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Bhodi
It’s so obvious the essay is hers. She’s sitting beside me, stiff as stone, silently weeping. I’m not a monster; it tugs on my heartstrings. Of course I offered her my headphones when I realised she didn’t have hers in. I’ve noticed she almost always has them in, particularly in crowded areas. I may not fully understand why, but I know it’s more than just because she really likes music. She doesn’t need to be subjected to whatever shit the professor is pulling here, so I’m more than happy to help her out by giving her mine so that she can block this bullshit out.
I don’t get it. What’s the point of today’s task? The class is full of titters and snide comments, laughing outright as he scathingly critiques sections of her assignment. He openly declares it the worst in the class – the worst he’s ever had – which I know is total bullshit.
For one, I can tell he’s strategically omitted sections of the essay to influence us as readers. Probably the parts that are really good too. For another, I know that what I submitted was way worse because I’ve been pulling nightshift, patrolling campus for the last week since the second dead body turned up, and I simply haven’t had time to focus on schoolwork.
He still gave me an A. We have appearances to uphold after all.
I don’t know why he’s gunning for this chick though. Malia something. I’ve seen he’s often been short with her on our online forum, and when she dared to ask a question about something he alluded to on one of his slides, he really ripped into her, telling her to go away and research it because he wasn’t here to spoon feed her like a baby. Pretty uncalled for given that it was during a Q and A session.
I don’t know what she’s done to piss him off so badly, but I doubt wearing headphones in his lesson warrants this kind of reaction or punishment. In fact, I know for sure she doesn’t deserve this.
I press my leg against hers in solidarity when really all I long to do is pull her onto my lap, so that I can wrap her in my arms and protect her from all this bullshit.
Which is scary as fuck because I don’t have a soft side. I’m not kind and caring. And I don’t ‘do’ cuddles. So why do I want to with her?
Under the desk, with my phone in my lap, I strategically select the songs I want her to listen to. I’m trying to convey support and sympathy, and it’s easier to do with songs than actual words. I hope it helps.
The class laughs at something the professor has said and I’m startled by the loud scrape of chair legs across the floor. Malia gets to her feet, bag in hand, and races to the front of the class.
“Take your seat, Miss Van der Zee,” the prof snaps. “Class is not dismissed.”
I’m really shocked when she ignores him and flees the room. I see fire in her but she’s always respectful of authority. Demure and timid around it actually. Things must be really bad today if she’s not only cutting class early, but leaving without permission too.
The professor smirks.
The fucker actually smirks and my blood boils.
“I think we touched a nerve, class,” he quips to their snickers. I’m almost on my feet and swinging for him at that. He’s basically just outed her to the entire group as the author of the essay and the class erupts in excitement at the unfolding drama like a pack of braying dogs.
I want to chase after Malia and make sure she’s okay, but I remain seated, quietly raging while I bide my time to give the prof a piece of my mind. It’s not cool, making a girl cry like that. Using her to – what? Prove a point or something? I can’t figure out what the rest of us are supposed to learn from today’s lesson. It’s bullshit.
When the session ends and he dismisses us, I take my time packing up. Partly so that I’m the last one in the room, but mostly in an attempt to calm my temper. I’m reaching for my earbuds once my bag is packed, before realising the rainbow chick ran off with them. Oh well, it gives me an excuse to track her down and speak to her to get them back. And I can make sure she’s okay too, which is more important.
“Bhodi?” The prof asks when I storm up to his desk once the room is empty. I’m shaking, barely able to contain my emotions when I look at him.
And he had the audacity to send me after her to apologise last time – claiming that he didn’t need the trouble from his head of department or some bullshit. Obviously, he’s changed his stance on that. Why?
“What did you do that for?” I demand. The prof doesn’t answer, simply raises an amused brow at me. It makes me even angrier. I see red and my hands curl into fists. “What the fuck was that about? What the fuck did she do to you?!”
“Mind your own business,” he snaps, folding his arms defensively over his chest and glaring at me in a silent challenge.
“No! She didn’t deserve that shit, Prof. She was fucking devastated. You made her cry.”
“Bhodi—” he warns. But I don’t heed him. I’m too far gone. The need to smash something – namely his face – is overpowering right now.
“Fuck you! No! Fuck you! It’s fucking wrong, man!” My fist flies into the wall behind his head before I can even register what I’m doing.
The prof doesn’t even flinch. He studies me calmly, his head tilted to the side, assessing.
His lack of reaction just serves to further ignite me; it’s fuel to my fire, bubbling up inside of me and I know I’m going to truly lose control in a minute.
“Since when do you care?” he asks patiently.
“I—” He’s right. I’m the asshole who sat in her seat just to get a rise out of her. The guy who threw her under the bus with the prof, just for fun. Why do I care? And since when? Where has this protectiveness of her come from?
Maybe it’s because I feel guilty for the way I acted. For dragging her onto the professor’s radar in the first place. Like, somehow, this could maybe be my fault.
“You were out of order, and you know it,” I insist, not wanting to think about my role in this girl’s torment.
But I also know the prof. He isn’t about to back down and admit he was wrong, let alone say he’s sorry. He doesn’t apologise, ever.
And he calls me an asshole?
There’s no point in arguing with him. Stubborn prick. I glower at him and storm from the room, slamming the door hard enough behind me to break the glass. Fuck him. I don’t care if it does.
