ᴀᴅ ᴍᴇʟɪᴏʀᴀ ~ ᴅᴘꜱ (ꜱᴛᴇᴠᴇɴ ᴍᴇᴇᴋꜱ)

21 - high hopes

My foot taps anxiously against the ground. As I sit, hunched forward with my hands clasped and resting on my desk, the repetitive beat begins to agitate me into a fit. I yank my feet under my chair and try to focus on my reading. The text of A Midsummer Night's Dream blurs before my eyes as I fight to stay concentrated, retaining none of the information I skim over.

Meeks had suggested I glance over the work before seeing Neil's performance this weekend, claiming it would give me a better appreciation for the show. With every word I read, however, I'm beginning to understand the real reason why...

It's quite boring.

It only takes a few minutes for my foot to begin its subconscious drumming again. I slam the book shut (or, as well as one can slam a flimsy paperback) and lay my head on the desk.

If Neil's a good enough actor, I'll understand what's going on. I shouldn't have to do research beforehand.

I realize it's not fair to channel my anxiety towards Neil and his play, but I can't help how it manifests itself during a time like this.

Saint Constantine School for Girls sets aside 2 weeks for exam testing at the end of each semester. I finished all of mine with satisfactory results as of last Friday. Amy, on the other hand, has had hers more dispersed. We studied together a few more times before her first exam which, according to her score, proved to be useful. She's scraped by in every test so far, but her most loathsome one is taking place while I battle this copy of Shakespeare's work: math. Each second that passes, page that rustles, foot that taps, is another moment closer to whatever the rest of our year will look like.

She's done well at hiding the toll this has had on her, but her brief moments of truth speak louder than hours of facade. The slight sag in her shoulders the moment she thinks I've looked away.  The extra-long drag she takes from a cigarette after an especially forced laugh. The sudden onset of stormy skies within her eyes after certain topics, blocking my view of anything below the surface of what she's carefully constructed. She's joked frequently about Coleman's desire to push her across the graduation stage and out of the school's sphere, but it all feels insincere. Each punchline reads more as a cry for help, begging for someone to relieve the stress eating her alive.

I pick up my head from the desk and squint out the window. The season's first snow came unseasonably late this year, only striking a few days prior. The entirely of Constantine's campus (and, in return, Montpelier) is daubed with a drape of crystalline snow. There's a defiant glitter about it, as well. It's as if, while acknowledging the sun's beams and reflecting them back, the snow still defiantly refuses to melt under the glistening pressure.

A few girls tread carefully across the sidewalk in front of Maxine Hall. One, fully erupted into tears, is being comforted by the other, teetering across the ice in ill-suited footwear. Judging by the trailing path of footprints sprawling behind them, I'd say they came from either the science or history department. Either way, the dichotomy between the girls' performance on the test is abundantly apparent. Despite her best efforts, a small grin sneaks onto the girl's face as she consoles her crying friend. Karma strikes instantly as her shoes betray her and she slips onto the ice. I can almost hear the thud through my window.

It's not all negative, however; her faux pas instantly brightens her friend's mood, switching from choked sobs into some light, sniffling laughter. She helps her up and they continue on their trek, now holding each other more gingerly.

Those girls are two of many contributing to the high volume of foot traffic on campus this week. The weather rendering cars and bikes obsolete along with campus-wide exams has kept me entertained from the comfort of my dorm. Everyone once in a while, I'd recognize a face, drawing my attention towards them until they left my field of view. Maybe from an event or encounter, but usually just from a shared class. They walk, unbothered by me and my existence, solely focused on trecking towards their next exam. My recognition doesn't matter to them; why would it? I'm just some girl stuck up in her dorm, watching random people on the street and living vicariously through them-

A loud, metallic screech pierces my ears. My body jolts, instinctually turning towards the source of the noise. Amy, head hung, stands in the doorway with the door flung open. Relief washes over me for a moment before I register the paper gripped in her right hand.

I try to sound as sympathetic as possible without allowing a trace of pity to slip through, still regulating my heartbeat after her dramatic entrance. "Oh, Amy..."

I walk towards my roommate and hug her, unsurprised when she doesn't return the gesture. She puts her head onto my shoulder and begins to cry. I rub her back through the sobs, muttering quiet solace, before I realize...

Is she... laughing?

Yes, it was true. Her cries became more erratic and audible, erupting from her stomach rather than getting caught in her throat. I release her and step back uneasily, as if the line between her sadness and insanity has thinned and I've lost track of which side I'm on.

She sniffles, wiping her nose with her sleeve, and looks up at me. There's no tears in her eyes; in fact, there's not much in them all except for unbridled excitement. Before I can say anything, she uncrumples the paper in her hand, smashed from our hug, and holds it up.

In the top right corner, bright with red ink and promise, a number sits: 71. We stand in silence for a moment.

"It's enough," she says finally.

Everything clicks in my head and I squeal, pulling her in for another hug. She still doesn't reciprocate entirely, but there's a slight bit more effort this time.

"It's enough..." she repeats.

We embrace for another few seconds before she pushes me off. "Ok, that's enough. Don't get soft on me, Albrecht."

I hold my hands up defensively, trying (and failing) to suppress my smile. My wavering expression caused her to crack as well, commencing an unspoken stoic contest we both lose before even beginning.

"So, what does this mean?" I ask, dropping my arms.

"It means..." Amy says, rifling through her bag, "...that I'm that must closer to being done with this shit hole." Her hand lands on something and she stops, pulling out a small brown paper bundle.

"Come on, I bummed some pot off of Dixie from 2B." She smiles wickedly. "It's time to celebrate."

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a short chapter, I know. leave me alone. believe it or not, this was the average length of my earlier chapters. oh how the times change.