Straight A's

I never got good grades. Like a lot of entitled kids, I had a bare minimum work ethic–including doing the crossword puzzle or drawing Spider-man riding on T. Rex in my notebook.

But when I decided to go to vet school, all that changed. At first, I was just trying to survive the intense workload. I sat in the front row, frantically scribbling over-caffeinated notes without even a smiley face. I was serious about learning as much as I could that—and I kid you not–at one point I had a disdain for mnemonics or acronyms because they felt like undisciplined shortcuts.

What a pretentious blowhard, I know! But during my first year of vet school, this is who everyone around me got to interact with: a former slacker with something to prove.

I'd love to say I was just doing it for the pure joy of learning, but I must have been aware that my fellow students in their stadium seating could see me shaking the professor's hand after a nasty midterm (I was thanking them for being hard on us!).

It was all too much, too fast, and too gag-reflex-inducing. But, somehow I made it through my first two quarters with "perfect" grades. I had never seen that on one of my report cards before. And now it was two straight terms, of 20+ units! It all seemed so pristine and intoxicating.

I started to wonder, could I pull off a first year straight A sweep? I asked around, spring term wasn't supposed to be that bad. Just batten down the hatches and I'd be able to walk around with a fully justified pomp of erudite arrogance.

For the last quarter, I played the game–calculating midterm points and homework assignments and all of that. I watched each class like a middle manager, making sure each would end with a quota of 90%. Something about this strategy started to feel icky, but I was pretty sure it was gonna work.

It might have, but springtime in Davis makes it oh so hard to stay inside a library. Maybe I flinched, I'm not sure. But the one class I was most excited about beforehand, and ended up most disappointed in, was Immunology. It dragged me down like a lead albatross.

I tried, tried, and tried to stay interested. There was just something about the format that wasn't flowing. Plus, I mean, who was going to play all that grass volleyball if I didn't show up?

Eventually, the term finished. I still felt optimistic– I had put in a lot of time and effort, after all. It had probably worked. But I wouldn't know until I logged in. With a barely restrained fervor, I searched for my grades. Scrolling down, I could see a column full of A's, as well as my percentages. Low 90's–but I'd take it. Good news so far.

My hand was shaking as I scrolled the browser tab to the bottom. Would I get the thing I wanted–straight A's?! Or wait! Wasn't I there for the knowledge? No, dammit, perfect grades! Bragging rights! Something to put on the fridge! Something to shove in the noses of the naysayers from high school, from college, from whenever and wherever a kid with no particular love of school up until this point had come across anyone else and the thought "potential" failed to materialize in their heads.

But nope, I didn't get it. Down at the very bottom of the screen, I saw my course percentage for Immunology: 89.9%.

I closed my laptop, and let out a primal scream, "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!"

Straight A's—just not the kind I was hoping for.