My neck snapped back, fighting the losing battle of staying awake in class. My eyes bloodshot, my hair filthy, and my clothes reeking of about seven different kinds of flavored vodka, I looked like the most pathetic Pre-Med student in the cosmos. The worst part was, I wasn't even hung over. I had come straight from the bar I waitress at to class, pulling an overnight shift that earned my rent money, but also a new reputation as an alcoholic. My face burned as I heard the girl behind me whisper "The pressure is already getting to her. It's just sad". All I wanted to do was whip around and break her assuredly plastic nose, but contained myself if for no other reason than to conserve energy.
Every nerve in my body ached to tell her that I have to work all-nighters sometimes because I am paying my way through dollar by sweat-covered dollar. I wanted to tell her that I was still wearing last night's clothes because I caught the last bus from downtown just before class, and didn't have time to change. I needed to see her twist her perfectly styled hair nervously as I told her that I worked so hard that I fell asleep scrubbing the bathroom floor after two hundred stumbling patrons spilled their gin and rum on it, only to wake up and realize that if I was going to make it to class I had to sprint three blocks to a dirty bus filled with exhausted waitresses just like myself.
It wasn't the pressure that was getting to me. It was the fatigue.
I took a deep breath, just in time to hear the professor sputter, "And the answer is? Vanessa?". 5 seconds. 10 seconds. 45 seconds. The silence was overwhelming, almost as much as the dumbfounded look on her face. "It's 21.3", I called out. The professor flashed me a smile as he turned to the board to continue his lecture. "Someone has been studying", he said quietly.
Time stopped as I turned in my seat. "Guess the pressure is getting to you. That's so sad".
