Erica
I stood pacing in front of Professor Harris’s office by 7:30. I was restless.
What did he mean by my career depended on it?
I kept trying to think if I had done something wrong. Maybe I did something wrong. I had to have done something wrong, because of the gravity of that message—I couldn’t sleep.
I stared at my watch. 7:35 a.m.
I kept pacing.
Then I checked again. It was 7:40, and Mr. Harris always came to the office by 7:45. He was rarely ever late.
The closer the time got, the faster my heart raced.
I clutched my textbooks to my chest.
“Calm down,” I mumbled under my breath, hoping it would help—but nothing seemed to be working.
From where I stood, I saw Professor Harris walking toward his office, dressed in his usual cashmere sweater, his hair slicked back perfectly, h
