Chapter 16

When I got to Design class on Monday, I was the first to arrive. Over the next five minutes, the class slowly filled up, but a lot of people were missing. All of the members of our team had arrived, however, and we looked rested and refreshed. Everyone else looked haggard. Even Gracie Fisher and her team were hard-worn.

Trip’s foresight had paid off. With Samantha’s schedule, Antonio’s encyclopedic knowledge, my design skills, and Trip’s overall leadership (not to mention his attention to detail), we had finished our projects before the weekend.

“These folks look like death warmed over,” Antonio whispered.

“We’ve got a good team,” Trip said softly. “Which reminds me,” he added, “Paul found out that Joska teaches most of the first-year design classes. And if we have to take Joska for the rest of the year, we should probably try to get in the same class. That way, maybe he’ll keep us together as a team.”

Samantha and Antonio both nodded.

Since the fall quarter was drawing to a close, we had advising and registration for the upcoming quarter. Trip and I had talked about it during the return flight from Nashville; we wanted to arrange our schedules so we could take classes together. I also had to consider Kendall and Gina’s schedules, and I wanted to model for Siobhan’s class.

Unfortunately, I didn’t know where to start—I felt like a juggler with too many balls in the air. Regardless, I mentally worked on my class schedule until Professor Joska strode into the room. Several people straggled in behind him and then the bell rang.

“I hope you all enjoyed your weekend,” he said.

I couldn’t tell if he was being facetious or just sadistic.

“I noticed that the design labs were full of diligent students,” he continued. “One notable absence this weekend, however,” he said, fixing his gaze upon Trip, “was Mr. Whitman and team. So, Mr. Whitman, have you found a design lab you prefer more than the ones we provide for you? Perhaps one in your favorite pizza parlor?”

“No, sir,” Trip said without hesitation.

I marveled at his aplomb. I would’ve been boiling if Joska had leveled his scorn at me.

“Perhaps you’ve come to your senses and decided to give up your dreams of becoming an architect?” Joska asked.

“No, sir,” Trip said.

“Then where were you and your team this weekend, while all your classmates were industriously toiling away on their final projects?”

“Antonio went home for the weekend,” Trip said. “Samantha was here on campus. And Paul and I went to visit my family in Nashville.”

“Nashville?” Joska asked almost pleasantly.

“It was my little brother’s birthday.”

I got the strange feeling that Trip was actually enjoying himself.

“Your little brother’s birthday?” Joska mocked. “How quaint. And I suppose you didn’t feel the need to work on your project this weekend?”

“No, sir,” Trip answered.

“And why not? What makes you and your team so special, Mr. Whitman?”

“We finished on Friday,” Trip said.

I thought I detected a hint of a grin on my friend’s face, but it was gone before I consciously realized it. When I glanced at Professor Joska, I expected him to react with shock or outrage. Instead, he simply studied Trip, as if waiting for him to crack.

“Miss Fisher,” Joska asked suddenly, “what time did you and your team leave the design lab last night?”

“About midnight,” she said.

“Mr. Giles?” Joska prompted.

“The same.”

“Mr. Spaulding?”

“About three o’clock this morning.”

“Mr. Ivey,” Joska asked, “how long were you and your team in the lab?”

“Um ... till about ten this morning, I guess.”

“You guess? Or you know?”

“Yeah, we left about ten,” Ivey said. He and his team looked like hell.

“And Mr. Vang and his team straggled in after I did,” Joska said. Then he turned his merciless gaze back to Trip. “So, Mr. Whitman, do you think your team is better than the others?”

“Absolutely, sir,” Trip answered.

“Don’t you think that’s fairly arrogant?” Joska asked.

“No, sir,” Trip said without a pause. “We finished on Friday, and no one else did. So it doesn’t matter what I think—the results speak for themselves.”

I fully expected Joska to blow his top. Instead, he merely laughed. It was short and incredulous, but it was definitely laughter.

“We’re ready to turn in our projects now, if you’d like,” Trip said evenly.

“By all means, be my guest, Mr. Whitman,” Joska said.

I don’t know how he did it, but Trip looked supremely confident as he stood up and reached for his carrying tube. At his nod, the rest of our team stood as well. As a group, we walked to the front of the class and deposited our drawings and critiques on Joska’s desk. The rest of the class looked at us like we were insane. I tried not to smile smugly. Antonio didn’t even try.

“Well,” Joska snapped at the class, “what are you waiting for? Turn in your projects.”

When everyone returned to their seats, he reminded us that the grading would be the same as our midterm projects: fifty percent, technical quality of our drawings; ten percent, critiques; and forty percent, a competition based on artistic execution and attention to detail.

Even though more than half of the class was clearly exhausted, Joska launched into his lesson, firing questions left and right. He did seem to take pity on everyone else, however, since most of his questions were directed at Trip, Samantha, and me (he had long since learned that Antonio could quote chapter and verse from the textbook).

For the remainder of the hour, I felt like I was in the ring with an Olympic-class wrestler, and that I always had to be on my toes. It was exhausting, but when the bell finally rang, Joska stopped. Then he looked at his watch, as if in surprise. Finally, he leveled his inscrutable gaze at me.

I returned it with as much equanimity as I could muster.

And I’ll keep coming back for more, I thought stubbornly.

Later, our intramural football team headed to play the Pikes. Gina ran up to me as soon as I got there. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Kendall draw back. I sighed and then pasted on a smile for Gina’s benefit. After all, I wasn’t upset with her.

“Hey,” she whispered, “good luck tonight. The rest of the girls are rooting for the Pikes, but I want you to win. I can’t cheer real loud, ‘cause ... well ... you know.”

I nodded.

“But in my heart, I’ll be cheering for you,” she finished with a smile.

“Thanks.”

“God,” she said at last.

“What?”

“This whole girlfriend/best-friend thing stinks.”

“Huh?”

“I wanna throw my arms around you and give you a big kiss,” she said. “But the guys on your team know Kendall as your girlfriend, right?”

I nodded.

“Maybe that wasn’t the greatest idea after all,” she said. “I thought it would be easier than this. And I didn’t think Kendall would— Oh, never mind. Anyway,” she said, “good luck. You know I’m cheering for you on the inside, even if I’m not jumping up and down like the rest of your team’s fans.”

“I know,” I said. I started to rejoin my team, but Gina stopped me with a gesture.

“Paul?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you think we could get together tonight? I ... I want to spend some time with you.”

“That sounds like a great idea,” I said.

“Maybe...”

“Maybe...?” I prompted.

“Maybe we could invite Kendall?”

I raised my eyebrows in disbelief.

“Well,” she said, “one of us has to extend the olive branch.”

“I’d like that,” I said. “I’ll ask her.”

“Thanks,” she said. Then, “Oh, what the hell...”

With that, she threw her arms around my neck and kissed me soundly. When she drew back, she grinned shyly and then ran toward the sidelines. I smiled at her retreating back and then joined my teammates.

“Mais,” Luke said with a grin, “you’d make a fine Cajun.”

Before I could reply, the referee blew the whistle to summon the team captains. Kendall looked like she wanted to talk to me, but she knew she’d have to wait.

The game started a few minutes later. We won the toss, and elected to receive the first kickoff. T.J. caught the ball and dashed upfield. He dodged a couple of defenders but the Pikes finally tackled him.

Trip threw a couple of quick passes and I even made a run (for a first down, thank you very much). Then we scored a touchdown on a quarterback sneak. After we kicked off, the Pikes quickly returned the ball and scored a touchdown. For the rest of the half, the game went back and forth. We scored again, but so did the Pikes.

Things turned around for us at the start of the second half. When the Pikes returned the kickoff, their player fumbled the football, and I somehow scooped it up.

“Christ, run, Loverboy,” T.J. screamed. Then he blocked for me as the Pikes rushed us.

T.J. managed to take out two tacklers, but I wasn’t the fastest guy on our team. It took two Pikes to bring me down, but they eventually dragged me to the ground.

On the next play, Trip threaded a pass between two Pike defenders to our receiver, who then ran for a touchdown. We celebrated wildly, and the referee had to blow his whistle twice before we settled down.

After we kicked off, we were still fired up. The Pike quarterback was clearly rattled, and he threw a wobbly pass that Luke picked off and returned to the Pike twenty-yard line.

In the huddle, Trip called a running play. As soon as our center snapped the ball, I started moving. Trip turned and pitched the ball to me. I caught it in stride and aimed for a hole in the Pike line. Somehow, I made it through, but when I looked downfield, I saw a Pike between me and the end zone.

It was Rod.

I lowered my shoulder and sprinted into overdrive. I hit him right below the breastbone and he immediately flew backward with a grunt. Then I thundered over the goal line to the cheers of my teammates.

“Are you okay, man?” I asked Rod as we walked back to kick off.

“Get the fuck away from me,” he said, still rubbing his chest.

“Dude, take it easy.”

“Man, shut the fuck up.”

“No, you shut the fuck up,” T.J. said to him.

Where had T.J. come from? I wondered, startled. A minute before, he’d been walking toward midfield with the rest of our team.

“Go kick the fucking ball,” Rod said dismissively.

“I’ll kick your fuckin’ ass,” T.J. said. “That’s what I’ll kick.”

“C’mon, T.J.,” I said, “let’s go.”

T.J. muttered about “rich dickheads” all the way back to midfield.

When the Pikes got the ball, they didn’t fumble it, but they didn’t make a first down either. So they ended up punting the ball back to us. The Pike defense was angry but effective, so we couldn’t manage to score. We had a comfortable lead, however, and all we had to do was maintain it.

On one of our possessions, Trip tossed the ball to me and I started running, with Glen leading the way. The Pikes quickly tackled me in spite of his blocking. As I started to get up, however, someone shoved me to the ground.

“Stay down, asshole,” Rod said.

“Man, what’s your fucking problem?” I growled as I jumped up. I felt like taking a swing at him, but he had Neil and another guy with him.

Before Rod could say anything else, the ref came running over, blowing his whistle. The Pikes and I glared at each other, but we returned to our teams.

On the next play, one of our receivers caught a pass and was immediately tackled. When the ref blew the whistle to end the down, someone ran into me from behind.

“Oh, sorry,” Rod said sarcastically.

“No problem, buttfucker,” I said.

“What’d you call me?!”

“You heard me,” I said. Then I turned dismissively and walked back to my teammates.

After that, we scored another touchdown, extending our lead. When the Pikes got the ball back, they were enraged and uncoordinated, so we shut them down at every opportunity. Finally, the ref blew the whistle to end the game. We had won, 35–14.

Afterward, we shook hands with the other team. When I got to Rod, he didn’t let go of my hand.

“What do you want, Rod?” I asked, my voice hard.

“What did you call me?” he grated.

Since he wouldn’t let go of my hand, I decided to make him pay for the pleasure; I started squeezing. Rod tried to squeeze my hand in return, but I was far, far stronger than he was. As the tableau drew out, he started to look panicked. Then his panic turned to pain. At that point, I took pity on him.

“Good game, Rod,” I said.

“Fuck you.”

Out of spite, I squeezed his hand again.

He had to bite back a yelp of agony.

I snorted contemptuously and let go of him. Then I turned to walk away.

With a roar of fury, he hit me from behind.

I tried to turn and grab him to break my fall, but I hit the ground and then he hit me. In a flash, my wrestling-trained reflexes kicked in and I began to reverse on him. Before I could, however, someone knocked him off me. For a half-second, T.J. stood over me. I braced for his attack. Then, to my utter amazement, he pounced on Rod and started hitting him. A second after that, Glen jerked the spitting and swearing T.J. to his feet.

“What the hell is going on here?” the ref asked as he ran up.

“I’m gonna fucking kill you, asshole!” Rod shouted at me.

“You’ll have to go through me first, faggot,” T.J. snarled. Then, “Glen, lemme go, God dammit.”

Glen and the referee moved between the opposing groups of players. To my surprise, Glen still held T.J. at arm’s length (on our side of the circle, of course).

“Save it for the bar after the game,” the ref said. “Now, everyone, break it up. I said break it up!”

After a tense moment, Glen calmly turned toward the edge of the circle. “We’re leaving,” the big man said, the voice of reason.

“Yeah, go on, you pussies,” Rod taunted.

I turned and lunged at him, but Luke caught me before I got close.

“It ain’t worth it, chèr,” he said softly. “Just let it go. He ain’t nothin’.”

Rod’s fraternity brothers didn’t like losing any more than he did, and they jeered at us. To my surprise, Glen practically handed T.J. to Trip.

“Don’t let him go,” Glen said to my friend. Then he turned and walked toward the Pikes. “Y’all just go on,” he said to them. “We don’t want no trouble.”

“Pussy,” Rod taunted.

Glen didn’t react.

Unfortunately, Rod made the mistake of thinking that was a sign of weakness. When he swung at Glen, the big man simply stepped out of the way. As Rod overbalanced, Glen helped him along with a little shove. Rod landed face-first in the grass.

The referee tried to intervene, but Rod came up screaming for blood. He lunged, but Glen simply stepped out of the way. Again. Instead of giving him a shove, Glen caught Rod’s arm. Glen’s touch looked as light as a feather, but when he turned Rod’s wrist, the Pike howled in pain and rage.

“I told you,” Glen said evenly, “we don’t want no trouble.”

With Rod’s arm in a wrist lock, Glen easily shepherded the belligerent Pike back toward his teammates. At that point, the referee asserted himself again. The Pikes glared at Glen—and largely ignored the referee—but they backed away, still muttering.

Our team gathered on our sideline.

“How the fuck did you do that?” Jeff asked Glen. “Karate?”

Glen slowly turned his head and looked at Jeff, regarding him silently. After a moment, he simply sighed and looked away.

“Kung fu?” Jeff pressed.

Glen must’ve realized that he wasn’t going to dodge Jeff’s question, but his curt headshake wasn’t much of an answer.

“Judo?”

Glen didn’t answer.

“Then what?” Jeff asked, his excitement undiminished by Glen’s silence.

“It was aikido,” Glen said at last.

“Ai-ki-what?”

“Aikido,” Glen repeated.

“Fuckin’ A,” Jeff said. “Whatever it was, it was cool!”

Glen merely shook his head sadly.

“What started that?” Trip asked me, indicating the distant Pikes.

“I guess they don’t like losing,” I said as blandly as I could. Then I looked at Glen. I thanked him with a nod, which he returned. A moment later, my eyes came to rest on T.J. I hated the idea of thanking him, but he had come to my defense. Before I could say anything, however, he glared at me.

“Fuck you, Loverboy,” he said.

I started to bristle, my fists clenched.

“Hey,” Trip said quickly, “we’re all on the same team here. Good game, y’all. We won, and that’s what matters. So let’s go celebrate.”

“Mais,” Luke said, “I need a beer.”

The rest of the team tensely agreed.

T.J. glared at me for a moment longer. When the guys started making plans for a trip to one of the bars on the Strip, he finally turned away.

Somehow, I didn’t feel like celebrating. Adrenaline still coursed through my veins, and I was angry—angry with T.J., for being a prick, and angry with Rod, for being himself. Worse, Rod seemed like the type of spoiled rich guy who held a grudge. So I knew I’d just made an enemy who could cause me—and Gina—a lot of problems.

At the thought of Gina, I searched her out among the crowd of Pikes and Chi Os. When we made eye contact, she flashed me a worried look. I made an “I’ll call you” gesture and she nodded. Then she discreetly blew me a kiss. Finally, she gave me another meaningful look and then turned to her sorority sisters.

“What does she want?” Kendall asked from right beside me.

Not, “Oh my goodness, Paul, I was so worried.” Not, “Oh, Paul, are you hurt?” Not even, “What was that about?”

I sighed. I needed to get Kendall and Gina together so we could talk about our problems, because the hostility was tearing me up inside. Since Gina was willing to extend an olive branch...

“She wanted to get together tonight, just the three of us,” I told Kendall. Then, “Hold on a second.” I got Trip’s attention and motioned him close. “Listen, I’m not gonna go with y’all tonight,” I said.

“Why not, man?”

“I’ve got ... stuff I need to do,” I said. “With Kendall and Gi—”

“We can go out, if you want,” Kendall interrupted.

“But what about Gina?” I asked quietly.

Her eyes darted nervously toward Trip.

“He’s cool,” I said. When she raised her eyebrows, I nodded. “He knows about the three of us. He figured it out a while ago.”

Trip confirmed it with a nod.

“Invite Gina with us,” Kendall said.

“Sure,” Trip added.

I thought about it for a moment and then my stomach knotted as I realized that Kendall had neatly mousetrapped me. Gina could do something with us in private. But after the Pike loss and the near-brawl with Rod, Gina couldn’t go out and publicly celebrate with us. The odds of someone seeing her with “the enemy” were simply too great. I knew it, Gina would know it, and Kendall definitely knew it.

“C’mon,” Trip urged. “Invite Gina along. We’ll have a few beers and then y’all can leave early.”

“Sure, Paul,” Kendall said. “I bet Gina would love to come with us.”

“I’m sure she would,” Trip agreed.

I glanced at Kendall. Did she know what she’d done? She had to. She wasn’t an idiot. Far from it, as a matter of fact.

“Please, Paul,” Kendall urged. “It’ll be fun.”

“You want me to what?!” Gina practically shrieked.

I held the phone away from my ear.

“Paul, that has to be the dumbest idea you’ve ever had,” she continued in a slightly calmer tone. “Your team just beat the Pikes. You almost got in a fight with Rod. I can’t go out in public and celebrate with you. What were you thinking?” she asked. Then she grew deadly quiet. “This was her idea, wasn’t it?”

“No,” I said immediately. “It was mine.”

“You’re covering for her,” she said. “Do you think I can’t tell when you’re lying to me?”

“I’m not lying.”

“You are too! Paul, she knew I wouldn’t be able to celebrate with you in public! I bet she was all smiles when she mentioned it, that conniving bi—”

“Gina! It was my idea.”

“Is that what you want me to believe?”

I didn’t want to lie to her—any more than I already was—so I kept my mouth shut. I hated lying, but I didn’t know what else to say.

“That’s what I thought,” she said. “It was her idea.”

“Gina, no one will see you.”

“And what if you’re wrong?” she asked acidly. “It won’t be you that gets blackballed.”

“They wouldn’t do that to you.”

“You wanna bet?! If they see me out celebrating with your team, you just watch them. Regan and Rod are furious. They were even trying to get me to break up with you. And you think they won’t blackball me if I go out and party with you? Ha!”

“We’ll go someplace discreet,” I countered.

“On the Strip?! Have you lost your mind? There isn’t anyplace discreet on the Strip. Paul, if a Pike or Chi O sees me with you and your team, I’m history. Don’t you understand that?”

Unfortunately, I understood it all too well. But I was between a rock and a hard place. What could I do?

“Let’s just stay in tonight,” she urged. “We can sneak up to your room, and we don’t have to worry about anyone seeing us.”

“But what about Kendall?”

Silence.

“What about the olive branch?” I asked, my hopes dying quietly.

“The olive tree burned down,” Gina said.

“What do you want me to do?”

“I want you to spend a quiet night with your girlfriend,” she said. “Your first girlfriend. We don’t have to do anything. I just want to spend some time with you.”

“But I told the guys...”

“Paul, please...”

“But ... you can come out with us for a little while. We don’t have to stay long,” I said.

“I can’t,” she said, tears in her voice. “You know I can’t.”

“But I told the guys...,” I repeated lamely.

“This is all her fault,” Gina fumed.

“Gina, please—”

“I hate her,” she screamed.

I had to jerk the phone away from my ear as Gina hung up with a ringing crash.

I ended up going to the bar with everyone, but things didn’t quite work out the way Kendall had planned. I wasn’t in a good mood at all, and I made sure that she understood why. She tried to coax me into a better mood, but I didn’t want to be cheered up, especially by her.

“I gotta go,” I said suddenly. Then I looked at my watch as I stood up. “If I get to the Bubble before ten,” I said, “I can still work out.”

“Work out?” T.J. asked. Then, “C’mon, Loverboy, stick around. I’ll even buy you a beer.”

“Paul, please,” Kendall whispered.

“You can find your way home,” I told her icily. Then I turned to Trip. “Make sure she gets home safe, okay?”

He nodded.

The guys raised a commotion when I threw five bucks on the table and turned to leave, but I didn’t look back. They had their victory and their beer; they wouldn’t miss me.

And Kendall certainly got her wish.

After all, I wasn’t with Gina, was I?

The next morning, Kendall tearfully apologized when we met for breakfast. I was still angry with her, but she swore that she hadn’t thought about the consequences if Gina celebrated with us. I didn’t believe her, but what could I do? I couldn’t prove that she’d done it intentionally, and if I didn’t accept her apology, it would be the same as calling her a liar to her face.

“Paul, I swear,” she said, “I didn’t even think about it.”

Bullshit, I thought. She was too smart not to have thought about it.

“I didn’t, Paul,” she repeated.

“I know you didn’t,” I lied. What else could I do? Worse, I had to play the part of accepting—and believing—her apology. So I pulled her close and hugged her. I tried to relax, but inside, I was simmering.

We ate breakfast in silence. Kendall could tell that I was still upset, but I tried to play it off as anxiety about my advising for the upcoming quarter. We each had our charade to play, so she accepted my explanation.

How can people live like this? I wondered.

The College of Architecture Advising Center was crowded, although not as crowded as it might’ve been. A lot of students had undoubtedly dropped out of the program, driven away by the difficult courses or their own misgivings.

As a freshman, I didn’t have a regular advisor. After my first year—if I survived—I’d be assigned a permanent faculty advisor. But for the moment, I had to settle for whomever was available. In reality, I knew exactly which sections I was going to take, and I simply needed the advisor’s signature.

It wouldn’t be that easy.

I spent almost half an hour with a graduate teaching assistant who obviously thought he knew more about my course requirements than I did. Worse, he repeatedly told me how lucky I was to get to take classes from Professor Joska. The TA even said Joska’s name with reverence.

Why does everyone worship the water this guy walks on? I wondered sullenly.

When the TA actually looked at my schedule, I had to explain why I didn’t need to take English 1020. Then I had to explain why I didn’t want a class at three o’clock on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday (that was when Siobhan’s class met).

To top it all off, my current project team had settled upon a Design 1007 section that fit all of our schedules, so I had to explain to the advisor why I needed that specific section. By the time I had to tell him—for the third time!—that I didn’t care which other sections were available, I was ready to chew the furniture.

“But there are several other Design sections that have more openings,” the advisor said. Again.

At that point, my frustration finally boiled over. I stood up and slammed my palms on the desk. The boom was loud enough that the whole room fell silent.

“I don’t fucking care what other Design sections are open,” I half-shouted. “I’ve just spent the last week getting this schedule figured out. And if the classes are open, just give me the ones I want. All you have to do is sign the fucking card. How goddamned hard can that be?!”

“Is there a problem, Mr. Hughes?” someone asked from behind me.

Joska!

“Because that’s hardly the way to get your advisor to sign your schedule,” he said.

I whirled, murder in my eyes. Then I clenched my fists and set my jaw, my nostrils flaring as I contemplated what would happen if I took a swing at him—or if I even cared.

With reckless disregard for his own safety, Joska stared me down. “Relax, Mr. Hughes,” he said after a moment. When I didn’t move, his eyes hardened.

I glanced away, ashamed of my violent train of thought, and I hated Joska all the more for it.

Satisfied that I wasn’t going to do anything foolish, he turned to the advisor. “Let me see his schedule, please.”

“Yes, sir,” the advisor said immediately.

Joska studied the card for a moment. Then he nodded.

“Sir, I was trying to tell him that there are other Des—” the advisor started to say, but Joska cut him off with a gesture.

“Young Mr. Hughes undoubtedly wants the same section as his current classmates,” Joska explained. Then he turned to me. “Since Mr. Whitman is probably the only reason you’re still in the Architecture program, Mr. Hughes, I’m inclined to see if you can make it on your own.”

My face flushed hot and my jaw ached from clenching it so hard.

“But I think I’ll let you have the class you want,” Joska continued. “I have a perverse sense of charity.”

I was so surprised—and relieved—that I didn’t even react to his barbed “charity” comment.

“Which of Professor Ledbetter’s Drawing sections are open?” Joska asked the advisor, who quickly read off a series of days and times.

Then, without even asking me, Joska told me that I was taking a different Drawing 1320 section. The one I wanted was with a professor named Stiglitz (Trip and I had chosen the same section). I started to balk, but Joska silenced me with a look.

“It’s a better class for you, Mr. Hughes,” he said. “In it, you can get the guidance you need.”

I looked at him defiantly.

He stared at me for a moment longer, his eyes unwavering. Then he turned to the advisor. With a snap, he gestured for a pen. He didn’t even glance at me as he wrote in the new Drawing section.

“Was there anything else you needed, Mr. Hughes?” Joska asked.

Still fuming, I shook my head.

“Good,” he said. Then he signed my registration card and handed it to me. “Enjoy your Thanksgiving break. When you return, I’m sure you’ll be ready for your final exam,” he said, “although I doubt you can repeat your performance from the midterm.”