CECE, DISRESPECTFULLY | ✓

49: HELL ON EARTH

            'In pairs–' Emeto's instructions are instantaneously buried under groans from every chair in the classroom. 'In pairs,' he starts again, nearly having to yell, 'you'll read each other's introductions and give constructive feedback. Do we remember how to give constructive feedback? Yes? If not, I have some example phrases on the board.'

He jabs the projector screen with his pointer. Prompts phrases suggest sentences like "I like how you... To make it even more impactful, what if you...?" and "I'm struggling to see how this part relates to the topic of your essay. Could you clarify its significance?" along with the reminder of The Three C's: clear, concise, and connected.

'I want you to brainstorm together and come up with three potential topic sentences for the body paragraphs of each of your coursework. We discussed topic sentences last term but I have a worksheet you can grab that explains how you write an effective topic sentence if you need that. Your best resource is each other so try to actually make use of it, okay?'

We all stare at him with astronomical disinterest.

'Right, I've chosen the pairs–'

Anarchy. Rather than settle for grumbling this time, we throw our protests at Emeto. I make a friend and now I can't even reap the benefits of having someone to do dumb pair assignments with? This is well unfair!

'Next person to complain can give written feedback to every person in this class.'

Silence is as instant as the explosion was.

'Right then, let's get on with it.' He picks up a page from his desk and starts reading out pairs by surname. 'Allen and Young. Atangan and Williams.'

I smirk while Diwa looks horror-stricken at the thought of working with Annabella. If I can't work with Diwa, then getting to watch her embarrass herself is the next best thing.

All my amusement disappears when Emeto continues. 'Bunsuk, you're with Velez.'

Sakda jolts upright in his chair. 'Not a fucking chance!'

'Yes, Sakda, one hundred percent chance. You all seem to be forgetting that I'm the teacher here.'

It's Diwa's turn to celebrate my misery.

I slump onto my desk as Emeto continues listing the pairs. Sakda's glare is a nailgun at the back of my neck, one wrong move and he'll shoot two inches of steel right through the base of my skull. This is just mega, innit.

I grant Diwa my final farewell before dragging myself to his spot in the far corner of the classroom. I drop my bag onto it, glance back where Annabella plops into my recently vacated chair, and sit down as far from Sakda as our shared desk makes possible.

I toss my notebook at him. His eyes cut me but soon melt to my essay introduction. He reads the title and scoffs. 'You're writing about bugs?'

'Yeah.'

He slides his own notebook to me. 'The faster we finish, the faster it's over.'

I won't say it out loud but he is right. So I pull his coursework closer and start reading.

Sakda's handwriting has always been jarringly neat and tiny. Even the title fits entirely on one line—"Homoeroticism in Literature: Closeted Queer Experiences in André Aciman's Call Me By Your Name and Charles Dickens's David Copperfield".

I forget to sulk as the melody of his writing spools me into the essay. When I finish the introduction draft, I read it a second time, purely for enjoyment.

'This is...' I refuse to look up from the page '–good.'

Sakda is mute. His attention prods my temple but he suckles words like hard candy against his molars. Eventually, he reaches the conclusion to speak, though it's entirely irrelevant to the task at hand.

'Didn't reckon you'd be so calm watching that jizzrag Jordan take credit for your work.'

Jaw set, my glare finally scythes to him. And I find no chainmail. For no reason whatsoever, Sakda has decided to meet me without venom, armour shed like skin.

'Can't do owt about it, can I?'

He shrugs. 'I know I made fun of you for it but I reckon you could do well in art school. It were good—your statement. What I read of it.'

'You're only tryna get rid of me,' I jab.

'Maybe.'

A smile flickers on his face and, with horror, I feel my mouth tug. I focus on the projected constructive criticism prompts, twisting my body as the winged monster in my chest stirs again.

In another timeline, we could've been friends—brothers even. I could've stayed with Lailah, would've never gone to Wigan and the Harlands and the church. I'd've never met Ms Lemberg. Maybe I would've stuck with art.

Maybe I would be in art college right now.

            Diwa waits for me by the classroom door as I weave the quickest escape route through the desks the second Emeto dismisses us.

'Oh, look,' she sings, 'you didn't murder each other.'

'And you didn't fuck each other on the desk. Listen,' I bend low enough to feel her blush as we start down the corridor, 'I've changed my mind. About art school. I reckon... if you could help me with the motivational letter, I could submit the application. And if I don't get in, I don't get in, right? But at least I'll know.'

Excitement flutters, chasing embarrassment out of her body. 'Yeah. Of course, I'll help. I mean, I'm not an expert. You'd get better advice from Pathirana or your brother but I'll do my best.'

No. That'll make it too real. People will expect things and I'll disappoint them.

I try to smile though I'm not entirely sure how to do it and I might look like I'm planning to murder her. 'Thanks.'