I sharpen all three of my pencils and lay them on my desk. The tips are so pointy they could prick blood from your fingertips. I arrange them from shortest to longest. Then I change my mind and decide they look better longest to shortest. Controlling the pencils, which is the only thing I can control in this moment, helps ease my nerves. By the time Professor Cartwright comes shuffling into the room ten minutes late, I have already gone back and forth three times.

“Now, now,” Professor Cartwright says. “Don’t be scared. You look like you’ve seen a ghost. You’ll have forty-five minutes to complete this and then I’ll grade it right after. Just breathe and do your best.”

He hands me the exam. I pick up one of my extra-pointy pencils and glance through the questions. Even though I have studied nonstop for a week, the questions look complex and intimidating. I start panicking internally and prepare myself for failure. I knew I was gonna fail. Despite my lack of self-confidence, I work through each problem methodically, as best I can. By the end, I’m convinced none of my answers are correct. I still have ten minutes left, but instead of looking over my test, I read all the announcements on the side wall.

“All right, time’s up. Do you need an extra five?” Professor Cartwright asks.

I walk the exam up to his desk. Tears begin to well up in my eyes.

“I just want you to know that this time I tried really hard. I’m sorry if I failed again.”

He smiles compassionately, which is the first time I’ve felt him recognize my humanity. “Let’s just take a look. Have a seat. This will only take a few minutes.”

I rearrange my pencils again and resharpen them. When that doesn’t bring satisfaction, I push back the skin of all my cuticles. Manda Panda gets manicures at the nail salon next to Walmart off campus. Her nails always look great: light pink, baby blue, and purple. I wonder how my nails would look with a manicure. I still appear young in the face, but my hands give away the struggle that has been my life. They look like working hands, rough with brittle, dirty nails. Shame, both for my hands and my impending failing grade, rocks me.

A few minutes is really almost twenty-five. That’s how long it takes him to finish. I don’t know if the extra time is a good thing or a bad thing. He walks the exam over to me. I try to read the expression on his face, but he doesn’t give anything away.

“Are you going back to Cleveland for the break, Ms. Brown?” he says, sitting on the table next to me.