Page 64 of Ruthless Court

“This degree is becoming hostile.”

“You’ll survive.”

“That sounds like an assumption.”

“Register early. The easier sections fill fast.”

I write STATISTICS in my planner with enough pressure to snap the pencil lead.

My advisor glances at the broken tip.

“Everything all right?”

“Fantastic.”

* * *

My campus job is less fascinating.

Four nights a week, I report to the dining hall kitchen, pull on an oversized uniform shirt, nonslip shoes, rubber gloves, and a hairnet that makes my head resemble a mushroom.

Then I wash pots.

Not plates.

Not cups.

Pots.

Industrial stockpots with rice welded to the bottom. Metal pans crusted with cheese. Soup containers large enough to hide a body in.

Steam fogs my glasses. Hot water soaks through my apron. The sanitizer machine roars beside me while everyone shouts over it.

It is sweaty, ugly work.

It also pays fourteen dollars an hour and includes a free meal.

I can survive ugly.

The roasting pan changes that.

It comes out of the rinse station hotter than I expect. My wet glove slips on the handle, and the edge catches the inside of my forearm.

Pain shoots to my elbow.

I drop the pan into the sink with a crash.

My supervisor turns. “You okay?”

“I’m fine.”

The skin is already bright red.

Ten minutes later, I’m in campus health with burn cream on my arm and a bandage wrapped from wrist to elbow.

The nurse hands me discharge instructions.

“No dish room until it heals.”