I would like to drop out."
The second assistant to the associate to the program coordinator—whoever this girl might be—regards me, stunned, above her big square glasses.
I stand at the Academic Advising window, back straight, chin up. I'm aware of how my skinny neck sticks out of the collar of my oversize sweatshirt, of how red blotches cover my face, free of even a speck of makeup. Whenever I close my eyes it's like the inside of my eyelids turned to sandpaper. Every blink is slow and painful, scrape, scrape.
"But you can't drop out," she says dumbly.
"I considered it carefully, the implications and all," I say. "And I do want to drop out. Now give me whatever paper I need to sign and let's get it over with."
