“You never took a boring Cambridge in pie school?” Dr. Galloway, my academic adviser, asked. His head inclined to the left, his fingertips pressed into the oversized metal desk that separated us in his small, muggy, windowless office.
I stared at him. Took a boring Cambridge in pie school. That’s what I’d just heard.
The cell phone that sat faceup on his desk illuminated as it vibrated.
Think, Edie, think.
He looked down at it, swiping the call away.
I should have been watching him and not focusing on the fake gold buttons on his navy blazer.
“I’m—I’m sorry, what?” I stuttered. It wasn’t happening; I wasn’t going to figure that one out on my own, and I didn’t know him well enough to guess. Between the hum of the halogen lights, the fan in his ancient desktop computer, and the faint sound of music in the distance, I was doomed.
His cell vibrated again. “I said: You never took a foreign language in high school?” He swiped the call before running his fingers across his keyboard to wake up his computer.
Foreign language. Not boring Cambridge. Pie school? God, Edie. Get it together.
“No, I didn’t have to,” I said.
He flipped through my paper-thin file that sat among about a million others. “What do you mean you didn’t have to?” He stopped momentarily on a nearly blank page before looking up at me for an answer.
This time I watched his mouth as he spoke. He shifted in his seat, his fingers instinctively traveling to his face to scratch his nose. Wipe his mouth. This was what happened when I watched people’s faces while they spoke. They got unnerved. They fidgeted. They tried to wipe away a nonexistent booger.
I looked down at my hands, knowing that this was it. “I was exempt.”
“As in, you didn’t have to take it?” he asked.
“Correct,” I breathed.
He squinted at my folder. “Then how did you get through French 101?”
“Pure luck, if I’m being honest,” I said, immediately regretting it. He was going to think I didn’t pay attention in class and that was why I was failing. He was going to think I was just like all the other millennials he advised, complaining about their classes being too hard. He was going to think I didn’t care enough to listen.
“I have a central auditory processing disorder…,” I said, trying to explain. I watched his squinty brown eyes search my burning face as he tried to process my words. I recognized that look. I was in a constant state of that look. “And I got through French 101 because I had to.”
That wasn’t entirely true. I wanted to get through French. I needed to. The thought of spending the next summer in Paris without having learned any French gave me undue anxiety.
“So, if you can’t hear the professor,” he said a little louder, “I’d suggest you try sitting in the front of the room.” His thin lips exaggerated each word as he nodded patronizingly, though probably not on purpose. Hopefully not on purpose.
When people heard the word auditory they immediately thought hearing. It was just the connection people made. So, people would start to talk really loud and really slow. The slow part was helpful, if I was being honest, but it made me feel like an idiot. Also, if I had a nickel for every time someone told me to just move to the front of the room. Or study harder. Or pay closer attention.
He closed my folder and set it back onto the stack. He ran a hand down one side of his face, slumping in his chair as his eyes scanned his computer screen.
“No, I can hear just fine,” I said, keeping the volume of my voice the same in hopes that he would as well. “It’s just that the class is very difficult for me and—”
“I’m not sure I can help you, Edie. It’s too late in the semester to drop the course.” He leaned back in his chair. “You finished your freshman year with a three point seven GPA. You passed French 101 with a—” He went for the folder again.
“C minus,” I said, closing my eyes briefly.
“Honestly, Edie, from where I’m sitting it doesn’t look like you’re in need of that much help.”
A knock on the door behind me pulled my attention briefly. Dr. Galloway put up a finger to the person whose whole face was shoved into the small rectangular window in the door.
“Can you please just point me in the right direction?” I said, my voice clipped. “Is there a … I don’t know, disabilities services office or something?”
A look I knew all too well spread across his face. “You have a disability?” he asked, reaching for a stack of papers that sat in a hanging wall file. “We have a procedure for this, just … um…” He shuffled his papers.
He handed me a one-sided paper with the words Students with Disabilities at the top. “You should have just told me that from the start. Easy,” he said.
I scanned the paper. A bulleted list of how-tos when it came to advising students with disabilities. I looked between Dr. Galloway and the paper. A smile crept across his face as he folded his arms over his chest. Clearly, he thought he’d just solved all my problems. I hoped he wasn’t expecting a thank-you.
“With all due respect,” I said slowly, my eyes on his cell phone as it vibrated again. “I didn’t have to tell you any of this. I’m asking for assistance like any other student. This paper is not exactly what I was looking for.” I ran a hand through my long almond-colored hair, wishing I had put it up. Sweat brewed on my neck, the backs of my knees, my hands.
“Well,” he said, sitting up to lean his elbows onto the desk. “Like I said before, I’m not sure how I can help. I mean, if this isn’t what you’re looking for, then I don’t know, maybe you just need to study harder or get a tutor or something. Pay better attention in class.”
I forced a smile as I stood and hiked my tote onto my shoulder. He simply didn’t understand, and he wasn’t going to. “Okay—sure. Yes. A tutor. Pay attention. Front of the room. I’ll do that.” This conversation was over, and I was leaving. I should have known better. I should have just emailed him, or gone to one of my other professors. I should—
“Miss Kits,” he called.
I looked over my shoulder, one hand on the doorknob while the other clutched the paper he’d given me. I watched his mouth as I waited for him to speak. Now that I was standing I could add talking in the hallway to all the sounds looking to distract me.
“Maybe you could ask the professor if you could record his lectures?” He grimaced slightly. He may not have understood my disability, but he absolutely understood a fed-up female. “Not all professors will allow it, so don’t be too surprised if he says no, but the least you can do is ask. Also, if you go to the academic services center in the back of the library, you can ask for what’s called copied notes, which means that someone in your class or another section of the same course will take notes and you get a copy—but don’t worry, it’s completely anonymous.”
I took a deep breath. That was all I was looking for. Direction and options.
It wasn’t worth telling him that I already recorded most of my classes with a talk-to-text program and that Dr. Clément, the French professor in question, had expressly addressed his objections to students recording his lectures on the first day of 101.
I looked at my watch. “I’m going to head over to his office hours now.” I nodded as I opened the door. “Thank you.”
“I’ll shoot him an email and let him know we spoke,” he said, his fingers already typing away on the keyboard. “This way you don’t have to run through this whole conversation again.”
“Thanks,” I said, lightly kicking the toe of my shoe into the floor. “I really appreciate that.”
“You’re welcome.” He hit a button with a flourish. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be more helpful, I just—” His cell phone vibrated again.
I put my hand up, waving him on to answer the phone. I didn’t have time to wait around for any further conversation anyway, and it seemed like he didn’t have the time, either.
I turned back to the door, where the impatient student from before stood in the doorway with his hands on his hips. I huffed at him as he sidestepped, allowing me to pass.
“Oh, Miss Kits—” Dr. Galloway called, pulling the cell away from his face. “Don’t initiate the cat.”
Don’t initiate the cat? What in the world? You know what, forget it. Not even going to ask.
“Okay, thanks,” I called over my shoulder.