Finally, the midterm for The Early Republic rolled around. After this midterm, I would only have a Spanish test left at the latest possible date, the Monday before Thanksgiving. I had already taken biology (which I had passed with a 92, but had busted my butt for it, too—at least it would get me that obnoxious science credit) and social psychology (to which I hadn't received the grade yet, but had an okay feeling).

I had been studying for The Early Republic for weeks now, gone through all of my notes from class, reread the passages from the readings Professor Wolf had alluded were important, and exchanged study questions with another girl whom I knew from Spanish last year. The exam was bound to be excruciating and I was not planning on getting a B. I needed the grade. I had suggested another study group to John, of course, but he must have had an off day for some reason, because he had somewhat coarsely apologized and said he studied better alone. Suit yourself, but boy, you need me.

The day of the exam, we didn't speak much before class, both seizing the last few minutes before the test and mentally rehearsing the Founding Fathers' bios, significant quotes from the Federalist Papers, and the different meanings of the concept of 'the people' during the War of Independence. The exam was hard, some might say nearly impossible, but I had expected as much. Professor Wolf hadn't obtained his tough reputation for giving out candy during tests. But my intense studying paid off. I needed to know facts and figures off the top of my head without having to rummage in the dusty corners of my memory for them.

When the professor commanded us to set down our pens, I had barely finished putting my last thought to paper. Whereas I first took a minute to breathe, then leaned over to my study partner and asked her how it had gone, John all but vanished into thin air without a word right when the exam ended. I got it, my brain was fried, too.

Afterwards, I headed to Jessica's room. She was still in class, but we had made plans to go to dinner together later. Chewing on a granola bar to stabilize my blood sugar after this intense 80 minutes, I answered a text from Liam asking how the exam had gone. Then I silenced my phone and pulled up my grade overview on my laptop. Would social psych be there now?

Biology, 92.

Social psychology... 79?

—79? My stomach tightened into a solid, immovable boulder in the pit of my stomach. This can't be right. Hellish heat and icy cold flushed through my body at the same time. A C+? I was taking rapid, deep breaths that I attempted to slow so I wouldn't hyperventilate. I didn't get Cs. As in, ever. There had to have been a mistake when entering the grade. Yes, that was it. A mistake. A simple error. I would go by the professor's office and right this wrong immediately. He would notice the mishap and we would both laugh about it. And then he would correct the number in the system and the bile in my throat would subside alongside my nausea.

***

Twenty minutes later, I sat upright in the semi-comfortable chair with the rough gray olefin upholstering characteristic to visitor or waiting hall chairs. Professor Fernández was flipping through a thick binder to find my exam. He was a middle-aged man of Mexican descent, a first-generation American who had worked his way up from the streets of South Chicago all the way to the Ivy League and from his father's 50-hour welding job to a tenured professorship at an esteemed liberal arts college. I admired him in more ways than one, which was why what he said next hit me so hard.

"I'm sorry, Grace." He carefully removed the stapled pages with my handwriting from the rings. "I know this isn't the grade you were looking for, but I'm afraid there has not been a mix-up. Here, take all the time you need to go through it and feel free to ask me if anything's unclear."

I accepted the paper and scanned my answers. Some were entirely correct, but a lot of them were only half-right. The comments in red ink on the side screeched 'elaborate' or 'draw connections' or one time even 'wrong author'. My stomach dropped. I couldn't believe it. I had known all of this stuff when I had taken the exam. I still knew it now. Why hadn't I written it down? Had I been lazy with writing? Had I not studied enough to know everything off the top of my head? Had I been out of focus?

Taking a deep breath, I passed the sheet back to Professor Fernández without looking him in the eye. "Thanks anyway." My voice was barely more than a mumble when I gathered my bag to leave.

"Grace, is everything alright? Outside of class, I mean?"

I nodded, but apparently it wasn't convincing.

"I don't mean to pry, but I want you to know you can talk to me if there's anything weighing on you that's impacting your academics."

"I appreciate that, Professor. In all honesty, I'm not sure what threw me off my game here. I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize. It's one exam, no big deal."

"I know. I just—it's—embarrassing." Salty frustration threatened to spill from my eyes and I blinked rapidly so as not to burst into tears in my professor's office.

"I promise you, this happens to everyone. It's not the end of the world. You want to know the first grade I got at Cornell? B-. And in grad school, a B- is a D."

My eyes grew wide. "Oh."

"I'll never forget the sinking feeling in my stomach for as long as I live. Even thought about quitting grad school that day. I'm glad I didn't. What I'm saying is: it's okay to slip up every once in a while. It doesn't make you a failure, it makes you human. But if there's anything I can do to help, don't hesitate to reach out to me, alright? I'll work with you to find a solution."

Rising, I slipped my backpack, which I had held in my hand for the past two minutes, over my shoulder and looked right at him with all the earnestness I felt, hoping it translated into my eyes. "Thank you, Professor Fernández."

***

"A 79? How long have you known?" Jessica's jaw was opened wide, her eyes bulging out of their sockets. The slice of barely-mediocre dining hall cheese pizza she'd gotten as a quasi-dessert dangled from her hand. She had temporarily forgotten it was there.

"Only an hour. I went to see Professor Fernández to make sure the system didn't get it wrong, and then I told you right away."

"What happened?"

"I don't know, but trust that I feel shitty enough without added exasperation from you," I grumbled and shoved a forkful of salad in my mouth. Not even raspberry dressing could lift my spirits tonight.

"Sorry. I'm—sorry, I'm just—um, surprised."

I inhaled slowly, then exhaled again. "I know. I am, too. I don't know what happened. It was a fair exam."

Jessica finally remembered her pizza and set the slice down. There was an intolerable amount of motherly distress in her features. "Grace, I'm not saying this to make you feel like crap, but I'm worried about you."

My stomach rumbled but I was unable to finish even one more bite of my salad. I hated when Jessica got like this. She meant well, but something about that tone she struck rubbed me the wrong way. "It's one midterm, I'm not getting expelled."

"I mean the big picture. Since freshman year, I've heard you talk about grad school and your dream career almost every single day. And now you haven't mentioned it to me in months, do you realize that?"

"I bet it hasn't been months," I interjected, but she ignored me.

"Instead all you talk to me about is men, two in particular."

My hand needed something to do, so it poked at my salad with my fork. "Jessica, I know what I'm working toward, I haven't forgotten. Maybe I've been a little preoccupied with other things lately, but I came to this school for its excellent education, not its male population."

Skepticism was spelled out in the look she gave me.

"I promise you: no guy will interfere with my goals. Okay?"

She sighed and pursed her lips. "It feels like they are already."

"Seriously, Jess, I'm fine. I know this is you caring about me, but you're annoying the hell out of me right now."

My best friend arched her eyebrows, but then proceeded to consume her slice of pizza dessert.

When she had finished it, I pushed my plate into the middle of the table, asking Jessica with a hand gesture if she wanted the rest. She shrugged and dug in like I knew she would. Throwing away perfectly good food was a capital offense to her.

"How did your midterms go, anyway?"

Her smug smile told it all. Still, I wanted to give her an opportunity to brag. "German?"

"Killed it, 97."

"Sehr gut!" My praise for her achievements in German was always the same and used half of all the German words I remembered from her mini-lesson during our first semester. "Have you talked to Frau Sabine about grad school?"

A couple of weeks ago, we had discussed Jessica's interest in going to our college's graduate school in California to get a master's in translating German and Spanish. Her DC plans would need to be postponed if she went through with it, but she didn't want to seem fickle, so this was top secret for now. To get a better sense of what the program would be like, I had encouraged her to consult her advisor at the German Department.

"Not yet. I don't even know if I want to go. I haven't spoken to Martin about it."

"You don't have to sign up on the spot. Ask her about scholarships and if she'd write your recommendation if you did want to apply. You always say how supportive Frau Sabine is. She'd never talk you into going if you didn't want to."

"It's just Sabine," she corrected me for the hundredth time, but of course I already knew that. "But yes, I'll do it when I get the chance. You know it's probably the best school in the country for translating? All the people who translate at the UN and the State Department and whatnot went there. Well, not all of them, obviously, but a lot of them."

"So you tell me. Don't put it off for too long, okay? Maybe it's not for you, and that's cool, but you'll only find out if you ask."

She feigned shock, then touched the back of her hand to my forehead. "Oh my God, are you feeling well? You're being reasonable!"

An eye roll was all this earned her from me.

***

John and Liam's reactions to me confessing my social psychology midterm grade could not have been more different. Liam had gotten upset, if with me or on my behalf, I wasn't sure. He had asked every detail of the class and Professor Fernández' study tips and exam instructions, then about how I had studied. I hadn't wanted to tell him at all originally, but when I had gone to see him that night, he had immediately picked up that something was wrong.

"I had hoped you'd comfort, not cross-examine me." My voice had come out muffled from under the fuzzy blanket into which I had wrapped myself sitting on his bed.

That had shut him up.

With John, whom I met for breakfast two days after, it was the exact opposite. He didn't ask about my grades, I'm not sure if he registered my dejection at all. Though, granted, I had had two days more to chew on it. Even the 90 in the Early Republic exam barely lifted my mood in the meantime, regardless of the fact that this equaled a 100 in any other professor's class.

Eventually I cleared my throat, setting down my cup of water.

"I got a 79 on my social psych midterm."

John only briefly looked up from his bowl of cereal. "Oh, I'm sorry." Then he proceeded to shovel the knock-off Fruit Loops into his mouth.

Don't jump to conclusions, Grace. It's not personal. I didn't know if I was telling my stomach which dropped so deep it felt like it would touch the floor or my heart which ached at his indifference.

"You seem kind of zoned out this morning," I remarked, unable to keep the hurt out of my voice. But he didn't notice that either.

The dining hall was almost silent at this time, especially on the upstairs maisonette floor of Proctor. Even during midterm season, few people had breakfast at 8 am on a Saturday. It had been John's suggestion so he could get a good desk at the library afterwards.

"Huh?"

"How did you do on The Early Republic?"

His eyes darkened.

"Not well."

So he knew how it felt. A hot, forceful wave of shame washed over me. Me me me had been on my mind while he was sitting here fighting his own battles.

"I'm sorry. How not well?"

"Not well."

"Come on, I told you about mine." Let me in. Let me be there for you.

"Can we talk about something else, please?" His eyes glided from his bowl to the table. Irritation bubbled up inside him. I recognized it from the soccer field when they had lost against Tufts. It was so apparent to me now that I could almost see the gauge rising.

"Do you want to study together for the final?" I offered in a last attempt.

"No."

His voice was loud and so harsh that I flinched. After a second of paralysis, I tried to blink away the lump in my throat and those damned tears collecting in the corners of my eyes. As quietly as possible, I brought a spoonful of dining-hall-made granola to my mouth.

A few people's conversations were audible as mumbles. The whole milk from the local dairy farm washed over the walnuts in my granola whenever my spoon dove into the bowl. The shrill, uneven pattern of clinking against the porcelain resonated in my ears.

After a minute, I watched out of the corner of my eye as John lifted his head and his face twisted.

"Grace, I'm sorry."

"Whatever."

The truth was, I was hurt. I had wanted to support him, maybe also selfishly offered to spend more time with him, and he had turned me down. I had gotten the message loud and clear.

The gentle brush of his fingertips on the inside of my wrist created a vortex that sucked my gaze into his and sent my heartbeat into overdrive.

"I mean it, I'm sorry."

Despite my anger, my skin tingled where his fingers lay underneath the sleeve of my loosely woven knit cardigan. Goosebumps ran a marathon up my entire arm, and then down the other arm. His gaze fell to my neck, then dragged across my collarbone, hot and heavy, until arriving at my lips, where he lingered only for a second before he pinched his eyes shut. Scorched skin was what his gaze left behind. There was no way he didn't notice my racing pulse under the pad of his thumb on my wrist.

After a moment, he opened his eyes again, slowly, cautious to keep them in check this time. "I'm sorry," he repeated, but it took on a different meaning now.

I pressed my lips together and nodded in a conciliatory gesture, and immediately regretted the loss of his hand on me when he pulled it away.

Later I learned from catching a glimpse at his exam sheet when Prof. Wolf returned them that he had received a 67. I had thought we had both screwed up on similar scales and he had been being touchy for no reason, but he had done much worse. By then I knew not to bring it up, though. Eggshells were not meant for walking, and they were what plastered the way of every conversation about his academic standing.