Failing sucks
1137 Words
Olivia’s POV
———
Do you know the worst thing about continuous assessment? Hope. Hope that you can have a shot at the CA and do fairly well in the exam.
This is that painful moment when the lecturer stands at the front of the class holding the papers like they contain everyone’s destiny.
Which, in a way, they do.
I sit in my usual seat beside Lily, pretending to copy something in my notebook even though my brain has been doing mental calculations for the past five minutes.
Best case scenario: 15.
Realistic scenario: 12.
Worst case scenario…
I stop that thought immediately.
Dr. Dante Nethans stands at the front of the lecture hall with the stack of scripts in his hand. He looks exactly the same as always—calm, composed, terrifyingly focused.
“This assessment,” he says, his voice echoing through the hall, “was designed to test whether you understand the foundations of calculus.”
He pauses.
“Most of you don’t.”
A few nervous laughs scatter across the room.
He doesn’t react.
Instead, he begins calling names.
Students walk up one by one to collect their papers. Some return smiling. Others look like they’ve just received bad news from a hospital.
I feel my stomach twist.
“Relax,” Lily whispers beside me. “You’ll pass.”
“I didn’t even finish the last question,” I whisper back.
“That’s normal.”
“It was ten marks.”
She stops talking after that.
My name comes sooner than I expected.
“Olivia Rey.”
My heart drops straight into my stomach.
I stand slowly and walk toward the front of the room, trying not to think about the fact that seventy-something pairs of eyes are probably watching me right now.
Dr. Nethans hands me the paper without a word.
Our fingers briefly brush.
It’s accidental.
But I still feel a spark.
I glance down at the top corner.
9 / 20
For a second I think my brain has misread the number.
Nine.
Single digit.
Below the pass mark.
Fantastic.
I feel a wave of shame rise in my chest. He must probably think I’m some stupid girl who doesn’t know what she’s doing. Not like I should care.
I quickly walk back to my seat before my expression can betray me.
Lily leans over immediately.
“Well?”
I slide the paper toward her.
She winces.
“Oh.”
That one word somehow makes it worse.
“I hate calculus,” I whisper.
She pats my shoulder sympathetically.
“Look on the bright side.”
“There is no bright side.”
“You didn’t get the lowest.”
That actually makes me smile a little. Typical Lily.
The rest of the class passes in a blur. Dr. Nethans begins explaining the mistakes most students made, writing corrections on the board.
Normally I take notes carefully.
Today my brain refuses to cooperate.
Nine out of twenty.
I stare at the number again.
The worst part is that I understand most of the solutions he’s explaining.
Which means the problem wasn’t intelligence.
It was preparation.
Or lack of it.
Class finally ends two hours later.
Students begin packing their bags, discussing their marks loudly as they head for the door.
Lily nudges me.
“Come on. Let’s get food before I start crying over my own grade.”
I stand slowly, slipping my paper into my notebook.
We’re almost at the door when I hear it.
“Miss Olivia.”
My spine stiffens instantly.
Lily turns toward me with wide eyes.
“Uh-oh.”
I slowly turn around.
Dr. Nethans is standing near the front desk, watching me with the same calm expression he always has.
“Come to my office after your next class.”
My stomach drops.
“Yes, sir,” I say quietly.
Lily grabs my arm the second we step outside.
“What did you do?”
“Nothing!”
“You failed his test.”
“So did half the class!”
“But he didn’t call half the class to his office.”
She has a point.
—
Three hours later, I stand outside his office door.
I knock twice before I hear the words, “Come in.”
His office is larger than most lecturers’ offices. The space is neat—almost intimidatingly organized. Bookshelves line the walls, and his desk is perfectly arranged, like everything in his life follows some invisible system.
He looks up from his laptop when I enter.
“Sit.”
I obey immediately.
My hands fold together on my lap before I even realize I’m doing it.
He studies me for a moment.
Not angry.
Not disappointed.
Just… observing.
“You scored nine out of twenty,” he says calmly.
“Yes, sir.” So he called me to discuss my score. ”
I swallow.
“Do you not understand the concepts I’m teaching?”
“I’m having some difficulties,” I admit quietly. “And I didn’t practice enough before the test.”
“That is obvious.”
Ouch.
Silence fills the office for a moment.
Then he leans back slightly in his chair.
“You tend to let laziness get in the way, Olivia.”
I don’t focus on the fact that he just called me by my name.
Instead, I focus on the realization that he’s been paying attention.
That makes me oddly nervous.
“I thought I could manage it last minute,” I finally say.
His gaze sharpens slightly.
“That strategy will fail you in this course.”
“I’m aware of that now.”
Another pause passes between us.
“You are capable of much better than nine.”
The statement lands heavier than criticism because he sounds certain.
“And I don’t tolerate wasted potential in my class.”
I nod slowly.
“I’ll do better next time.”
“You will,” he says.
Not a question.
A certainty.
Then he adds something unexpected.
“Meet me in the school library at six p.m. Come prepared.”
I don’t even get the chance to deny or accept before he gestures toward the door.
“You may go.”
I stand, grabbing my notebook.
Halfway to the door, he speaks again.
“Olivia.”
I pause and turn back.
“Yes, sir?”
“You’ll have to sit up.”
His tone is calm.
But there’s something behind it.
Expectation.
Challenge.
I nod once.
“I will.”
Then I leave his office, my heart beating slightly faster than usual.
Nine out of twenty.
It should feel like failure.
But somehow after that conversation, it feels like the beginning of something much more complicated.
Because a lecturer shouldn’t be helping a student who didn’t even ask for help.
- Writer
