The Grade

Veronica sits on her bed, 18 and pissed off, school crap everywhere. The failing term paper from Mr. Pullman sits in her lap like an insult. She's got a box cutter in her hand, dragging the blade back and forth across her skin like she's testing how far she'll go. Her mom knocks, begging her to come downstairs, saying she'll only have to repeat the semester. Veronica screams at her to fuck off, rips the paper to shreds, and mutters that she won't fail because of that prick. Across town, Mr. Pullman hears the kettle and pours his tea. He tells his wife he's grading papers in the study, then sits down with his neat stacks and pen ready. Knock at the door. He opens it and there's Veronica, cleaned up, polite as hell, pushing past him into the house before he can say no. She wants to talk about her grade. He checks over his shoulder, makes sure his wife's out of earshot, and shuts the door. He sits in his chair, keeps his distance. Veronica stays calm at first, asks why he failed her. He starts explaining the mistakes, the possible plagiarism, and she just stares. Then she grabs his neat stack of papers, starts reading random lines out loud, throwing them around, ripping pages. He snaps, grabs her wrist, slams her back on the couch. Tells her to knock it off—his wife is upstairs and he's not letting some teenager trash his house over one bad grade.