the knife. My fingers brush against the smooth handle, and I grasp it desperately.
“Who are you? Why are you following me?” I gasp, whirling around.
There’s nobody there. Again. Breathing heavily, I scan the lot, searching for some indication that I’m not crazy, that I’m not seeing things. Was I being followed? Or did I imagine the whole thing? There are a few people milling about, but they’re far away. I’m about to get in my car when I see a sudden flash of movement. I whip around just in time to see someone scurry away.
I sprint over, but I’m too late. I stand in front of the bush, quivering.
You’re imagining things again, Ji-won.