Tutoring starts at noon on Sundays. Spike has suggested that perhaps I should go get something to eat and then go to tutoring. I, being convinced that the early bird gets the worm, agree to do that (in theory) and then ignore him entirely (in practice). This was a mistake.
I get to the Learning Lab at 11:45. I wait patiently for the doors to open. Once they do, I sign in like I know I'm supposed to, and then I stand there awkwardly for a moment because I don't know the protocol. Then I realize that the tables are sort of sectioned off by subject matter. I find a "MATH" table and sit, waiting patiently because I still have no idea what to do. After a few minutes, a guy who looks exactly like an Asian Harry Potter comes and sits down next to me. He says "Are you waiting for a tutor?" I nod. He says "You have to raise your hand and one will come to you." I start to raise my hand, but he says, "I'm a tutor."
Of course you are. And you better use your fucking wizard magic to make me understand this motherfucking algebra, because I am a woman on the edge.
He sits down next to me, and the weirdest goddamn thing happens. You know how, when your car starts making a funny noise and you take it to a mechanic and then suddenly it's working fine? That's what happened with my brain. I sat down with Asian Harry Potter and I could suddenly do it again. So, because I felt dumb for coming to tutoring when there's obviously nothing wrong my comprehension, I blurt out the entire story: Drunky, the kolaches, the weeping, everything. He gives me the side-eye and then says "Well, maybe you shouldn't have drunk friends over when you're trying to do homework. In fact, maybe you shouldn't do your homework at home. Ever."
Thank you, Asian Harry Potter, for your wisdom.
So, there I sit. I work on algebra until it's all done. Four and a half hours later, I get in the car to go home. By this time, I'm starving. I still haven't eaten anything. I go to a nearby gas station to get gas and some caffeine and decide to eat a gas station hotdog. You'd think I would have learned something from the stomach bug, but apparently not. However, God or my guardian angel or whatever was looking out for me, because they were out of hotdogs.
My brain completely jellified by lack of food and four and a half hours of algebra, it's all I can do to drive myself home. The soundtrack for the drive was Coldplay, accented by shuddering, weepy sighs, because piano and Chris Martin's voice is about all I can handle at the moment.
When I walk in the door, Spike takes one look at me and says "Go to bed. I'll get you up at seven."
So I do. And then the next day, it's test day.
The snakes are fully back in my belly, because I haven't been this haphazard about my algebra all semester long. I sit down at my little table in the classroom with my test. I look down at it and realize:
I was so worried about getting the homework and quizzes done that I forgot to review the older stuff for the test.
Amazingly, I hold it together. I do the test-prep thing of answering all the questions I think I know and then going back to the ones I don't know quite as well. I turn in the test and trudge slowly outside, feet heavy with the weight of knowing that I have completely fucked myself in the ass.
And then I start this blog. I've been so wrapped up in picking out the stories to tell for this blog that I completely forgot to obsess over the test result.
I got my test back this morning.
I got an 87.
I don't care if I have Ebola. I am never missing a class again.
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