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Why must she always be so unreliable and disorganized? Why can’t she just show up where she is supposed to show up, on time? I’m not being too harsh on her, but especially after reading this paper, I see the potential this woman has, and she’s wasting it.
Growing more and more irritated by the second, I pull open her student record and find her address. I’m allowed to do this because she’s a friend…sort of. We have mutual friends.
Before I know it, I’m in my car and driving down the interstate toward her side of town. It’s an older, more established neighborhood, which seems a bit strange for a young woman in her twenties, but who am I to judge?
When I park in front of the address listed on her student profile, I feel a hint of apprehension. I should not be doing this—that much is clear. I would never do this for any other student, but after only five weeks in my class, it’s clear that Sadie is not like any other student.
She’s bold and not afraid to push my buttons or hurt my feelings. Maybe it’s because she and I started out as mutual acquaintances that she felt that level of comfort, but whatever has happened between us by now has paved the way for my own personal entitlement to show up at her house unannounced.
I climb out of my car, her A+ essay in hand, and stroll up to the front door. I ring the doorbell with anxiety simmering under my skin. There are no cars in the driveway. The house is a brick ranch-style home with an expansive front yard and a large oak tree that provides shade.
When I hear footsteps inside, I straighten my spine. There’s a large window to my right with a curtain that moves, revealing Sadie’s astonished face through the pane.
She stares in shock at her grumpy English professor suddenly standing on her doormat. I don’t wave or smile. I just stare right back at her and wait for her next move. Suddenly, her face disappears. Behind the door, I hear a muffled, “What the fuck?”
A moment later, the door opens.
“What…is happening?” she asks before I have a chance to speak.
She’s dressed in an oversized sweatshirt and a worn-out pair of flannel pants. Her hair is piled on her head in a messy bun, wisps framing her face like a halo.
I hadn’t quite prepared myself for what I’d say to her now that we’re standing face to face, so I lift the paper in my outstretched hand.
“You weren’t in class, and I wanted to give this to you.”
Her expression twists with skepticism as she slowly reaches out to take the paper. As she looks down at the grade scribbled across the front, her face doesn’t change.
Where is the surprise? The pride and excitement?
“You…brought me my essay?” she asks. “Why?”
“I thought you’d be excited to see I gave you an A,” I argue back.
Her tense eyes lift up to my face. “Am I supposed to thank you for this?”
I scoff. “No. Why would you?—”
She takes a step toward me, landing on the welcome mat and glaring up at me with lividity. “Because if you think you can just show up at my door to rub it in my face or act like I owe you something for taking pity on me, then you’re even more of an asshole than I thought!”
Her furious tone has my molars clenching. Rather than surrender to her outrage, I step toward her.
“Watch your tone, Miss Green,” I mutter under my breath. “I didn’t take pity on you.”
With a huff, she raises her arms. “That’s right. You don’t take pity on anyone.”
“You don’t need my pity,” I snap back.
“Then why did you give me this grade?” she shouts.
“Because you deserved it!” I’m leaning over her, my face inches from hers, as she glares up at me with determination.
Amid the awkward and elongated stare-down, neither of us moves. But when her expression finally changes, it’s not at all what I expect.
Her bottom lip quivers. Her nostrils flare. And tears fill her eyes.
Oh no.
“I’m really not in the mood for your jokes, Dr. Goode.”
