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“Yes,” I say, even though I do not feel very sure about that
at all. “That’s when I’m supposed to take them, yes.”

“And are you feeling prepared?”
Actually, I want to say, just the thought makes me want
to curl up into a ball on the floor and cry. Actually, I’m
thinking about leaving. If I leave, I don’t have to take comps,
right?
Instead, I say, “I’m definitely getting there.”
Dr. Santoma nods solemnly at me. He never smiles.
“Make sure you are prepared.”
“Yes,” I say. “I will.”

⁂

I come home late that night to find Elia sitting on the
kitchen floor, her books abandoned on the kitchen table, her
ear pressed to the thin wall. Our neighbors to the left are
playing mournful alt-rock songs at full volume.

“They’ve been doing this since noon,” my roommate
reports. “Straight through. Unless they stopped sometime
while I was out meeting with my advisor, but I doubt it.”

“It’s probably revenge for that time you spent a straight
week listening to every version of ‘Battle Hymn of the
Republic’ you could find on YouTube,” I tell her. She shakes
her head.

“No. I think somebody’s just very sad about something.”
Me too, I think, but at least I’m quiet about it.
I want to go ask them to at least turn it down a little, but
Elia won’t let me. “Someday,” she says, “you’re going to want
to loudly bask in your self-pity too. It’s only courteous to let it
go on.” I’m not sure I agree, but I do I let them be.

⁂

I bring the subject up with Elia the next morning, while
we’re both sitting at the kitchen table, drinking coffee. I’m

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