He was almost out of time.
God, he thought to himself. Who wrote Beloved? Angelou or Morrison?”
He groaned and put his forehead on the desk.
He couldn’t fail this midterm. His academic advisor kindly explained to him at the beginning of the semester that failing even one course would trigger a series of events — unenrollment, expulsion, eviction, and another six months living in his parents’ guest room while they argued over whether bubble wrap should go in the garbage or the recycling bin.
No, no, failing wasn’t an option.
He picked up his head and looked around the lecture hall. About half of his classmates were still taking their exams; no one bothered covering their test. Sitting two seats to his right was a girl. She was plain-looking, with glasses, an unflattering blouse, and frizzy hair; but she seemed confident, writing down answers without a second thought. Her chunky penmanship made the words easy to decipher.
He saw his chance.
Using his peripherals, as he had done on so many tests before, he covertly glanced at her paper and scribbled along with her. About ten minutes later she got up from her desk and handed in her test. He spent a few extra minutes rereading his answers and randomly filling in the blanks. Finally, he rose from his chair and placed his exam on the pile with all the others.
He walked out into the hallway and turned the corner to go to the bathroom. Crouched down by the water fountain was the girl whose test he had copied. She was on the phone. She seemed upset.
“I really did study, mom… I understand… you’re right, it will hurt my GPA… but does a physicist really need to know the secondary plot points of Beloved.”