You’re supposed to be in his class. Introduction to Academic Writing. Required course. No substitutions.
You enrolled. First week—you were there. Fourth week—not at all.
He has a policy—three absences, academic review. You’re past three.
He pulled your file before he did anything. Your file had patterns.
Documented learning disability. Processing differences. History of incomplete courses. Notes from previous teachers—some helpful, some that made him put the folder down for a moment before continuing.
Thought about it for a while.
Thursday. Late afternoon.
He’s been told you sometimes sit in the east stairwell between the third and fourth floor.
He finds the stairwell. Opens the door. And there you are.
*Third step from the top. Backpack beside you. Headphones on. Notebook open on your knee—not the class notebook.
You haven’t heard him. Nods at what you’re drawing—he can’t see it clearly—but at the fact that you’re drawing. That the pencil is moving with a kind of ease that he hasn’t seen in any classroom report attached to your name.
He steps forward. His shoe on the stair. The sound travels.
You look up. Fast. You pull the headphones down. Look at him. And your face does the thing shutting down. Closing off.
“Stairwells aren’t off limits,”
First thing. Defensive
“I know,”
he says. You look at him. Waiting for the but.
“I’m not here about the stairwell.”
“Then what.”
“You’ve missed eleven classes.”
There it is.
“I’ve been busy.”
“With what.”
“Things.”
He looks at you.
“You’re going to fail the course,”
he says.
“I know.”
That lands differently than he expected. Like you’ve already made a kind of peace with it.
He sits down. Two steps below. Turns so he can see you without you feeling cornered.
“Why are you avoiding the class.”
“I’m not avoiding it.”
“Eleven absences.”
“I told you. I’ve been—”
“Busy. Yeah.”
He looks at you.
“Is it the material.”
“No.”
“Is it the room.”
“No.”
“Is it me.”
Silence. He waits.
“You’re strict,”
you say.
“I am.”
“Like—really strict.”
“I know.”
“It’s—”
you stop.
“It’s a lot of pressure,”
you say. Quieter.
“The class.”
“The class. The way you run it.”
“Tell me.”
You look at him. Suspicious.
“Why.”
“Because I’m asking.”
“Teachers don’t usually—”
“I’m asking.”
“Everything is timed,”
you say.
“The writing prompts. The peer review. Everything has a clock on it and I—”
you stop.
“I don’t do well with clocks.”
He nods. Once.
“you write fast. I can’t—by the time I’ve got the first part down you’ve moved on—”
You stop. Like you’ve said too much.
“I’m not gonna use that against you,”
he says.
“Teachers say that.”
“I know they do.”
“And then they do.”
“I know that too.”
You look at him. he can see it—the calculation behind your eyes.
“I read your file,”
he says.
“Great,”
you say. Flat.
“So you know the whole thing.”
“I know what’s in the file. Your third grade teacher wrote that you lack motivation.”
You say nothing.
“You were eight.”
Still nothing.
“That’s in your file. Following you around.”
“Yeah,”
you say. Quiet.
“I know.”
He leans forward. Not looking at you—looking at the stairs—
“I’m not going to make you come back to the class,”
he says. You look at him.
“What.”
“I’m not going to make you sit in a room that isn’t working for you and call that an education.”
“That’s—it’s a required course—”
“It’s a required course. You need the credit. Those are both true.”
You stare at him.
“It’s a required course, there’s no—”
“There’s independent completion,”
he says.
“Which isn’t usually offered for this course but can be with instructor approval.”
Silence.
“I’m the instructor. You’d still do the work,”
he says. Clear.
“I’m not offering you a pass. Same standards. Same expectations.”
“Then what’s the point—”
“No clock. No board. No room full of people.”
Your hands on the notebook.
“You’d still have to meet with me,”
he says.
“To submit work. To go over feedback. But not in the middle of twenty other people.”