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‘Farah –’ Amal begins, but her sentence is cut off by the sound of my phone buzzing.
Gibitah
Did you see?
I quickly try to think of everything that might’ve been said about my relationship. Last time I checked, Zarah was trending on Twitter – a ship name that Ben had way too much fun teasing us about. What possibly could have happened now?
Gibitah
Are you alive?
I roll my eyes at her dramatics, a smile tugging at my lips regardless. It’s strange to think there was a time that we weren’t friends, that we never spoke like this.
Still got a pulse. What’s happened?
Gibitah
Grades are out.
Relief hits me at the realization that this isn’t about Zayan, just as a swell of panic blossoms in my chest.
I stand up from my chair, startling my friends. ‘Grades are out for my coursework, aka a deciding factor in my final mark.’
‘Go and check them!’ Amal says, shooing me out of the room. ‘Don’t worry – Maha will grab your plate.’
‘Why me?’ Maha asks, affronted.
‘Because I’ve done your dishes three days in a row now.’
‘Yeah, but I did your laundry.’
‘I did your laundry too.’
‘One time!’
‘One time too many. Why do you wear so many outfits in one week, by the way?’
‘It’s called style.’
I leave them bickering and race into my room, to my laptop.
This year, every module I have is coursework-based. I’ll have exams in my second year, but for now every essay holds heavy weight in my final mark. And by no means am I a brilliant student – I’m not like Amal or Owais, who excel at everything they study. I’ve got my fair share of failed grades (my Year 8 school report was a collection of Cs and Ds). But I’ve always had a good memory, which is why I chose to study history.
My hands are shaking as I click open the online grading book under my university profile. I squint my eyes, afraid to see the number. Through a sliver of sight and lashes, I find my mark.
Eighty per cent!
Blood rushes to my ears, pounding against my skull as I open my bedroom door and call out the mark to my flatmates. I hear the cheers of celebration right before I collapse on to my bed and start reading through the comments my professor has left. A giddy smile perches on my lips as I read Good job! and I love this!
I’m so excited I almost miss the final comment.
This was such a surprisingly delightful paper to read, Farah – you are so articulate, and you write so well in English! It’s a genuine pleasure to see students from all over the world succeed against the odds.
Bile rises up my throat, and this odd sensation starts to pulse right from the centre of my chest down to my fingertips. I read through the comment again, trying to decipher its hidden meaning, if it even has any. Like, why would she be surprised it was a good essay?
No. No. This is my overthinking kicking in. There are compliments in these comments – delight, good writing, pleasure. All good, positive things. I’m trying to see something that’s not there.
Unless she thought you weren’t going to be good enough to pass her class?
