Page 87 of Ice Me Out
I shake my head. I know she couldn’t have graded it any higher, since our teacher obviously doesn’t like it.
“A C?” the professor chuckles. Her tone is kind when she addresses Heather. “Miss Pullin, I understand what you’re doing. Kindness is definitely commendable, but grades have to be fair. They need to reflect the quality of the work presented, and the effort put into the work. We’ve talked about light and perspective since our first class in August. Most of you have applied what you’ve learned in your first project. Because most of you take this class seriously. Unfortunately, the same thing can’t be said for some of you who enrolled in my class thinking that they would get an A just for showing up. Maybe because art class was an easy A in high school. A class athletes would take to keep their GPAs high enough to make them eligible to play.”
Professor Cantucci looks straight into my eyes when she says that. Her lips curl into a triumphant smile when my shoulders slump.
I wonder why she hates athletes. The reason, however, doesn’t matter.
“If you chose this class expecting an A just for gracing us with your presence,” her tone hardens as she zeroes in on me. “I’m afraid you’re in for a rude awakening. Grades in this class are earned through understanding of the curriculum and hard work. Taking that into consideration, I’m afraid this portrait of your cat deserves an F.”
I don’t know what kind of reaction Professor Cantucci expects, but I’ve been yelled at by higher ranking NCOs and officers in way more stressful situations, so I keep my cool.
The problem is that this project accounts for twenty percent of our final grade, and an F puts me at risk of failing this class. That would be a disaster because it would mean not graduating and also, since this class lasts only one semester, failing it would make me ineligible to play hockey. The school is adamant that all collegiate athletes are mandated to maintain a minimum C average in every class. Scholarship students are held to even higher standards.
I think Professor Cantucci is trying to get a reaction from me. She’s trying to bait me into being disrespectful or into a fight. So I don’t give her one. I keep my mouth shut and endure the rest of the class as she moves on.
By the end of class, I’m pretty sure that the rumor about her bias against student athletes has some truth to it. While I’m the only F, pretty much everyone gets A’s and B’s. The only other exceptions are Tucker, who gets a C minus and a girl on the volleyball team who gets a C.
The professor begins talking about abstract art and how to represent our reality through a different lens than figurative art. She shows us several examples of different currents of abstract works and then assigns us a new project due in six weeks.
I wait until everyone files out of the classroom and approach the professor, who’s still putting away her laptop and the rest of her things.
I’m pretty sure she’s aware of me, standing a few steps away from her desk, but she makes a point of pretending that I’m not there.
“Oh,” she lifts her gaze to meet mine as she zips up her laptop bag. “Mr. McKendrick, can I help you?”
My fists are clenched with the effort of keeping my tone as polite as possible. “I wonder if there’s a way I could submit another work for this project? I’ll take your feedback into account and I’m sure I can improve my grade.”
That last part was obviously the wrong thing to say, because the professor’s lips twist into a thin, angry line. “And why would you think I should allow you to redo this project, Mr. McKendrick? Is it because you think this is a filler class, or because your status as one of the stars of this school’s hockey team makes you special?”
Fuck.
I rack my brain, searching for a way to defuse this landmine. This is a trap. There’s no right answer here.
The only way to salvage this situation is to ignore her loaded question. “I don’t expect special treatment,” I begin, and I know I already fucked up when her smile widens.
“Good. I guess that then answers your question. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m on my way to a department meeting.”
When she takes a step toward the door, I step to the side, putting myself in her way. I hate to use my size to intimidate anyone, especially a woman, but I can’t afford to keep getting F’s in this class. The professor obviously hates athletes and has taken a dislike of me after today. I need to find a way to fix this.
“Please ma’am… I mean, professor. If I can’t fix this grade, I need to improve my performance for the new project you just assigned. I’m sure you appreciate that failing this class could mean suspension from the hockey team.”
She’s perfectly aware of it. “Then take this class seriously. Participate in our discussions and make sure you give yourself plenty of time to plan and execute your next project. Each lesson will give you more guidance on the kind of quality I expect to see in your works.”
That doesn’t help one bit. But I can’t say that. I choose my words carefully. “With all respect, professor, that’s what I did with the portrait I presented today. You might find it hard to believe, but I’ve been working on that painting since the day you assigned it.”
It’s the truth, whether she believes it or not.
“Well, Keene,” she laughs. “If that’s the kind of quality you can produce in six weeks, maybe you’re in the wrong class.”
I’m starting to agree with her. “Maybe. But if I fail this class, I’m not just going to lose my eligibility to play. I’m on track to graduate in May, but I need your class to do it.”
“No, you don’t. You can drop out and take another art or literature class next semester. Easy fix.” She shrugs.
Panic begins surging in me, but I push it down. “My next semester is packed, and…”
“And the hockey season will enter in its final phase. Especially if the team makes the playoffs.” She finishes.
I nod. “Yeah. I need to pass this class this semester. Please, I’ll do anything you require from me. I’ll hire a tutor, anything you deem necessary to get a final passing grade.”
