It was mid-terms at Northern, a hellish week when all your projects and papers were due, plus the added thrill of exams. That was tolerable. What was intolerable was Mama breathing down my neck every single second I was home. She got anxious during my mid-terms at the best of times, but some fool had gone and told her that marks counted as of now, that universities start looking at what you did in grade eleven. I will hunt that person down and give them cavities. I looked up from my calculus. She was pacing the living room. Mama rearranged her house-showing schedule just so that she could babysit my studying. I now knew exactly how Papa felt when he was trying to find a job last year. She made me coffees, brought me sandwiches, paced, and asked if she could quiz me, time me, help me, over and over again. By Friday, when exams were done, I actually contemplated having a drink at Madison’s End of Mid-Terms bash. It wasn’t supposed to be a party-party per se, it would be looser than that, a last-minute blow-off-some-steam type of deal.
