The Unfortunates by J K Chukwu

Author:J K Chukwu [Chukwu, J K]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollinsPublishers
Published: 2023-04-24T17:00:00+00:00

Naughty Cells Professor sits in front of her computer. I’m sitting across from her not knowing what amount of terrified is appropriate for this situation. I’m at my baseline threat level of orange. I’m orange when walking on campus, when waiting on food in the dining hall, when sitting in class.[1] There are other colors, of course, like the blues, or the greens when I’m high flying with ROD and the stale edibles from the bottom of her thrifted Kånken backpack. Continuously, I swim through these spectrums. Every experience shading me differently. Never a second where I can reset my thoughts.

As I’m still waiting for NCP[2] to speak, I burn brighter with anxiety. It’s been minutes of her only staring at her iMac and scratching her mottled arms, which are the color of bruised peaches. Next to her are crushed tin cans of sparkling water and abandoned paper cups of coffee. Why am I here? She already established that I failed the test, which is 30 percent of my grade. My fate is signed, sealed, and delivered, leaving me trapped in a panic-filled feedback loop. Shit, oh God, shit, stop, stop panicking, whatever you do don’t cry. Don’t let her see you cry. Last year during a moment of exposed weakness, you cried while in a TA’s office hours. Outside of Chipotle napkins stained with tears and dried sour cream, all crying got you was a twelve-hour extension, and an email from a TA, clarifying that next time emotional manipulation will not work.

NCP finally speaks. Her first words, “You failed the exam,” offer no comfort.

“Sorry.”

“Why are you apologizing? It happened. Now we have to figure out what’s next.”

“I, I can drop.”

“I wouldn’t do that.” NCP pulls up my discussion post about naughty scientists. She silently reads through the comments she’s made in the margins and then scrolls down to my grade. It reads, 90/100. “Did you work with anyone in the class?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I couldn’—” I pause, debating a lie’s worth. There’s nothing to lose, nothing to gain. I push back a braid that dangles in front of my eyes. I tell her, “I didn’t want to.”

“You didn’t want to?” NCP sighs. “Their loss. Many of the posts could have used your insight.” Shocked, I thank NCP; however, anticipation for our discussion of my failed midterm curtails the happiness over this post. She grabs one of the abandoned paper cups of coffee and places it in the microwave, which sits on a tiered wire shelf behind her. “Sahara, your post was one of the best I’ve read in years. Decades of teaching have taught me there are some who need their assessments done differently.” Differently and microwave’s timer mix to a blare. As NCP explains my options, my shoulders tighten. I don’t want options. I want to do well, like everyone else. “I’ll count this post toward your midterm.”

“I, well, thank you—”

“And then for your final you’ll have the option of writing a fifteen-page research paper instead of an exam. Does

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