Saving Neba

𝐗𝐕: 35/100

Mr Steve's full-figured body strolled into the classroom. His ash-brown curly hair was all over the place and his sturdy hands held a pink file. He sat on his desk and motioned for me to come to sit opposite him. I stood up, holding the paper to my side, and dragged my chair to the desk.

"Emerald Scother." He hoisted his small whiskey eyes, "Where's your paper?"

I brought the sheet up to him and he took it from me, his fingers grazing mine. He examined the paper like he wasn't the one who'd marked it and graded it.

"I still can't quite believe this is your paper, Miss Scother. You're never below eighty-eight in my subject." He squinted, "Only challenge's ever been Emily Aniah and Griffin Greenwood."

"I know, sir," I stretched my lips. I did know. This was so, so unlike me. I scratched my legs through the boyfriend jeans I wore. It was the only thing loose and big enough to cover up that bandage and not attract attention.

"Miss Scother, is there anything you'd like to tell me?"

"No, sir. I'll do better next time, sorry." That was an overused phrase. Most of the time, the person who used it was telling a lie. Unfortunately, I was among those people.

With Neba around, I barely had time to open my books.

"See, your reports are not for me." I shifted in my chair, which was almost impossible considering that it was just a wooden four-legged chair with no armrest or a comfortable backrest. I eyed Mr Steve's black swivel chair. "Your reports are for you. To help you get into a good university in the future. Yale, Oxford, Brown, that kind of thing."

"I have already decided Birmingham is okay for me." He pushed his swivel back and it glided across the green wall.

"That public university?" He raised an eyebrow, placed his finger on my sheet which was on the table and moved the paper to me. I yanked my paper and flipped it. I didn't want to see the ‘35/100’ written in bold red on the middle of the paper and circled.

"Yes. That public university." I accentuated the word just so he'd see how wrong it was to devalue such a great public university. I doubt he got it, though.

"So you're telling me that if you gain an admission to Harvard, on a full scholarship, you wouldn't jump on the offer?"

"I cannot be that far away from home... and this has nothing to do with financial problems." Blood rose to my hand, head, everywhere. "Can I go? My lunchtime is almost used up."

He sighed and opened the pink file in his hand. "Miss Scother, I can offer you extra lessons or—"

"No!" That was the last thing I needed. The routine was clear: go to school, get back, take a quick bath, go to Neba, back in an hour, sleep for a straight one hour (because training with Crypta was exhausting), have another bath—a long one this time around—to take off the annoying smell of perspiration, and when I'm done, it's six and I'm hungry so I eat, then I help in the coffee shop for an hour or two.

Leaving me with one or two hours to study.

Extra lessons didn't fit in anywhere. At all!

"Why? I could take you for one hour... for free."

"Sir. I just told you that money is not the problem." I stood up so that I was taller than him at that moment. It made me more powerful and gave me confidence. Crypta was in my head, encouraging me to let it all out, to own my feelings. "I appreciate you trying to help me but I don't need help."

I turned and walked out of the room, crunching my sheet and putting it in my pocket. Even I was ashamed of my score. Hissing, I made my way to the cafeteria.