Page 37 of Left-Hand Larceny

The words swim on the page—z-scores, confidence intervals, population parameters—I’ve read the same sentence four times, and still can’t make sense of it. I need to study. I really need to study. I’m so damn close to graduating. I refuse to let one tiny little course stump me, and if I could figure out anatomy, I can handle data sets.

And yet, here I ammaking a mental to-do list of things I don’t actually need to do. And not studying.

1. Find a snack.

2. Organize my highlighters by color.

3. Re-download that one flashcard app I used for exactly one quiz last semester.

4. Check social media. Again.

I tap my pen against the side of the textbook, not writing anything. Just… tapping. It makes a rhythmic sound I can almost pretend is productive. Almost.

Across the room, my mom pokes her head into the doorway. She spent the whole day working and still looks like she stepped out of a good housekeeping magazine. By contrast, I’m in my thinnest, rattiest pair of leggings—I’m pretty sure there’s a hole in the crotch—and my cow slippers.

“Sadie?” Even her frown is mild. “What is that noise? Are you okay?”

I drop my pen like it’s made of fire and razor wire. “Sorry, mom. Just studying.”

She looks from the book to me and back again.

“Oh, that’s good.” She smiles. “How’s it going?”

Going? Not at all. I’m a stalled train stuck on a track, hoping someone will come by and help me out. She must read the negative answer on my face because she makes a tired huffing sound.

“Sadie. Just sit down and focus, sweetheart.”

Thanks mom. Very helpful. I’d have never thought of that on my own.

And I’m already sitting. Sort of. Perching on the edge of the armchair in their sunroom totally counts. I have one leg folded under me, textbook balanced on my knee, laptop sitting beside me with all my previous notes. Totally the picture of academic rigor.

Mom gives me that tight-lipped smile that means she’s trying to be supportive. “You know what I’m going to say. Just commit to working.”

Right.

Just sit and focus.

Commit.

Why didn’t I think of that?

I swallow back the sharp reply itching to break free and nod instead. She means well. My parents always do. But it doesn’t stop the words from feeling like a punch to the ribs.

It’s not their fault that my brain falls short.

I haven’t watered my windowsill plant in days. I set my book to the side and get up, padding past mom into the kitchen..

“Sadie,” my mom frowns again. “I thought we were studying.”

“I am,” I lie, feeling like I’m a kid again. I tug open the kitchen drawer and dig out the tiny spray bottle. “Just need to hydrate Fernie Sanders first.”

My mom appears in the doorway, every blonde hair in perfect place. “You know, if you’d just sit down and focus, you’d get everything done faster. Your plant can wait a few hours.”

“Thanks, Mom.” I bite the inside of my cheek. She’s trying to be helpful. Supportive. Something.

“You’re always darting from one thing to the next. I thought you’d eventually grow out of it, but you never did. You’ve just got to be more disciplined.”

“Right,” I mutter. “Disciplined.” Like I don’t already know that. Like it’s that simple. Like there isn’t a mental wall cutting me off from all the things I’m supposed to be doing, while the angry goblin driving me like an overloaded tuk tuk screams into the void.

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