I Got a 32%.

Returning to college with a new home address made absolutely no difference in my lifestyle, except that I no longer tried to refrain from drinking seven nights a week. I’d been daily drinking for so long, it seemed silly to stop for things like “classes” and “exams.”

It was my senior year when I decided to take the easiest classes I could find – one of which was anatomy.

Body parts were fascinating to me, but I knew literally nothing about how anything worked. So I took the class. I thought it would be interesting.

Plus, it was taught by the football coach, Coach Kehres, who was very easy on the eyes. I could be bored to tears and still wildly entertained. And if I got bored with looking at him, the class was required for anyone majoring in physical education – which means the room was full of football players.

Win-win! I signed up without thinking twice about it.

Before my first anatomy test, in spite of my regular drinking, I actually studied. Learning bones and organs took more effort than I’d expected. I learned everything I could, and then I wrote down what I’d learned on the test the next day.

When I left the exam room, I thought I’d done pretty well.

Two days later, Coach Kehres returned our graded tests. Everyone groaned. My “pretty well” wasn’t quite as good as I’d hoped. I got a 32%.

Failing that test was a real eye-opener. First of all, I realized that I should never, ever study medicine. Science was really not my thing.

Second, I was a senior. If I failed a class, I might not graduate. And I didn’t think my parents would pay for a fifth year of college, especially since I had moved out of their house. And I couldn’t exactly call them anymore to discuss my options.

So I walked straight from the classroom and to the registrar to drop the class.

“It’s too late to drop the class,” said the registrar. “But you could take it pass/fail.”

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“It means that the class won’t affect your GPA,” she said. “But if you want the credit, you’ll need to pass.”

I considered the 32%. I wondered if I could raise my grade to a percentage that would mean I could pass. My only option was to try – and try hard.

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll take it pass/fail.” I would have rather thrown my anatomy book in the garbage, but I still had all those football players to admire.

A few days later, Coach Kehres found me ordering spaghetti in the cafeteria line.

“Kur-stin, right?” he said, pronouncing my name all wrong.

I looked up and melted a little.

“Yes?” I said, somewhat terrified. The coach had never spoken to me directly before.

“I hear you’re taking my class pass/fail,” he said.

“Uh-huh,” I said. Could he force me to take it for a grade? I was getting more scared by the minute.

“Next time you want to do that, come and talk to me first,” Coach Kehres said. “You had the highest grade in the class.”

I blinked and looked up at him. “I did?”

“You did,” he said. Then he walked away.

I stood holding my tray of spaghetti, wondering which way to turn.

At the end of that semester, there was a “P” on my transcript; I never took another science course again.

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