“I am so going to fail this class.”
I look up at Raj from my own book and paper strewn desk. The poor guy is pacing back and forth, wading through piles of laundry and books. Our usually neat dorm room is a casualty of the pre-final reading period.
I slip off my reading glasses, set them on my history book and watch him. I mean to respond to his distress with something useful like, “Of course you’re not going to fail. You already have an index off the books and you’re already accepted to the doctoral program.” But it wouldn’t do any good. Raj has to please his parents who are still back in India, and in any case, I’ve already forgotten about reassuring him because as usual, I’m caught up in simply watching him pace, sketchpad in one hand, charcoal pencil in t
