Name:____________________________

My college professor, Dr. Whitfield, was a ​stringent ​teacher. Years of students ignoring his
policies had hardened him, so he began his course with this ​injunction​: “If your thesis paper is not in
my mailbox at 8 AM, Friday, December 18th, you fail the course.” He told everyone this on the first
day of class in August. December seemed a long way away, and the tempting, soothing breeze of the
Green Mountains flew over the valley, circulating with the warm air hovering above Lake Champlain.
The result was perfect weather to go to the beach, where Dr. Whitfield’s stern warning would melt
away in the sun’s hot rays.

That first day on the beach, I thought I had the ​aptitude​ to do well on my thesis, and that I
would easily find the time for it later. But that never seemed to happen. Days became weeks; weeks
became months. Vermont’s once beautiful summer​ land​scape faded, and doubt began to echo in my
head. It slowly invaded my sleep, then my daydreams, then every part of my day. By December, I
seriously began to worry. Maybe I ​didn’t ​have the ​aptitude​. Maybe I wasn’t just being lazy. Maybe I
was actually ​inept.​ ​My stomach sank when it dawned on me that the reason I wasn’t done yet was
because I was not good enough to be at college.

The blank page and pile of books on my desk taunted me everyday. “Open me. Just start,”
they said. My roommate Robbie’s teasing was a terrible ​adjunct​ ​to my growing self-doubt. “Done
yet? Started yet?” My confidence was already crumbling; I didn’t need his daily taunt.

In the dead of winter, I spent over a dozen long nights alone, in a lonely computer lab on the
corner of the frigid campus. It was a critical ​juncture​ for my thesis and my career as a student. Could
I actually do this? I stopped hanging out with friends, sleeping late, and generally doing all the things I
loved. Instead, I wrote constantly. At the time, it was miserable. My paper had ​subjugated​ my life; it
controlled everything I did. As December 17th approached, I was sleep deprived and approaching a
meltdown, but my thesis paper was just about finished. All I needed was that final night shift in the
computer lab.

I clicked print for the final time around 5 AM that morning. As the wind howled outside, and
snow blew violently, the warmth of the pages were even more soothing than the sand on the beach
that first day back in August. I refused to put the paper in my backpack, fearful it would get lost in its
dark void or that its beautiful edges might get frayed. I clutched the paper to my chest as I walked
across the frozen tundra that was the University of Vermont campus.

As I walked, the ​astringent​ coffee I had drunk all night made my stomach hurt; there was no
cream or sugar at the computer lab to cut back on its harshness, and I had drunk a ​lot ​of coffee. “For
all this hard work, I should make myself a huge plate of eggs and bacon,” I thought to myself. Despite
my hunger, I was feeling great. Not only did I have my golden ticket to winter break and freedom, I
now knew I belonged here at college. My confidence restored, it was finally time to treat myself.
 I walked the six blocks to my apartment for my breakfast pitstop. As I approached, I saw an
odd figure flailing about on my porch. “Oddly early for the mailman,” I thought to myself. As I grew
nearer, the paleness of the figure revealed its lack of clothing. The pasty whiteness of the man’s torso
was interrupted by his plaid boxers and black socks. “Is this a mirage? Am I that sleep deprived?” I
worried. But as I came within a block of my house, it was without a doubt a man on my porch. A man
in his underwear in late December, in northern Vermont, at 5:30 AM.

“Should I call the police?” I asked myself as I slowed my pace. Within half a block of my house,
the figure noticed me and began sprinting towards me like a maniac. “Mike! Save me!”, he yelled.
Instantly, I ​ascertained​ the truth behind the flailing, underdressed man. It was Robbie, and while the
terrible ​straits​ ​he had clearly landed in made me feel a little better about all of his teasing, I was also
curious to find out just how he had gotten himself into this mess. TO BE CONTINUED...

VOCABULARY WORD I THINK THIS WORD MIGHT MEAN...

Stringent

Injunction

Aptitude (used twice)

Inept

Adjunct

Juncture

Subjugated

Astringent

Ascertained

Strait