I stopped. I sat back down. If I handed it to him, it would be irrevocable. And his look told me that he thought he had won. He had outsmarted me. I sat there looking at him. He wouldn't look at me again. Now, he was just sitting there smiling broadly, pretending to read.
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So, I was forced to reflect on the rats. The trap was so expensiveand big (we had the dimensions). Where would you even put this thing if you could afford to buy one? I contemplated the problem some more. And more. And more.
Slowly, I started to think about large warehouses, factories . . . places you store things, like food, like perishables, like paper (picture rats gnawing), like boxes, grains . . . industrial facilities. Yes! Keep going. What else? Stores, supermarkets, restaurants. They could afford this. I was starting to get excited. Yes, they've got room to place this unwieldy device somewhere. Several places, in fact.
But it could cut into the revenues of exterminators. Yes! Exterminators, what a great market. They could buy them and sell them to their customers. Heck, they could rent them and collect huge profits. And off I went. That night, I developed a twenty-page marketing plan. It was logical, reasonable and feasible.
I was quite satisfied with my marketing plan. Just before 10:00 P.M., I dropped it on his desk. He was still looking smug, but what the heck. I had tried.
Next Wednesday, he showed up in class with the results. He announced, "You met my lowest expectations. Most of you missed the whole point, and your grades reflect it. However, I am annoyed. I was forced to grant one more A than I had predicted." And he glared pointedly at me. "There were four this semester."
He handed out the graded finals. The groans and grumbling were audible. However, I had gotten an A. Why did I sense he wasn't going to let me enjoy it?
Wickert interrupted all the complaints. "I warned you at the beginning of class that you would not do the assignments or read the book. You took the lazy way outand it cost you. If you had followed my instructions, this final would have been a slam dunk. Now that it's
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over, I can tell you. I took the case straight out of the textbook. Verbatim. I did not even bother to change the name on the case. I knew you wouldn't notice."
You could hear the sound of pages rustling as we frantically searched the textbook and the index, looking for the case. Then, there was dead silence as we read it. Oddly enough, the case's marketing plan turned out to be very similar to my own. They thought up a few things that I hadn't and vice versa.
"I was confident in you dunderheads. Only three people figured out what I had done during the final and took the information out of the book." (He had been watching us and knew who'd used the book. I hadn't even cracked mine. He was right.) "But one person did it the hard way and actually reasoned it out on her own. It would have saved her a lot of time if she had just done what I had asked."
Yes, it would have saved me timeand embarrassment. But, I did figure it out myself, although I hadn't followed his directions. I had thought it through and come up with the correct answer. Could Wickert have been trying to goad us young students into thinking?
Even to this day I wonder if Wickert was secretly proud of me, as well.
Eva Rosenberg
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Dissed
Chad was intimidated by the burly professor yelling into his face, "Your work is sloppy! Your study habits are horrible! Your grades are slipping! I hate sloppy work! I hate poor study habits! And I hate that shirt you are wearing!"
The class was dead silent as the professor chastised Chad for several minutes. Then a collective gasp filled the room when the professor turned and began to yell at the entire class.
"You guys have made it through high school because your mommies babied you. Now you have to grow up! Your mommies are not here!"
Chad spoke in a quivering voice. "You'd better be glad my mom's not here. She bought me this shirt!"
Mary J. Davis
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How to Get an A on Your Final Exam
During my Senior year in college, I served as a teacher's1 assistant. One of my roles was to administer and proctor the exams. The class was a freshman introductory course, which had well over five hundred students.
The students were given four exams during the semester and one cumulative final exam at the semester's end. In order to manage these five hundred college freshmen, I had to establish rules. The rules were as follows. The exams began at exactly 9:00 A.M. The students would pick up their test booklets and blue books and proceed to a seat of their choosing. They would have exactly fifty minutes to complete the examination. At exactly 9:50 A.M., I would call out, ''Pencils down!'' Everyone had to stop writing immediately, put their pencils down, proceed to the front of the room and turn in their blue books. Those who did not put their pencils down at exactly 9:50 A.M. and turn in their blue books would receive an automatic F, no exceptions!
When final exam time came, the students were so indoctrinated into the system that I only needed to announce
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one warning at 9:40 A.M. So as the final minutes ticked away, I announced, "It is 9:40. You have ten minutes until pencils down." Then at 9:50 A.M., I barked my last command for that semester: "It's 9:50, pencils down. You know the rules!" And boom, all pencils went down, just like always. All 500 students stoodor was it only 499? Yes it was. Everyone filled the aisle except for one sneaky guya guy way up in the nosebleed section.
He was just writing and writing away. I saw him up there, but he didn't think I could. Once again, I barked, "Pencils down everyone!" But he kept writing and writing, trying to beat my system. How dare he! Boy, would I get him! At 9:58 A.M., as I began to organize the stacks of examination packets, I saw this young man running down the aisle to surrender his exam to the table.
"Here, Mr. D'Angelo, take my blue book!" he huffed and puffed.
"I cannot accept this. You know the rules. Pencils down at 9:50 A.M., or you get an automatic F."
"Please, Mr. D'Angelo, take my blue book!"
"No! You know I can't do that. It's against the rules."
"Please, please, take my blue book. I'm barely passing this class. My mom and dad will kill me if I have to repeat this class. Just take it, and no one will ever know." A tear began to stream down his cheek.
"I'm sorry. I just can't." I went back to the stacks, organizing them one by one. The young man just turned and walked away with his shoulders slumped.
Now with a stack of five hundred or so blue books in my arms, I watched the freshman walk up the stairs toward the exit. Just about at the halfway point, I saw him boldly turn around, with great confidence, you might say with a hint of arrogance. He swiftly jogged down to me.
He questioned softly, "Mr. D'Angelo, do you know who I am?"
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"Why no, and frankly I couldn't care less."
"Are you sure you don't know who I am?" he inquired with even greater confidence. I started to get a little concerned. Was this the dean's son? What had I gotten myself into?
"No, I'm sorry. I don't," I said with a little hesitation in my voice.
"Are you absolutely, 100 percent sure that you don't know who I am?"
"For the last time, no, I don't know who you are!"
"Well then, good!" and he shoved his blue book into the middle of the stack and ran out the door.
Tony D'Angelo
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Page 98
A Compassionate Philosophy
A half hour before test time, I was afraid to look in the mirror. But I had to assess the damages. After all, there were cute guys in this class. Granted, they would be worrying more about the final than what I looked like, and that was my hope at this point.
The first things I saw were my own bloodshot eyes. Where was that Visine? My hair looked like Attila the Hun had spent the night camping in it. Well, I'd pull it back into a ponytail and take the tangles out later.
And then I saw it. It was a huge swelling on
the front of my chin that had to be the size of a small golf ball. Surely I was hallucinating from lack of sleep. I had never seen anything like that before. I'd heard of people getting hives from nerves. But a single hive, on the front of my face? I gingerly touched it. A hard swelling met my curious fingertips. What had caused this? The pizza I'd consumed at midnight or the Mountain Dew I'd consumed at two and four and six in the morning? Perhaps it was the Cap'n Crunch at three or the candy bar at five. My stomach had a strict policy. If I was going to keep it up all night, it insisted on being fed.
How was I going to cover this up? I rummaged through all of my toiletries until I found my lone bandage, put there
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for emergencies. Well, this qualified as one. Oh no, that looked really stupid. How embarrassing. Oh well, no time to do anything else about it now. My philosophy final was waiting for me. My beleaguered brain had tried all night to grasp the arguments of different philosophies so that I could write them down on the essay test this morning.
I loved to hear our philosophy professor in class. I could follow the arguments when he discussed them, but trying to formulate them on my own just wasn't happening. Perhaps the bump was the result of stress. I had to pass this final, or I would fail the class. And I couldn't fail the class, or I would have to take the college's summer school sessions. And I couldn't go to summer school because I needed to work to help pay for next fall's tuition.
Swallowing the last gulp of flat Mountain Dew, I headed for class. I picked a seat that didn't directly face the clock. That would only make me more nervous, and God knew I had already used up my adrenaline supply. Dr. Wennberg passed out the essay books while explaining the rules. We would have exactly one hour. My two pencils in hand, I waited for the signal.
"Begin."
I closed my eyes, took a deep breath and said a prayer: "Please, God, help me remember all that I've studied for this test."
I looked over the questions. I could do this. I had to do this. I began writing.
Twenty minutes had gone by. I had been writing as fast as I could before I forgot the information. So far so good. But my eyes were so tired. They hurt so badly. They felt so heavy. I'd just rest them for a minute. I leaned my puffy chin on my hand.
Someone sneezed. I came to with a start. What?! I'd fallen asleep? I'd never done that before in a final! Oh no!
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Fearfully, I looked at the clock. Only ten minutes left?! I'd slept a half hour? Oh no!
I thought I'd used up all my adrenaline, but I was wrong. I broke out in a cold sweat. What could I do in ten minutes? Think, I must think. I need a plan. I'm doomed. No, think. I began writing as fast as I could to finish answering the questions.
I stared at the last blank page of the essay test booklet with its neatly ruled lines. Dare I? I had nothing to lose. I still had two minutes. I wrote Dr. Wennberg. I told him how sorry I was. How I'd stayed awake all night to study because this was important to me, only to fall asleep during the exam. How I'd really wanted to do better. I asked for mercy.
One week later, I stood in front of the test board where the results would be posted. The mysterious swelling on my chin had gone away with sleep, but I touched my fingers to my chin nervously. It wasn't coming back, was it?
I stood awaiting my fate. The secretary came out and pinned a paper to the board. I scanned down the list of names, looking for my final class grade. There it was: a C-minus. Tears filled my eyes. I looked again. I had passed! I was sure I hadn't deserved that. But I wasn't about to argue! Dr. Wennberg had shown mercy. It was one philosophy lesson I've never forgotten.
Kristi Nay
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Page 102
Library Science
It was only the third week of our domestic union, and already I had major doubts about my new roommate. And not just because of the psychedelic unicorn triptych tacked over her bed or the Garfield phone staring at me from her trunk. She was hiding something, I could tell.
I knew for a fact that her first class wasn't until 11:00 A.M., but she was out the door by nine every morning. With her books. She'd stay out all day, not even showing up for Days of Our Lives, unlike the rest of us who had deliberately designed our schedules around this sacred hour.
I began to speculate about how and where she was spending her time. I knew that she had taken out loans to pay for tuition; maybe she was hanging out at the plasma centerrumor had it they paid you a hundred bucks to donate blood. Maybe she was having an affair with one of her professors. Maybe she'd never signed up for classes and was going to the movies all day. Finally, I couldn't stand it any longer. I had to know what was up.
"Lori, I was just wondering . . . where exactly do you go all day?"
She didn't even flinch. "The library."
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The what? What could she possibly be doing in the library all day? We were only freshmen. It's not like she was writing a thesis or anything. I wasn't so sure I believed her.
"Can I go with you tomorrow?" I asked, waiting for her to squirm as she was forced to blow her cover.
"Sure," she said easily.
So that's where we went. At first glance, it looked exactly like what I'd expected: a bunch of people sitting around reading and being systematically shushed. But upon closer inspection, I realized the library is a lot like one of those "Magic Eye" pictures that hypnotize mallgoers everywhereif you look hard enough, you discover there's a lot more to it. For one thing, it's an excellent hiding spot.
Imagine this scenario: Last night it seemed like a good idea to use your suitemate's cherished (but handy) Green Day T-shirt to plug the leak in the toilet tank. Today, you're slightly less sure. Well, good thing for you the library is always open late. Just drape the tee over your chair, kick back and hit the books. Later, when you sneak the no-longer-incriminating evidence back into your undersized cell, you'll be home free.
And speaking of free, this is one of the few campus hot spots with no cover charge and no minimum. You can read as much as you want! Study all day! All for the incredibly low price that is music to any college student's ears: notta (as in notta pennyunless you permanently misplace Moby Dick and have to dig into your precious laundry fund to replace it).
Dreading the weekly bad-news report from Mom? Even if she knows where you are, chances are she won't page you in the library. Having a hard time losing the geek from your dorm who won't stop calling since you accidentally made eye contact? You're as good as lost.
The word "dorm" is definitely not short for "dormant." That place makes a mosh pit look tame! Phones ringing,
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stereos blasting, computers humming, video games bleeping, TVs blaringit'd be easier to think in an arcade. What you wouldn't give for three minutes of peace and quiet.
Voilà! You've come to the right place. Write a letter. Read the newspaper. Skim a few chapters. Or just sit and make like a vegetable. Who cares? Your only purpose is to suck up the divine silence.
It sounds good: ''Going to the library.''
Your parents will be impressed. Your professors will be impressed. Your friends will be, well, already there. Of course, the former groups will assume you're there studying, which you may or may not be doing. It doesn't really matter, though, since they won't ever think to ask.
Therefore, the library can become your sanctuary, the place to do whatever it is you feel like doing (excluding, of course, your full-volume Stimpy impression and the Native American war dance you just learned about in history) under the guise of higher education.
Chicken Soup for the College Soul Page 10