I emailed my new essay over last night, and now there’s an ominous note in my mailbox asking me over for “a little chat.” Like I can turn her down. I meant to read through the summary chapters again to be totally prepped for the meeting, but by the time I’m finished cramming the latest econ chapters and have worked through a nightmare of a worksheet, it’s twelve already. So, instead of arriving cool and confident, I turn up five minutes late: red faced from racing across campus, stomach growling in protest at missing breakfast and lunch, and not exactly dressed to impress in my grayest fading sweatpants. “Natasha.” Greeting me with a raised eyebrow, Professor Elliot ushers me into her cluttered room. She’s wearing a mismatched green cardigan over a pair of old tweed trousers, but somehow I still feel like the slob. “Sit down, please. Would you like some tea?” “Umm, no. Thank you,” I add, looking nervously around as she begins to fill a small kettle and set out a mug.
