Before I could get up to deliver the bad news to Matthew, another e-mail popped up. It was Brian: “Sheila. Check the bar exam site and get back to me.” The Web site said that New York was releasing exam results that night at midnight. Even better, they’d be posted online for the entire world to see.

I started sweating profusely, wondering if Bob needed a roommate in the ICU. My only realistic refuge was the bathroom, and Kate had been there for what felt like hours. Sweat. Wet. Cafeteria. I got up and wobbled to the second floor. The sight of Ernie in a hairnet and a “Proud to Be an American” T-shirt, trying to grab a coffee pot from the shelf but instead reaching for air was more than I could take. I sat at a table, put my head in my hands, and cried. Sniveling clerk. Loafers. Linoleum. A loud crash awakened me from my pity party. Ernie had found the coffee pot but only after accidentally punching it. The pot crashed, breaking into bits. Ernie simply started whistling and swept it up. If Ernie could get through life happily, I could survive the day.

Marching back into the clerks’ cave, I stopped in Matthew’s cubicle. “Is she here yet?”

“Nope.”

“Anyway, I don’t know if you got the e-mail but we have to start that tutoring program.”

“Sheila, I cannot believe you got me into this. I don’t even like children and she’s going to go crazy when she comes in here from the hospital and sees a kid.”

“Not much we can do about it now. And by the way, New York is releasing bar results tonight. You should check California.” He looked doubly pained and quickly confirmed that, indeed, he’d be receiving his exam results that night, too.

“Shit, Sheila, talk about a bad day.” He tensed his shoulders. “And I don’t even know what possessed me to agree to Heidi’s demands that we move to Los Angeles. I don’t even like Southern California.”

At that moment, Evan walked into our cave. Matthew and I looked at him, awkwardness blanketing the room. “Hey, Evan, did you hear that we get bar exam results tonight?” I asked—a silly question for someone who’d trekked to California during his Christmas break for clerk camp.

“Um. No. Oh,” he muttered, before stumbling back to his cubicle.

Another e-mail from Brian awaited me. “I’m totally freaked out, Sheila. I know I failed. What am I going to do?” The sentiment was understandable, but why did Brian suddenly consider me a shoulder upon which to cry? At best, he’d been aloof since we started clerking. Yet, I still felt bad for the guy. Having a big butt and a fedora was no way to live.