Hot damn

Her name was at the bottom of the list.

He had warned her. Unless her GPA improved she wouldn’t get any apprenticeship. No apprenticeship, no job. End of the road. Maybe he was right. She was not good enough. They were all right. She was useless.

Suddenly her chest constricts, like something tightening her rib-cage, making it difficulty to breathe.

She stares at the hot pink wall, and remembers Mrs. B’s psycho babble. Pink represents caring and sharing. Pink asserts strong sensitivity. Bullshit sensitivity.
Even the smiley taunts her.

Should she go talk to the professor. Cry. Beg for help. Her body was 70% water. Certainly enough to cry for hours. Then when she was all done, she could drink a glass of water and start all over again.
Surely she was at least capable of crying!

“Excuse me,” a gentle hand nudges her. “I need to put up the second half of the list.”

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In response to the 137th Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers challenge, based on a photo by Grant-Sud