Chapter 93 It's Choking, Really!
Malia's pov
Empty, thank god. I lock myself in the farthest stall, sit down on the closed toilet seat, and eventually let myself look at the paper again. Really look.
The comments are everywhere. Savage. Scathing. But as I look through them—really look at them instead of just taking in the slashes of red ink—I see something.
The Criticisms are Non-Specific. “Not Enough Analysis.” “Weak sourcing.” “Emotional reasoning.” But she doesn’t indicate what, specifically, where, when and how I should have done things differently?
It’s not feedback. It’s condemnation masquerading as pedagogy.
My phone buzzes. With trembling hands, I pull it out.
A group text from July: Coffee? We need to debrief this week from hell.
Freddy replies immediately: God yes. Usual spot? 20 minutes?
July: Perfect. Malia you coming?
I stare at the screen. Feel like saying no, telling them I’m too busy, too far behind, too crapping out to be good company. But the thought of going back to my room alone, of sitting with this shame and anger and fear—
Me: Yeah. I’ll be there.
July: See you soon babe
I douse my face with cold water, I avoid my reflection—don’t want to see what’s etched there —and I head for the café.
I got there and they’re already at our usual table. July with her iced vanilla latte and determined expression. Freddy with black coffee and a sympathetic smile. They both look exhausted
July has dark circles under her eyes, Freddy’s usually perfect hair is a bit tousled but their faces brighten when they spot me.
“There she is,” July says, sliding out the chair that sits between them. "Sit. Spill. You look like you’ve seen a ghost."
I slouch into the chair and place my bag with a thud. "Worse. Madame Vesper."
"Oh god.” July gasps dramatically “We've heard of her, don't tell me you're her student"
Freddy winces. "What happened?"
So I tell them. Everything. Our 4/20 essay grade that makes no sense. The charges of emotional reasoning and lack of rigor. The subtle threats to my scholarship. The implicit command to “distance myself from those ‘distractions.’”
"She is basically telling me that I have to choose between Aiden and remaining enrolled," I say, voice tight. "Dress it up any way she wants, but that's the bottom line."
In July’s expression: a hardness that has nothing gentle about it that particular look she wears when she is really angry. “That’s targeting. That’s actual, borne out harassment.”
“That’s just academic standards,” I say bitterly. “Well, she’s cautious. Never makes overtly discriminatory remarks. It’s all couched in talk about rigor and merit and what’s expected institutionally.”
Freddy shakes his head. “Four over 20 is crazy. Even if your essay wasn’t brilliant — which I don’t think it was — it couldn’t have gotten that.”
“Told me I need to put it on hold. Due Friday. Plus three extra remedial sessions this week." I take out the essay, let them see the sea of red ink. “Look at this. These aren’t real critiques. They’re just... attacks.”
July takes the paper, reads it. Freddy leans over her shoulder. They share a look I can’t quite place.
“Enough of this—” July says finally, slamming the essay down too hard in frustration. “Complete and absolute horseshit.—in contravention, I might add, of the facts.”
“Yeah, well.” I slump in my chair. “It doesn’t matter if it’s bullshit. She has the power. I do not.”
“So what are you going to do?” Freddy asks gently.
"What can I do?" Even now I cringe at the panic in my voice. "Rewrite the essay. Attend the sessions. Attend the sessions.
Battle to make it through the semester without losing my scholarship. Or my mind. Either one, whichever comes first."
July reaches across the table, takes my hand. "You are not doing this alone, okay? Don't worry. We are going to take care of you. Research, editing, whatever you need."
Freddy adds, voice decidedly not warm. "She doesn't get to tell you who you can and can't see. That's crossing a line."
She’s so not invited." "Oh... but not as much as she should be." I clasp July’s hand, thankful but realistic. "My scholarship has a clause that I have to keep my grades up. If my grades drop, I’m out. And she controls my grades.”
That’s what settles over the table like fog.
"There has to be something we can do," July insists. "You can file a complaint, talk to the department head—"
"And say what? That she applied the rubric equally, but I think she's biased?" I shake my head. “I don’t have evidence. Matched against actual facts, weird feelings don’t hold Water.”
Freddy's jaw tightens. "How is it that she can just... get away with it. "
"People like her always do." The bitterness in my voice catches me off guard.
We sit in silence for a moment. The café is humming behind us — ordinary students with ordinary problems, laughing and complaining and living lives untroubled by professors who want them gone.
"I'm worried," I confessed quietly. "It's not just the grade. About... everything. The nightmares, Vesper, the way everyone stares at me in class. I feel like—" I'm at a loss. "It feels like something's building. Like this is just the beginning."
July presses my hand tighter. "Then we go up against it. Together. Whatever comes."
"She's right," Freddy says. "You've got us. You have Aiden and the brothers. You’re not alone in this.”
I want to believe them. Want to take comfort in their solidarity and support.
But here I am on this chair with a failed essay and Vesper’s voice hammering in my head and that bone-deep certainty that I’m running out of time—
I have never felt so alone.
"Thank you," I say anyway, for they are trying. Because they care. Because maybe if I say it enough times, if I go through the motions of feeling it, I'll start to actually feel it.
We polish off our drinks. Make plans to reconvene tomorrow for study group. Hug goodbye, with promises to text later.
The sun is setting when I stroll back to my dorm, Long shadows stretch across campus. Student clusters jostle and pass, their voices alive with plans for the weekend and unburdened happiness.
My phone buzzes. Aiden: How did it go?
I stare at the message. Want to tell him everything. I want to fall into his arms and offload some of this burden.
But Vesper’s voice is there too: Social ties that distract from the academic mission.
Me: Fine. Talk later?
There are three dots. Fades. Appear again.
Aiden: Yeah Miss you.
Me: Miss you too.
I stuff the phone into my pocket and walk on.
The moonstone pendant grows heavier with every step.
And it’s like in the distance, I can hear the woman with no face from my nightmares laughing.
You don’t belong. You never did.
And now, it’s a matter of time before everyone can see it.