Chapter 17

“Welcome back,” Professor Joska said as he strode into the room. He had his usual air of purpose about him, and he carried a roll of drawings as well as a stack of papers. “I hope you had an enjoyable holiday weekend. I, on the other hand, was mired in mediocrity,” he said heavily, holding up our drawings.

I bet he’s talking to me, I fumed silently.

“Some of you still don’t understand that architecture is a serious business for serious people,” he said. “Overall, your drawings were better than your midterm project, but they still lack discipline, focus, and attention to detail.” Not surprisingly, he was looking directly at me when he said the last.

“The critiques were slightly better than last time,” he continued, “but they still showed an alarming lack of critical thought. Superficial will not do,” he said, pausing to let that sink in. “Your drawings were marginally better, but I expect an even higher level of precision from you. After all, you’ve made it this far—some of you on luck more than anything else—and you should have a better understanding of design concepts, much less drafting skills.

“At least four of you will not receive a passing grade for this course unless you somehow manage to earn a perfect score on the final exam. Many of you hang in the balance; your future will be determined by how well you do on the final. None of you are home free, however. Despite the improvement on this project,” he said, brandishing the roll of drawings again, “your projects only count for twenty percent of your overall grade.”

As he let that hang over us, several people glanced around nervously. Antonio looked sanguinely self-confident, of course. Trip did too. I tried to project an air of confidence as well, but inside, I was anything but.

Professor Joska started speaking again, but I wasn’t listening.

Instead, I tried to suppress my growing panic. What if I flunked the final? Would I still be able to take architecture courses? Would I ever get a job as an architect? With an angry headshake, I suppressed my wild—and fruitless—speculation. No matter what he throws at me, I repeated to myself, as calmly as I could, I’ll keep coming back for more.

“ ... and forty percent of your project grade is based upon in-team competition,” Joska was saying.

I scowled in irritation. We knew how the grading worked; he’d explained it a half-dozen times, at least. Did he think we were idiots?

“Are there any questions?” he finally asked. When there were none, he started handing out drawings and critiques. With each one, he commented to the recipient. None of his comments were very heartening. He called my name somewhere in the middle. “A plebeian effort, Mr. Hughes,” he said as he handed over my project. “You’ll have to do better than this if you want to be an architect.”

I felt my lips go tight with anger, but I merely nodded and accepted my rolled-up drawing.

Back at my desk, Trip glanced at me as I sat down. He’d been one of the first to receive his project, and he grimaced as he flashed me his grade—he’d gotten a 50, an F.

At that point, I started to panic. What if Joska had suddenly changed his grading standards? If Trip had gotten a 50, I didn’t even want to think about what I’d gotten.

I dithered for less than a second, however. Morbid curiosity drove me to flip to the last page of my critiques.

Joska’s note read, Working with Mr. Whitman has sharpened your critiques, but you still need to focus more on details. People’s lives might one day depend upon your analyses, and you need to grasp the importance of this fact. These critiques aren’t personal, and you should stop treating them as such. An improvement, but I expect better. 6/10.

I silently groused about his note, but at least it was better than the set of critiques I’d done for the mid-term project. Then, with a barely suppressed pang of anxiety, I unrolled my drawings. Joska had circled several areas on my plan drawing, and written short notes next to each one. In a rush to see my overall grade, I didn’t even read most of them, but the consistent theme was, “lack of attention to detail.” My elevation drawing was much the same.

Without reading the note, I flicked my eyes to the bottom of the drawing. My overall grade was...

... an 86?!

A little confused, I looked at Joska’s note. It read, You have a good grasp of the design as a whole, as well as the various architectural elements used to create the Jeffersonian effect. Regrettably, your drawings are lacking in precise execution of crucial details. I cannot stress this enough: details, details, details. Artists draw buildings, but architects build them. You need to decide which you are, an artist or an architect. Until you consciously make that choice, your drawings will suffer from defects which will spell disaster for anything you attempt to actually build.

He followed it with a quote by Ludwig Mies van der Rohe, “God is in the details.”

“So that’s where he gets it,” I said under my breath, referring to Professor Ledbetter. Mies van der Rohe was a famous architect from the 1920s and ‘30s, and had even served as Director of the Bauhaus. I knew who he was, of course, but I guess I’d always thought that Professor Ledbetter simply had an odd turn of phrase. Instead, he was quoting Mies.

With a headshake, I refocused my attention on the drawings. Underneath the quote, Joska had written, Technical merit: 40/50. Critiques: 6/10. Design: 1^st place, 40/40. 86 points overall, B. Average, nothing more. You’ll have to do better than this, Mr. Hughes.

I sighed like a man given a reprieve from the executioner’s axe.

“Congratulations,” Trip said when I showed him my grade. “I managed to get third place,” he added, which explained his grade.

Before I could commiserate, Samantha shrieked.

“Is there something you’d like to tell us, Miss Poole?” Joska asked laconically.

“No, sir,” she said quickly, her cheeks rosy. “Sorry.”

Joska merely looked inscrutable as the class went back to looking over their project grades. Samantha, however, whirled in her seat and practically lunged over my desk. Instinctively, I tried to dodge, but she wrapped her arms around my neck and squeezed. I was a little baffled, but hugged her in reply. She kissed my cheek and then pulled back.

“Thank you so much, Paul,” she said, her eyes welling up.

“You’re welcome ... but ... um ... for what?”

She sniffed once, smiled, and then reached for her drawings.

When she shoved them at me, I stared at them blankly.

“Look at the grade,” she said, with impatient excitement.

I flipped to the elevation drawing and looked at Joska’s note. It said a lot of things about her drawing style and her need to focus on the design as a whole. At the bottom, however, I got a shock.

Joska had written, Technical merit: 32/50. Critiques: 8/10. Design: 2^nd place, 20/40. 60 points overall, D-. A definite improvement, Miss Poole.

Before I could even look up, Samantha hugged me again. She crushed her drawing, but I don’t think she cared. I couldn’t breathe, but I don’t think she cared about that either.

“I couldn’t’ve done it without you, Paul,” she gushed, followed by another kiss. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

“If you’re quite finished with the hugging and kissing, Miss Poole,” Joska said, “we have an exam to review for.”

Samantha didn’t even bother to hide her elation as she turned around and sat down.

With a half-smile, Joska began his lecture.

“Well, I guess ‘workmanlike’ isn’t a bad comment,” Trip said after class.

I looked a question at him.

“Joska said my drawings were staid and workmanlike,” he explained.

“I still can’t believe I got second place,” Samantha said. Then she glanced up at Trip. “Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that...”

Trip waved off her apology and then smiled at her.

Antonio merely shrugged. His concentration was Historic Preservation, and he knew that he wouldn’t need drafting skills as much as Trip and I would. I don’t think he was happy with fourth place (a paltry 34, well short of even a D), but he knew that his exam scores would more than make up for his poor project grades.

“Thank you again, Paul,” Samantha said.

“You’re welcome,” I said. “But I didn’t do all that much. I mean, you actually did the work, I just gave you a few pointers.”

“Let’s go celebrate,” Trip said. Then he glanced at me. “Do you have your ... um ... drawing class?”

(I had told him about my modeling, but not that it was nude modeling. I think he figured it out anyway, but he hadn’t said anything. In any event, Siobhan didn’t need models for the last two weeks of the quarter. So the Wednesday before Thanksgiving had been the last time I went to her class.)

“No,” I said at last. “I’m done with classes for the day.”

“I’d love to hang out, y’all,” Antonio said, “but I’ve gotta haul ass to English. So I’ll see y’all Wednesday.”

We waved and he dashed off.

“I still can’t believe it,” Samantha said, staring at her carrying tube. “Second place!”

“Congratulations,” Trip said. “You deserved it.” Then, “C’mon, I’ll buy you a Coke to celebrate.”

I spent the next two days studying. With all of Professor Ledbetter’s “extra credit” work, I had mastered the basic techniques, so I wasn’t worried about my Drawing exam. The Art History exam would probably be easy as well.

In addition, I finished my English paper, “Realism in Nineteenth Century American Literature.” I had done an analysis of three authors’ work: William Dean Howells, Henry James, and Mark Twain. Despite Jeff’s offer to help me with my computer, I still hadn’t taken the time to do it. So I spent several hours at Kendall’s apartment, typing the paper’s final draft. It was a pain, but it gave me one last chance to proofread it.

I spent the bulk of my time, however, studying for my Design exam. I was bound and determined to do better than I had on my midterm. But I had a lot of work to do, since the final would cover virtually everything we had learned so far.

By Wednesday night, I was sick and tired of studying, so I cajoled Trip into an evening workout.

“What’re you doing over the Christmas break?” I asked as he used the bench press machine.

“Same old, same old,” he grunted, finishing his set. Then he stood up and wiped off the bench.

I decided to use his weight—220 lb.—and do a low-weight, high-rep set. That way I could actually talk while I pressed.

“What’re you up to?” he asked.

I told him about my family’s ski trip with the Coulters, and how I was looking forward to not having to deal with Joska or the rest of my classes.

“But what about Kendall?” he asked.

“I wanna invite her to come skiing,” I said, taking a break between sets. “But I don’t think Gina’d be very happy if I did.”

He fell silent as I started pressing another set.

“I mean, I wish I could go back to how things were in high school,” I grunted in between repetitions. “You know?”

“No you don’t,” he said flatly. “That’s what memories are for. You know?”

“I guess,” I said.

“Think about it,” Trip insisted. “The past is ... well ... past. I know that sounds clichéd, but it makes sense. You can never go back, you know?”

“That doesn’t mean I can’t wish for things to be like they used to be,” I ground out.

“Why? ‘Cause you’re not happy with the way things are?” he asked rhetorically. “Then fix ‘em. I mean, I know you’ve tried to get the girls together, but that hasn’t worked. So what have you done? I mean, really, what have you done to fix things?”

“What can I do?” I asked, trying not to sound plaintive.

“You can make a decision, that’s what. I mean, why do you have two girlfriends?”

“It seemed like the thing to do at the time,” I said.

“You were thinking with the little head,” he accused.

In reality, I hadn’t been thinking with the little head (much). If I had been, I would’ve simply had sex with Kendall, without the commitment of a relationship. But I couldn’t really explain that to Trip, and my silence was an admission of sorts.

“Exactly,” he continued. “So now it’s time to fix things with the big head.”

I looked a question at him and then started another set.

“Do you think Kendall and Gina are happy with the way things are?” he asked.

I shook my head and pressed the weight into the air again.

“And you’re definitely not happy,” he added.

“No ... fucking ... kidding,” I grunted.

“So why drag things out? I mean, think about it for a sec. What Lori did to me hurt like hell, but it was quick. Yeah, it ripped my heart out, but she didn’t linger over my dead body, if that makes sense.”

I sat up and wiped my forehead. Then I paused as I considered his words.

“The three of you have a relationship that used to be pretty good,” he said, “but none of you have been happy for a while. Right?”

“Yeah,” I admitted heavily.

“So do something about it. If you can’t fix things, you’re only hurting everyone involved. You’re gonna have to make a choice. You know it,” he said, “but you don’t wanna admit it.”

I didn’t want to answer him, so I started another set. Unfortunately, he fell silent and let me think. If I had to choose, who would it be?

Gina had been my first true love, but over the past months, we had drifted apart. True, our Thanksgiving weekend had been really good, but I wondered whether it was a sign of things to come, or simply a glimpse at the past.

My relationship with Kendall, on the other hand, had blossomed. We ate together, we studied together, we hung out together, and we talked a lot more than Gina and I did. Kendall seemed to understand me better. And she wasn’t as mercurial as Gina.

“In a way,” Trip said at last, “I don’t envy you. I mean, yeah, Kendall and Gina are great, and I’m still jealous that you’ve got both of them, but I wouldn’t trade places with you for all the tea in China,” he finished. Then he laughed.

“What?”

“Well, I will say this ... your sex life’s gotta be better than mine. I mean, I’m ready to start calling my right hand ‘mon chèr,’ like Luke does.”

We shared a rueful laugh.

“But I’m serious about you having to make a choice,” he added softly. “If you keep going like this, the whole thing’s gonna come apart at the seams. And you’re going to kill me with your workouts,” he added. Then he grinned to take the sting out of his words. “Although watching you work out while I do all the talking isn’t bad.”

“Says you,” I shot back. Then, “Lemme do one more set and then we’ll head home.”

“No problem.”

I did more than one set, but Trip understood that I was thinking. He stood by quietly, without complaint, and let me work through his advice.

In the end, I knew that he was right. I didn’t want to admit it, but he was. Even more than I didn’t want to admit it, however, I really didn’t want to choose one girl over the other. I loved them both; how could I hurt one of them?

I couldn’t.

But I’d have to. If things weren’t going to get better, it was only a matter of time.

Exams at UT weren’t on the same schedule as classes. They were on the same hourly schedule—8:00 to 8:50, 9:00 to 9:50, etc.—but they rarely matched the class day or time. In addition, Saturday was on the exam schedule, so it was possible to have a test on the weekend (although I didn’t).

My first exam on Thursday was with Professor Ledbetter, at eight o’clock. I breezed through the test and then went back to check my work.

Maybe God is in the details, I thought with a rueful chuckle.

When I turned in my exam booklet, Professor Ledbetter smiled at me.

“Do you think it’s an A?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” I replied confidently.

“Have a nice break, Paul,” he said with a smile. “I’ll see you next year.”

For Professor Feller’s “exam,” later in the day, we simply turned in our final papers and then left.

By coincidence, my Art History exam was also on Thursday, but at four o’clock. It was easy. Professor Dubois made us keep an empty seat between each student, but Christy, Wren, and I all sat in the back row, as usual. Surprisingly, Christy finished the exam before I did. Wren looked like she was struggling a little, but she finished well before the end of class.

As we walked back to Morrill together, we talked about our exams and the upcoming break.

Christy was spending Christmas in Hawaii with her brother Harry’s family. (She had four brothers, all of whom were in the military. I’d picked up snippets of information about them, but I still didn’t know much except their names: Harry, James, Danny, and Rich.) Since her father was on cruise with his Battle Group, Christy and her mother were flying to Honolulu for the holidays.

Wren and her parents were going to Florida. Her family owned a condo on the beach, and planned to spend the week of Christmas relaxing there. (Unlike Christy, Wren was an only child.)

Since the Art History exam was our final class together, we wished each other happy holidays and then I headed back to my dorm.

On Friday, my Intro to Architecture exam was a piece of cake. I’d known a lot of the material before I even started college, so I breezed through the test.

Afterward, Trip and I met the rest of our Design team to study for the final. Antonio quizzed us on the material, and we worked until well after dinner. Finally, around ten o’clock, we decided to call it quits.

My weekend was mostly consumed with studying as well, although I took a break to call Erin and wish her a happy birthday. She was glad that I called, but she was giddy and distracted; Dad had surprised her and flown to Charlotte to pick up Sean Sullivan and his parents.

After I talked to my mom for a few minutes—she wanted to make sure I was getting enough to eat—I said goodbye and walked across the hall.

“Whatcha listenin’ to?” I asked Trip as I pushed his door open.

“The Beach Boys,” he said.

“Really? It sounds like some weird hippy music.”

“Yeah,” he said, laughing. “It’s ‘Pet Sounds.’”

“Is that the name of the song, or the album?”

“In this case, both,” he said. “But here, you’ll recognize this,” he added, lifting the needle and flipping the album.

When the music started, I immediately recognized “Wouldn’t It Be Nice.”

“This is their best album,” he said. “And it’s one of the best albums of all time, as far as I’m concerned. I guess it’s a toss-up between ‘Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band’ and ‘Pet Sounds,’ although I think ‘Pet Sounds’ edges out the Beatles. Anyway, I’m sure you didn’t come over to discuss the finer points of all-time great albums. So ... what’re you up to?”

“I just came to see if you wanted to go over that human sciences stuff for the Design final,” I said.

“Sure, I’m game,” he said. Then he turned down the music and reached for his textbook.

We studied until dinnertime. Then we met Kendall and Abby at the Morrill dining hall. Afterward, we all went to the library to study some more. While Trip and I studied Architecture, Kendall pored over her Organic Chemistry textbook, and Abby worked on the footnotes and bibliography for her Comparative Literature paper.

Sunday was more of the same. I tried calling Gina, to see if she wanted to have lunch with me, but she was out with Regan. I left a message and then called Kendall. We had lunch together—with Trip and Abby—and then headed to the library to study some more.

After spending the entire weekend studying, I got up early Monday morning to study some more. By the time I got to the three o’clock exam, I was sick and tired of the Design textbook, and I was past the point of worrying about the exam itself.

“I brought more McDonald’s job applications,” Professor Joska said as he entered the classroom. “Mr. Hughes, would you like one?”

“Yeah,” I said, in an exhausted fit of pique. “I think my graduation speech might run long.”

The rest of the class tittered nervously.

“Would you like an exam as well?” Joska asked.

“Sure, what the heck,” I said flippantly.

“You’re feeling punchy,” he observed.

“I can’t flip burgers anyway,” I said with a shrug.

“Let’s hope you take this more seriously than flipping burgers,” he said. Then he turned to the class. “The exam is sixty questions—half multiple choice, half short answer—and ... an essay question,” he finished.

At that, we groaned. Essay questions are the bane of every college student’s existence.

“The essay question will count for forty percent of your grade.”

Without waiting for us to react, Joska started handing out the exams.

I flew through the sixty questions and then went over them again. After I double-checked my answers, I flipped to the final page, the essay question. As soon as I saw it, I felt a surge of adrenaline.

It read, Why do you want to be an architect? (250 words or less.)

In a flash, I knew what I wanted to write. But then I hesitated. As I stared at the question, I contemplated what I was about to do. Did I really want to put my entire college future on the line just to make a point? I must’ve been drunk with fatigue to even consider it. My pen hovered over the paper. Then...

I wrote six words.

With a deep sigh, I sat back and silently considered my future. Such a brief answer was bold—even reckless—but it was the truth. I capped my pen and simply stared at the test. Finally, I gathered my things and walked to the front of the classroom.

Do I really want to do this? I silently agonized. Is it worth it? What if Joska doesn’t Get It? What if he...?

Joska glanced up as I loomed in front of his desk. His expression didn’t change, but he seemed to be taunting me. In a flash of defiance, I mustered my resolve. Then I stood straight and looked him in the eye. Without flinching, I turned in my exam.

He gestured for me to stay and then took out his red pen. While I waited, he graded my test. I got four answers wrong. When he flipped to the essay question, he actually grunted in surprise.

Unconsciously, I held my breath as he read my answer. It took him only a few seconds, but as far as I was concerned, it might’ve been a lifetime.

When he looked at me, I almost made up an excuse for my answer, but my resolve held and I kept my mouth shut. His expression was Sphinx-like. My breathing quickened and my skin tingled with the desire to do something, anything. Instead, I simply stared him down. After a long moment, his eyes flicked back to my exam.

In silence, I watched him write “40/40” under my six-word “essay.” Then he flipped my exam closed and wrote “96, A” on the first page. Finally, he made a note in his grade book.

“Congratulations, Mr. Hughes. There may be hope for you yet,” he said as he returned my exam. “Enjoy the holidays.”

“You too,” I said, too stunned to remember that I hated him.

With that, I clutched my exam and left. On the balcony over the atrium, I leaned against the rail and let out an explosive breath. Then I flipped open my exam and simply stared at the essay question.

Why do you want to be an architect? (250 words or less.)

My answer?

Because God is in the details.

Later that night, the phone rang. T.J. answered it, but then shouted for me.

“Another girlfriend?” he asked when I emerged from my room.

I glowered at him.

“Just kidding,” he said. Then he handed me the phone.

“Hello?”

“Paul? Hi, this is Wren.”

“Wren?” I asked. I guess I was a little confused, since she had never called me before (I’d never even given her my phone number, although she probably got it from the campus directory).

“Yeah ... hi,” she said. “So, how’re you?”

“Um ... fine. How’re you?” As we talked about inconsequential things for the next few minutes, my confusion only deepened.

“So,” she said at last, “you’re probably wondering why I called.”

“I guess,” I said. “I mean, it’s nice talking to you and all, but ... well ... I am a little curious.”

“I need a favor,” she said. I could usually tell when she was flirting with me, and this definitely wasn’t one of those times. She sounded like she genuinely needed help.

“Sure, anything,” I said without hesitation.

“My mom was coming to pick me up, but she was running errands today, and ... well ... to make a long story short, she was in an accident. You know how traffic is in Atlanta.”

“Is she okay?” I asked.

“Oh, she’s fine,” Wren said hastily. “It was just a fender bender. But her car’s in the shop, and my dad’s out of town on business. So I was wondering ... I mean, since our families practically live next door to each other...”

“Sure,” I said, without waiting for her to ask the question. “I’ll give you a ride home. I’m taking Kendall home to Chattanooga, so the Jeep’ll be pretty full, but I’m sure we’ll all fit.”

“Oh, thank you,” she said sincerely. “You’re a lifesaver.”

I was glad she couldn’t see me blush.

“When did you want to leave?” she asked.

“I’ve got a Calculus exam tomorrow, and Kendall’s last exam is late tomorrow afternoon, so we weren’t planning to leave till Wednesday. Is that okay?”

“That’s perfect,” she said. “I’ve got a Journalism final tomorrow, but I’ll be ready to go whenever you are.”

We made arrangements to meet on Wednesday and then chatted for a few more minutes. Finally, we said goodbye and hung up.

My Calculus exam was a major struggle, but after checking all of my work, I was pretty sure that everything was correct.

Of course, that’s what I always think, I mused dryly.

I had studied hard, so I wasn’t tremendously worried.

After the exam, I went to meet Gina for lunch. She was already through with her exams, and planned to drive home after we ate. (She knew that Kendall was riding home with me, and we had tacitly agreed not to discuss it.) When I kissed her, though, she seemed distant.

“What’s the matter?” I asked as we sat down.

“Nothing,” she said, affecting a smile.

I knew her well enough not to be fooled, so I arched an eyebrow.

“It’s nothing I can’t handle,” she insisted.

“What?”

“It’s nothing, okay,” she said. “Why do you have to try to fix everything?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I shot back.

“What do you think it means?”

“I’m just trying to help,” I said, struggling to maintain my calm.

“If you really wanted to help, you would’ve— Oh, never mind. Forget I said anything.”

“Would’ve what?”

“Never mind.”

“Would’ve what?” I repeated testily.

“Do you really wanna know?”

I nodded.

“If you really wanted to help, you should’ve actually tried to get a bid from Sigma Chi. Then I wouldn’t have Regan and Hayley bitching at me about dating a non-Greek.”

“‘Should’ve actually tried...,’” I echoed angrily. “I did try.”

“Not hard enough, evidently,” she said.

“D’you know why I didn’t get a bid?” I asked, doing my best not to shout. “I didn’t get a bid because of you!”

“Don’t try to pin this on me, Paul, I’m not the one who—”

“I don’t think you understand,” I said, interrupting her. “I’m serious. I didn’t get a bid because I left the Sigma Chi rush party so I could meet you. Fucking ironic, isn’t it?” I asked angrily. “You get bitched at because you’re dating a non-Greek, but you’re the reason I’m not a Greek.”

She looked as if she’d been slapped.

“If I hadn’t left early, they would’ve given me a bid, but—”

“That’s not true,” she said. “You don’t know that. They don’t tell you—”

“No, they don’t,” I agreed. “Not usually. But they called to offer a bid to Trip, and they told him.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Believe what you want, but that’s the truth.”

“I’ll bet it is,” she said, her face hard. “That’s just too convenient.”

I shrugged. We sat in silence for a long moment. Then she picked up her tray.

“I don’t know why I even came to UT,” she said spitefully.

“Me either,” I muttered as she stalked away.

Back in my room, I threw myself onto my bed and stared at the ceiling. Billy had gone home on Monday, so I had the room to myself.

I tried to think about anything but the fight, but my mind kept returning to it. What was the matter with her? It had to be more than just Regan and Hayley. She’d stood up to worse pressure before. What was different then? I knew the answer, but I didn’t want to admit it.

In high school, Gina and I had been together constantly, and we talked about things before they had a chance to fester. With the stress of college and our conflicting class schedules, we didn’t see each other as often. We still made time for each other, but even then, we saw each other a few times a week, no more.