11 Chapter 11

He shoved the essay into his heaping book bag and stood, tossing the strap over his head. He almost knocked my arm with his bag as he shifted the chair an inch across the floor and turned to leave, the metal legs screeching.

“Robert,” I said.

He whirled around, agitated, his jaw muscles clenching and unclenching. “I appreciate it.”

I doubted it from his prickly retort. “I mean it,” I said, as if I had to declare my succor to an eighteen-year-old student out of a dozen others. “I want to see an A on that rewrite.”

“How much time do I have?” he asked, sounding aloof.

“How about a week, after you finish next week’s assignment, so you’re not overwhelmed?”

The color of anger in his cheeks returned to a normal shade of nude, and his fists fell to his sides, unfolded.

“You can do it,” I said. “Let me know if you have any problems, or have a question.”

His voice was soft, weak. “See you next week.”