A Golden Opportunity

To Pass or To Excel

The week struggled by, with as much anticipation in Friday as there was dread. Calculus lessons still went soaring over Victor's head, like miniature planes that were breaking the sound barrier. Professor Holmes lectured, Professor Holmes pointed, Professor Holmes wobbled on one good leg, one bad, and one cane. Nothing he said resonated with Victor, and for the majority of the class period the boy spent his time trying his best to keep up with what was being explained on the board. Trying his best, but often times failing, Holmes's lectures speeding up with the man's personal excitement. So quickly did he talk that oftentimes Victor's writing turned to scribbling turned to lines, mere lines on the paper that would serve to fill space. He was helpless to understand, and he was thankful to see that at least some of his classmates were also staring with glassy eyes, staring at the chalkboard they might never hope to understand. Perhaps next exam Victor won't be the only one below 50%.
By the time Professor Holmes's office hours came around Victor wanted to be the first one there. He wanted to show his dedication to extra help, in the hopes that he would get on good terms with the professor. Certainly he would do better to make use of these office hours, that way he wouldn't have to revert back to those horrible Tuesday night tutoring sessions with a girl who oftentimes referred to his mathematical skills as 'adorable'. Clambering up the stairs which were hastily carpeted to hide the slippery original marble, Victor felt the entire building creaking under his weight as he tried to beat the clock to the top. The bell tower oftentimes rang at odd intervals, as it was still traditionally rung by volunteers who would climb to the top and jump around with the ropes. Their timeliness was questionable at best, and a bell ringing through campus meant it was most likely near to the hours, give or take two minutes. No one used it as exact measurements, merely testaments of time passing, though as Victor checked his watch he could see that 2:00 had come and gone, for it was three minutes past the hour and he was still struggling his way up the last couple of stairs before the landing.
Professor Holmes's office was on the third floor, and unless Victor was severely confused as to the layout of the building, he was quite sure there was not an elevator. He had seen the old man struggle up the meager three stairs that led into the building itself. He held onto the railing as if his life depended on it, staggering with his walking stick and hardly making it to the top with both his life and dignity. If that was the challenge three stairs presented, how on earth could he manage three stories? It was a cruel joke on the administration's part. Perhaps Professor Holmes had done something to irk them early on in his career, something that had landed him in the least accessible office on campus.
The hall was nearly silent, with thin carpeting absorbing all sound and the bulletin boards on the walls keeping tight hold of their advertisements against the slight breeze produced by the blowing heaters. Most of the doors were closed, about ten offices on either side, as many professors felt their Fridays were wasted in trying to motivate students. Most of the campus body awoke on Friday with nothing but alcohol on their minds, and it would seem as though many professors gave up the fight of trying to convince them otherwise. Professor Holmes, it would seem, had never noticed the difference. Perhaps he had never had student traffic enough to realize Fridays were less populated than any other day of the week. That, or he understood that his office hours were near to mandatory for anyone who wanted to pass his class. Perhaps he had grasped the understanding that many students had no choice but to ask for additional help, their fear of failing the class far outweighing their want for a good, chaotic party.
Victor stood in the doorway of the office, knocking his knuckles a bit awkwardly against the doorframe in an attempt to catch the attention of the very focused man in his desk chair. The office was smaller than most, though perhaps the size was distorted by the sheer amount of things that had been crammed inside of it. The desk stood in the middle of the room, a proud oak desk that had a shining top nearly lost by the accumulation of papers that stacked on top of it. Filing cabinets were shoved into all four corners, one blocking the opening of the door and leaving it awkwardly ajar, just wide enough to admit a person but not nearly open enough to seem hospitable. It would seem as though Professor Holmes kept records and exams of every student he had ever taught, leading right up to the end of the Second World War. For a split second Victor wondered if the test he had received back had really been his after all, or instead it had been some lost document from decades past, a fool in the forties having been graded harshly and passed on in Victor's name. It was a wonder Professor Holmes could even find himself in such a mess!
The only things that were uncluttered where the window sill, which was surprisingly clean and letting a fair amount of the autumn light in, and a bulletin board hanging on the wall near the desk. Other than a syllabus, a calendar pinned to the corner, and a single photograph that must have been older than the building itself, the bulletin board remained empty.
"Professor Holmes?" Victor muttered, announcing his presence a bit more adamantly when he saw the Professor unmoved by his initial knocks. The man stirred, shaking his head for a moment as if trying to fight off sleep, not mere distraction. He lifted his curly head, his eyes wide and his mouth tight, looking towards his newfound company as if he had never seen a human being before in his life.
"I'm sorry, were you sleeping?" Victor wondered, trying to feign apology when he nearly felt the urge to laugh. He moved into the office, shuffling across the visibly unkempt carpet and making himself comfortable in the only piece of furniture that was not dedicated to either the permanent occupant or a myriad of papers and files. A single wooden chair was offered for guests, and Victor figured he fit that description well.
"No, no I was merely...daydreaming." The professor looked embarrassed to admit it, though he shuffled in his chair and tried to look more alert, blinking a couple of times before giving a hesitant smile. "I'm happy you've come."
"I may be untalented, but I'm not unmotivated," Victor admitted. "And I'll admit your assignment intrigued me."
"It's not oftentimes a professor asks you to be wrong," Professor Holmes agreed, grabbing for his pen if only for something to roll between his fingers as he spoke. He was a wiry man, a frame made for an impressive stature left unfilled, as if his muscles had shrunken long ago and his skin was hanging loose and deflated overtop of his skeleton. Even his clothes looked baggy, as if he had chosen larger sizes if only to give the impression that he had once filled them. As he spun the pen even his fingers looked condensed, his skin tight around the knuckles and his fingernails unusually long towards the base, as if they were being rejected from his body all together. He was the sort of man some would cross the street to avoid, though it just so happened Victor would sacrifice his Friday afternoon to spend time in his office, in close quarters, alone. If the man really was a specter he might have the decency to wait until after Victor understood the exam before stealing the boy's soul.
"So, did you find where you had gone wrong?" Professor Holmes wondered, clearing his throat before leaning forward in his chair, attempting to peer at the stack of papers victor was holding gently on his lap. He had dedicated almost two sheets of notebook paper, front and back, to explain the issues with his exam questions. The boy had stayed up nearly to sunrise in the effort, though he couldn't claim he had any regrets. For once Victor felt accomplished, for once he felt proud to pass something to a professor, something that would reflect the true work ethic he possessed.
"I did," Victor admitted. "I cross referenced my work with some step by step problems in the textbook."
"Very well done, Victor." The professor accepted the papers thankfully, pausing as he settled a pair of thick reading glasses on the brim of his crooked nose so as to read the fine lines traced by Victor's pencil. He nodded for a moment, looked over the test here and there, confirming what he saw and what Victor had diagnosed. His eyes still shone with intelligence, and Victor was happy to see they remained clear and optimistic throughout the entire report, thankfully going without that glazed and shadowed look that oftentimes clouded a professor's gaze when they saw something hopeless. It would seem as though Victor's work, however misled in the beginning, was at least not disappointing to him.
"You've done exactly what I hoped," the professor admitted, finally tilting the papers down so as to study the student, not just his work. "And now I think it would be easier for me to answer your questions, seeing as though you know what to ask."
"Indeed," Victor paused for a moment, rustling in his backpack to produce another folded piece of notebook paper, this time penned with the specific questions he intended to ask. "I brought a list."
"Excellent." Professor Holmes could not hide the satisfaction in his voice, that which spoke to a renewed confidence in his most poorly preforming student.
Victor laid the questions down on the table, allowing Professor Holmes to tear a couple of pieces of scrap paper from his own notebook, covering what little free space he had on the desk with his scratch papers and detailed notes. Together they went through each of Victor's questions, referring to the exam and then to his observations of what went wrong. Mostly they began with the numbered question and went through how to solve it, pointing out exactly where the correct answer deviated from Victor's nearly pathetic attempt in the past. Professor Holmes took his time with the explanations, allowing time for Victor to stare at his scribbles and point out things which didn't immediately make sense to him. Sometimes numbers moved without logic, sometimes variables vanished, sometimes signs flipped without a clear explanation as to why. Though with a question always came an answer, and Professor Holmes explained in that deep voice of his, slowly and methodically, using the back of his pen to point at the equations and oftentimes consulting the textbook and assigning some pages and paragraphs of interest for Victor to read over the weekend. The man seemed overjoyed to have such a dedicated student, and the hours went by at a pace that didn't seem quite logical. It was as if someone had paid the boys in the clock tower to make the hours shorter, for before Victor knew it he heard another bell toll, the second he had heard since he first sat down, the school's announcing that it was now four o'clock. The end of office hours.